Chapter 3
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”
Dove lifted her head, pealing her cheek off the woven purse she’d set against the car’s window frame. She rubbed her bumpy skin. “Great, now I have waffle face.”
Bishop stopped the sedan along a concrete wall. Dove frowned, glancing at the elevator doors outside. “Where are we?”
“Parking garage beneath Steele Tower.” He pressed his hand to his earpiece. “Team two, are we clear?”
Dove sighed. “Darn it. I wanted to see the skyline as we drove into the city. I missed the whole thing.”
“Copy that,” Bishop responded.
“Copy what?” By the time she had her seat belt unbuckled, Bishop was out of the car and had her door open.
Dove exited, smoothing wrinkles from her long skirt. Behind her, Marcus levered out of the back seat, his movements awkward as though he’d grown stiff during the trip. She noted no one dared offer him assistance as he limped toward the elevator doors, leaning heavily on his cane. On either side of the entrance were two guards. Like Bishop, both were huge, wearing dark suits that stretched across their brutish frames.
Sheesh. No wondered Vivian believed she’d be safer staying with Marcus. The guy had more security than a dragon guarding its hoard. All this, just to enter the building.
Bishop swiped a badge at the panel on the wall, and the elevator door slid open. The three of them piled in while the guards remained behind. The doors swished closed and there she was, trapped in a little box with two men who believed silence was a virtue. Goddess save her. There wasn’t even any mind-numbing music to break the monotony. Before Dove could open her mouth, gears whirled, the low hum startling in the quiet. Up they shot. Her stomach pitched and the metal walls fell away, thrusting them into outer space.
“Ground Control to Major Tom,” she sang.
The private elevator was on the outside of the building instead of the interior. Dove stumbled to the wall and pressed her palms to the cool glass. Below them lay the city. Sparkling lights dotted the landscape. Soaring skyscrapers lined the tight grid of streets, Steele Tower one of the tallest. They rocketed to the top. Her head spun, and she twisted, turning her back on the dizzying height, pressing her hand to her mouth.
“Breathe through your nose.” Marcus’s smoky voice captured her attention. She sucked in a breath. When did he get so close? Beneath his hood, she could just make out his square-cut jaw. At least this part of him seemed undamaged. His lips firm and masculine.
Curse the man, but even now, she didn’t find him unattractive, his commanding presence sending pleasant sparks down her spine. Before she could analyze the sensation further, he hummed a low sound of annoyance and stepped back, widening the distance between them. Too late, she realized she was staring again. Oopsies.
She glanced at Bishop, who stared straight ahead at the door as all elevator travelers tended to do. Despite his stoic fa?ade, there was a slight curl to his lip and a twinkle in his pale blue eyes. Oh, he was trying to hide it. But she knew the jerk was totally laughing at her. And here she’d thought they’d bonded on that long drive.
Bishop was a big dude, even bigger than Marcus. Which made sense. If you were going to have a bodyguard, he sure as heck needed to be larger than the guy he was protecting. She’d sensed he was a werewolf when he’d helped her into the car. The moment they’d connected, his aura spoke to her, his colors a deep forest green with swirls of mahogany and sunset orange. Marcus could tuck his bodyguard into any boring suit he wanted, but there was no hiding the rugged wildness in his energy. Dove had a crazy urge to paint his chiseled visage, along with that little smirk he was currently sporting. Perhaps she’d ask Gilbert to send some of her supplies to Steele Tower.
It was strange that Marcus, a high-ranking vampire lord, would have a lycan bodyguard. The two races hadn’t been on the best of terms. She’d love to know the story there. Maybe if she was patient. Not that patience was one of her stronger virtues.
The elevator dinged, coming to an abrupt stop. Caught off guard, she stumbled back, right into Marcus. Her shoulder collided with his chest, and he wrapped his arm around her stomach, his grip strong despite his injuries. She drew in a breath, limbs frozen. Where they touched, she read nothing of his aura. As far as her mystical senses were concerned, Marcus Steele was a colorless wasteland. Her mind reeled. She’d never met anyone living who didn’t have an aura.
He dipped his hooded face near her ear. “Watch yourself, Chosen.”
Watch herself indeed. She already felt as though she was tiptoeing across glass around him. She straightened, stepping free of his embrace. The elevator dinged, admitting them to an entrance hall. Inside, two guards stood on either side of a door. She fought a snicker. Apparently, these rare creatures traveled in pairs.
Bishop touched his ear before tipping his head to Marcus. “Penthouse is clear. I’ll check in with you later after meeting with my team.”
