Chapter 15
Cain
I carried Nyx down the flagstone steps. As I entered the lair’s winding tunnels, she glanced up at me. I braced for more of her excuses, maybe a demand to be put down. Something to justify the anger banding my chest. But she said nothing—her gaze just drifted past my face, dull and unfocused.
I turned toward my quarters. I should’ve taken her straight to the dungeon, but she was still feverish, the silver chewing its way through her system. She could barely stand on her own. And we needed her healthy, didn’t we?
I slapped a palm to the biorec pad beside my front door. Inside, I lowered Nyx onto the Eames couch, leaving the door ajar for Brien and Talon. She slumped against the chrome arm, legs on the gray leather. I reached for her boots, but she moved her feet so they hung off the couch.
“Let me keep them on,” she rasped. “Please?”
I shrugged and rose back up.
She stared up at me, smudges bruising the skin beneath her eyes, chest hitching in shallow, pained breaths.
My gut knotted. I wanted to fuck up whoever had done this to her, wanted to make them bleed for hurting her.
Too bad that someone was me.
“You need food,” I said gruffly. “And liquids. I’ll have the kitchen make you soup.” With red meat—she needed the iron.
I already had my phone out. That handled, I crossed to the wet bar, poured her a glass of blood-wine and carried it back to her.
“Drink,” I said.
Instead of obeying, she looked from the blood-infused liquid to my face. Her forehead wrinkled, like she couldn’t figure out why the man who’d injured her was now trying to heal her.
That makes two of us, firefly.
But I couldn’t help myself. Even with the sting of her betrayal still flaying my skin, I couldn’t stand seeing her hurting.
She sighed and stared up at the ceiling.
“That wasn’t a request.” I slid my hand behind her head and lifted it, pushing the wineglass into her palm. “Drink.”
Her soft lips turned down, but her fingers closed around the stem.
“All of it,” I told her.
She exhaled audibly. But she drained the glass.
I took it from her. “More?”
“No, thank you,” she said. Polite, stilted words that made me want to crush the thin crystal bowl in my hand.
I put the wineglass on the bar. When I turned back, she’d inched herself higher on the couch arm and was gazing around curiously. I’d noticed that about her—how she looked at things.
It was an artist’s way of taking things in, I realized now. Observing, cataloguing, filing away for future reference.
She blinked. “This is… you.” Her eyes met mine. “You chose everything yourself, right—the palette, the furniture? No decorator.”
“Yeah.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “I knew it.”
Knew what?
I glanced around the living room. To me, it was practical.
Expensive, yeah, because I could afford the best. But practical, with clean lines and no clutter—white walls, mid-century leather-and-chrome furniture, a walnut bar with flat, almost-invisible panels.
No rugs, just black terra cotta tiles that could be heated with the flip of a switch.
Nyx eyed the trio of photos behind the Eames—my sole effort at personalizing the place.
Big, moody things, shot in silvertone because I liked how the intense black-and-white let you see the bones behind the colors.
The first one caught a midnight storm rolling in over the ocean, the clouds heavy, restless.
The second showed a pale pre-dawn fog slinking up to the base of the castle’s coal-dark walls.
The third was the simplest: a lone pine against a glowing full moon.
When I caught myself waiting for her reaction, I tore my gaze from her face and sank into the Barcelona chair beside the couch. This wasn’t a social visit. The woman was a prisoner, not a guest.
“You took these, didn’t you?” she asked. “On the island.”
I jerked my chin in assent. “Yeah.”
“You’re good,” she said. Short and sincere.
I couldn’t stop the ripple of pride that went through me—ridiculous, but real. An artist like The Haunt liking my photos. I actually started to smile.
Then suspicion kicked back in. Of course she’d flatter me. That was the game. Make me think she was on my side, so I’d forget who really owned her loyalty—Nazaire.
She was his. His creature. His weapon.
The enemy.
My smile faded.
An awkward silence fell. Nyx’s eyelids drooped. She massaged her forehead, let out a pained exhale.
The sight of her, clearly hurting, caused something hot and restless to flare in my chest. I eyed her, my knee bouncing. Her gaze flicked to my leg, a faint line forming between her brows.
I forced the leg to still and glanced at the door. Where the hell were Brien and Talon?
I’d pulled my phone out to check on them when I heard them in the hall.
With an obvious effort, Nyx pushed herself upright on the couch, feet on the floor, her injured wrists hanging loose in front of her. The navy jacket drowned her frame, made her look like something she wasn’t—small, breakable, like she needed saving.
My jaw tightened. “Tell them the truth and you don’t have anything to worry about.”
“Yeah?” Her thick lashes lifted, her golden-brown eyes burning into mine. “I told you the truth and look where it got me.”
The door opened and Brien entered, wearing power like his custom-made suit. He stopped on the far side of the coffee table and stared down at Nyx—his eyes cold slits, his jaw set.
Meanwhile, Talon closed the door with a soft click and leaned back against it, arms crossed, his lieutenant mask firmly in place.
They were trying to intimidate her, and it worked. Her shoulders hunched and her breath quickened.
My heart lurched, demanding I put myself between her and danger. One second I was standing by the chair, the next I’d stepped past Nyx to put myself between her and Brien. My primus.
Brien scowled, sharp, disbelieving.
Talon straightened from the door. “Cain,” he warned in his deep voice.
I froze. What in Hades are you doing?
I was acting like she was mine. Mine to protect, to shield.
“Sorry,” I muttered to Brien and edged back to my side of the coffee table.
He gave me a long, unreadable look before shifting his attention to Nyx, who was eyeing me, her forehead wrinkled again.
“So,” he said to her. “Just so I understand this—your sire sent you into my territory to negotiate a deal to kidnap one of my men. Do I have that right?”
She visibly summoned energy, pulling back her shoulders, lifting her chin. “Yes.”
“And you knew it was Cain?”
“I was told it was one of your lieutenants.” She clasped her hands together, her face open, her eyes pleading. “I swear, I was only there to find out what I could. I figured I’d listen to what Baker had to say, then go back to my father and tell him to drop