“Very well,” Marcus said, opening the door, leading the way.
“Good luck.” Bishop winked at her, stepping back into the elevator. Again, she got the impression she’d amused the werewolf.
As the elevator swished closed, cutting off any chance of retreat, Dove followed Marcus into his lair. And that’s what it was, a freaking lair, not a home. Inside, the lighting was dull and dim. While the different textures were pleasing, every surface appeared hard and uninviting, a mix of wood, metal, and stone. Even the black leather sofa with its tightly wrapped cushions seemed unwelcoming. Sadly, there wasn’t a toss pillow or chenille throw in sight. No pictures of friends or vacations. The entire space was void of anything personal. Void of anything that would help her better understand what made Marcus Steele tick.
Finally, she locked eyes on the only item of interest in the vast room. Black and gleaming, the grand piano called to her, urging her to touch its pristine keys. Over the years, Vivian had catered to Dove’s every whim, and she’d had a lot of them. As a result, Dove had learned to play the guitar, ukulele, cowbell, and piano. Though she’d failed to master any of the instruments before something shinier came along to pique her curiosity.
Before she registered the urge, she stood before the beautiful instrument. Like any pianist did when standing before a gleaming keyboard, she set her fingers to the ivory and pounded out an enthusiastic version of “Heart and Soul”.
Marcus slammed the lid over the keyboard, darn near closing her fingers inside. “Enough,” he grated in her ear.
Dove crossed her arms, tucking her hands into her armpits. “Not a music fan, huh?”
“That wasn’t music,” he snapped.
Dove stiffened, sucking in an injured breath. He didn’t have to be mean about it.
Marcus loomed over her. She shivered, keeping her eyes downcast, avoiding the intimidating glare she’d likely find beneath that ghastly hood.
While he didn’t shout, his low, threatening tone raised goose bumps on her arms. “I will say this once and only once, so listen closely. Bright light gives me migraines. Noise gives me migraines. Your. Voice. Gives me migraines. As my Chosen, you will respect my wishes and keep anything that provokes me to a minimum. Am I clear?”
Dove lowered her hands from her pits, shrinking in on herself, hugging her waist. “Clear. Yep. So clear. Crystal in fact.” By the fates, this was going to be much worse than she thought. No music, no talking, no noise. She’d go mad from the boredom. When she was bored, bad things happened. It was one of the reasons Vivian had entertained her every desire. The reason Havenwood released her two years early.
Across the room, she spotted a stout woman she’d yet to meet. The lady watched her interaction with Marcus, face a mask of motherly concern. Over a simple gray dress, she wore a crisp half apron. Every strand of her silver hair was twisted into a flawless bun.
When Dove caught her eye, the woman hastened across the room, blocky heels clipping the hardwood. “Good evening, Lord Steele. How was your trip?”
“Tedious.” Marcus sighed, stepping back. Dove sucked the first full breath she’d taken since he’d closed in on her.
The servant clasped her weathered hands at her waist. “Sir, you have an unexpected guest waiting for you in your study.”
Marcus’s energy darkened and swelled. “You know I’m not accepting visitors.”
“Yes, I understand, but… it’s your uncle.” The older women’s tone firmed, her chin tipping higher as though she dared him to reprimand her. “I felt it wasn’t my place to deny the Council magister entrance.” Given her demeanor, Dove suspected the elderly woman was someone who’d known Marcus for quite a while, long enough to feel confident of her position in his home. Unlike Dove, who skated on fractured ice.
Though it seemed impossible, Marcus’s mood darkened even further. His shoulders tensed, a low growl emerging from his chest.
“Fine,” he grated. “I’ll see to my uncle while you take care of my Chosen.”
“Very well, sir.” The housekeeper bobbed her head.
“Make sure she understands the rules,” he said over his shoulder, storming toward one of the hallways.
The woman heaved a disapproving sigh before turning to Dove, introducing herself in a gentle voice. “Hello, dear. I’m Ida Stoneworthy, Lord Steele’s housekeeper.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Dove Laurent.” She thrust out her palm and Ida accepted, clasping her with both hands, patting instead of shaking. Soft shades of peach and pink washed over Dove’s senses, along with some supernatural vibes.
“You’re an anculus?” Dove asked.
“Yes, dear,” Ida answered, a note of pride in her tone. “My family has served the Steeles for centuries.” Like Vivian’s butler, Gilbert, the maid was descended from generations of those hand-selected to serve the vampire aristocrats.
“Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll get you settled?”
“That sounds lovely.” Dove exhaled.
Ida led her to a hallway, opposite the direction Steele had headed, just off the main room. “Here we are, my dear. I do hope your room is to your liking. There was so little time to prepare.”
“Tell me about it,” Dove muttered. Twenty-four hours since the zombie hellhound attack, and Dove had a new benefactor and home. Temporary. It was all temporary, she reminded herself. The second Vivian gave the all clear, Dove was as good as gone.
Ida leaned her shoulder into the heavy door and pushed it inward, leading Dove inside.
Like the rest of Marcus’s home, her accommodations were beautiful and completely lacking in personality. Before her was a snowy tundra of white, cream, and vanilla. On the bed, gasp, were zero toss pillows. Oh, the humanity!
She turned to find Ida watching her, anticipation in her raised brows.
“It’s, um”—bland—“nice. Everything a Chosen could ask for.”
Ida’s rounded cheeks sank. “You hate it. I told him it needed a touch of color.”
“Well, technically, white is a color. It’s beautiful. Fit for a queen.” A frozen queen who lived in an ice castle. Dove fought the urge to spin around the room, singing songs about building snowmen. The rug beneath her feet seemed thick enough to make snow angels. Yeah, she was totally doing that the minute Ida left her alone.
Staring at the colorless palette before her, the enormity of what Dove had lost really sank in. Her room at Vivian’s was rich with color and so cluttered with trinkets she could scarcely find a place to take her jewelry off at night. Her favorite treasures had little monetary value. Most were keepsakes from places she’d visited.
Vivian herself exuded love, light, and laughter. From the moment Vivian rescued her, Dove’s life had been a titillating mix of savory and sweet. Experiences steeped in colors so vibrant, at times they’d made Dove weep. Thanks to Vivian’s psycho ex, Dove was currently saddled with a vampire who could provide none of those things.
Dove had admitted to Marcus she felt like she was stumbling through their first day. In reality, this was how she moved through life. No plan, no direction, no commitment, or responsibility. Every day was a new experience to be lived, tasted, touched, experienced on a sensory level. Marcus seemed determined to live as though he were in a deprivation tank.
“Alright, Ida.” Dove exhaled a resigned sigh. “Lay it on me. We may as well get this over with. What are these rules your master wants me to understand?”
Ida wrinkled her nose, her tone apologetic. “All noise must be kept to a minimum. No alcohol, no drugs, no junk food, no sweets. You’re to eat three nutritious meals a day, all of which I shall prepare for you. At night, you’re to be in your room by eight p.m., at which point I will lock you inside. At six a.m., I’ll return to unlock your door. His lordship expects you to be out of bed no later than seven.”
Ugh. It was even worse than when Dove had lived at Havenwood. One of those rules stood out in her mind as stranger than the rest. “You’re going to lock me in at night?”
Ida wrung her hands, her gentle eyes rounding. “Yes, child. Believe me, you don’t want to get caught wandering around this place after dark. It isn’t safe. Also, you’re to steer clear of the east wing.”
Dove twisted her lips. “Let me guess, that’s where Lord Steele spends his time.”
The housekeeper nodded sharply. “That’s right. He’s a private man. It’s important you don’t disturb him.”
“No worries there.” The less Dove saw of her hooded keeper, the better. All she had to do was lie low in Marcus Steele’s uber secure penthouse while Vivian took care of business. While doing so, she’d share her super-charged blood with Marcus, healing his injuries. Before she knew it, she’d be clicking her ruby slippers, headed for home. Far away from the moody aristocrat.
Marcus drew a fortifying breath,braced his aching frame as much as his injuries allowed, and entered his study. At his appearance, Tiberius Steele didn’t look up, flicking the screen on the tablet he held in his hand. He sat behind Marcus’s sleek, black desk, a scowl set into the lines of his face. His expression so like his deceased brother’s it was unsettling.
As usual, Tiberius looked the part of the powerful underworld leader, in his professionally coordinated suit with a white rose pinned to his lapel. While the magister’s head was clean-shaven, his angular black beard was expertly trimmed. Not even in Marcus’s youth had he seen his uncle disheveled. Appearances had to be maintained, always.
“Uncle, I wasn’t expecting you.”
Tiberius spoke to the tablet’s screen, his tone flat. “When I arrived here, your servant informed me you weren’t seeing guests. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise, that the nephew I took in as an orphaned youth, raised as though he were my own son, refused to welcome me into his home.”
Marcus limped to one of the chairs, sitting across the desk from his uncle. “Had I known you were coming, I could have better prepared.”
Tiberius’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “You expect me to believe you’d have welcomed me with open arms? The male whose phone calls you never answer?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been busy, alright. Busy shirking your duty to House Othonos. Tell me, where were you just now? Off chasing after Helen again?”
The question rankled. Marcus no longer answered to Tiberius Steele. “I was collecting my new Chosen from Vivian Laurent.”
Tiberius’s dark brows furrowed. “I knew Vivian was in a bind after that nonsense with the hellhounds. Still, I didn’t expect her to do anything this desperate. Nor can I believe you accepted.”
“You disapprove of my claiming a Chosen,” Marcus stated. Then again, Tiberius had disapproved of many things since Marcus refused to renew his uncle’s term as House advisor. It was a difficult choice but necessary if Marcus was to forge his own path. While he was grateful for all his uncle had done for him, he no longer needed his tutelage.
Tiberius scoffed, “You say that as if I don’t see what you have planned for the girl. It isn’t faerie blood you need to heal, but the care of experienced physicians. It’s time you revisited my team at Legacy for another treatment.”
Experienced physicians? Hardly. The members of his “team” were more like a gang of back-alley witch doctors. Marcus could still remember their blurry shapes hovering over his broken body, their deep voices chanting. The stench of noxious potions searing his scorched flesh. “Visit them so they can add me to their list of failed experiments?”
Tiberius leaned forward, jabbing his finger into the desk. “You weren’t so critical of their skills when they were saving your life. If not for my laboratory, you’d be a pile of ash right now. If you’d only listened to me and invested in Legacy instead of that ridiculous casino, none of this would have happened.”
This again. Marcus gripped the silver handle of his cane, his leather gloves creaking. He lacked the patience and energy for yet another debate on the topic. “We’ve been over this. There’s no money to be made in resurrected artifacts, moth-eaten books, and research into long-extinct races. Legacy’s profit margins are in the red.” Numbers didn’t lie, unlike deceptive CFOs.
“You know as well as I do that an asset’s value cannot always be measured in dollars.”
“True.”
Tiberius had drilled the knowledge into Marcus at a tender age. Since then, he’d negotiated many deals based on an individual’s personal currency.
“Except, House Othonos disagrees.”
The shadows beneath Tiberius’s eyes darkened, his demeanor growing somber. “Legacy is an investment in our future. If we forget our past, we’re doomed to repeat our mistakes.”
Marcus had no doubt his uncle believed those words with every fiber of his being. Unfortunately, Marcus was responsible for more than Tiberius’s passion projects. As lord, it was Marcus’s job to keep their coffers full. “The casino I built will turn a dependable profit in a handful of years.”
“Despite the bad press you earned during the grand opening?” Tiberius dared to taunt.
Marcus bit back a furious reply. Taking his uncle’s bait would only encourage him to pick the scab. Marcus’s only regret in building the casino was putting too much trust in his Chief Financial Officer during its construction. Helen had used the building costs to steal from him while laundering money for a local zealot, Zion. When Marcus grew suspicious and poked his nose into the books, she decided to get rid of him. Permanently.
At the reminder, darkness welled in his core. The fire, pain, so much pain. No. Not now. Not in front of Tiberius. Marcus clenched his fists, shoving the memory back to the darkest recesses of his mind.
The explosion and his near-death experience at the grand opening had garnered a lot of attention. Proving there was no such thing as bad press. As a result, the casino was seeing record numbers.
Forcing an even tone, Marcus said, “You of all people should understand how the underworld thrives on intrigue, deceit, and violence. Hell, you’re the one who built an entire campaign on it.” Tiberius had used the violence and bloodshed of the underworld’s past to lure his voters into believing they needed stronger leadership, along with stricter rules.
Tiberius snorted, smirking. “So I did.”
“Speaking of deceit and violence, I’ve heard the task force you created to eliminate Zion and his growing rebellion performed dozens of arrests this week. The civilians are calling it a witch hunt.”
Tiberius hummed a disgruntled sound. “Only those with something to hide have reason for concern.”
“Have they made any progress toward finding the bastard?” Not that Marcus really cared when he had issues of his own. Except that Zion was behind Helen’s betrayal. She’d sided with the zealot, choosing him over Marcus. Find one, you’d find the other.
“They’ve made far more progress than that idiot Victor Custodis ever did,” Tiberius declared, slapping the desk.
Victor Custodis, Clan Leader of the Eastern Realm, had been head of the Council’s security for decades and was tasked with hunting Zion. Until Tiberius, displeased with his results, used his position as magister to take control of the investigation. Forcing Victor to stand down on the Zion issue was no small matter.
Tiberius thrust his index finger in Marcus’s direction. “Those civilians should be thanking me instead of whining. With the case in Victor’s incapable hands, Zion ran amok, gathering followers, growing, prospering. It was past time someone stepped in and took the clan leader down a notch. Victor operates as though he is above the law. If the underworld understood half of what went on behind his doors, they’d demand his head.”
Since Tiberius became magister, he and Victor had been at war, both posturing without striking. While Tiberius held the title of Council magister, Victor had centuries of experience and thousands of allies. Many wondered why he’d never made a run for magister himself.
“You realize crossing Victor could either prove genius or fatal for you and your career.”
Menace gleamed in his uncle’s eyes. “A calculated risk I have well in hand.”
Marcus snorted. And Tiberius believed it was Marcus who’d gambled, investing in an underworld casino rather than useless artifacts.
“Is this why you’re here?” Marcus’s pounding temples urged him to ask. He’d passed the point of exhaustion hours ago. “To discuss investments and debate politics?”
Tiberius’s scowl deepened. “Unfortunately, I’ve come with news better delivered in person than by phone. Good thing, since you rarely answer yours.”
Marcus pursed his lips. More and more, his uncle was sounding like an old woman. “I’m listening.”
“My task force has uncovered something unsettling.” Tiberius locked his shoulders into place, bracing like he did the night he told a much younger Marcus his last remaining parent had been murdered. “During this so-called witch hunt, my men found evidence that incriminates you as a conspirator as well.”
Breath hissed from Marcus’s lungs. “The hell you say.”
“She left a paper trail wide enough to make it appear as though you were behind the whole money laundering scheme. That you faked the attempt on your life to cover up your crime. And while I’m certain of your innocence, I have a duty to fulfill. While we are cracking down on any hint of conspiracy, arresting anyone with a remote connection to Zion, I cannot show favoritism.”
“You’re washing your hands of me.” At a time when Marcus could use the magister’s backing.
“My direct involvement could cast further suspicion on you, making it seem you had something to hide.”
“Wouldn’t want the Council to accuse you of abusing your power.” Bitterness tainted his words.
“Careful,” Tiberius growled. “Besides, you’re one to speak of negligence. When did you last meet with your House officers? I’ve heard rumors your second has taken advantage of your absence, overstepping himself. Placing himself in a position to challenge you.”
Marcus had heard the same but hadn’t the time to deal with it properly. He gritted his teeth. “I’ve had other issues on my plate.”
“Issues like chasing after Helen on your own. I told you to let my team handle things. They’re far more reliable than Victor’s lot of cutthroats and mercenaries. I have complete confidence they’ll find Helen and clear your name, or I wouldn’t have stepped back from your case. This obsession of yours is proving detrimental to your recovery and compromising your position as the Lord of House Othonos. Just look at you, limping around like an invalid, hiding your face beneath a hood like Quasimodo.”
If his uncle only knew what was under this hood, he wouldn’t be so glib. “Both my recovery and lordship are my business,” Marcus snapped, his patience at its end.
Tiberius rose to the challenge, snarling back. “Then take care of your business or House Othonos will believe you incapable. You saw firsthand what happened to your father when his weakness was revealed. After your mother died, he was—”
“Enough,” Marcus barked, drilling his cane into the floor. Speaking of his parents tore open wounds that ran even deeper than his current ones.
Tiberius’s hard glare bore into him, as though he could see beneath the hood hiding Marcus’s face. “Understand, son. I only want what is best for you. Always have, always will. Who was there for you when your father was assassinated?”
“You were,” Marcus grumbled, out of habit. This wasn’t the first time Tiberius had dragged him along on this guilt trip.
“Who supported you when you defeated his murderer and claimed your rightful position as Lord of House Othonos?”
“You.”
“Who counseled you through your inexperience during those early years as lord?”
“You,” Marcus said with an exhale. While they didn’t always see eye to eye, Tiberius had supported him, raised him, guided him. Marcus wouldn’t be where he was today otherwise. He settled back into his seat. “I’ll meet with my officers tomorrow and think about what you’ve said.”
Think on it as he ran Helen to ground. The only issue Tiberius’s visit had influenced was the realization Marcus would need to keep his former CFO alive long enough to clear his name. Then he’d have his vengeance. Take it where all could bear witness. Because there was one thing Tiberius Steele had driven into him over the years. To appear weak was to be vulnerable. Only prey were vulnerable.
Marcus Steele was a predator.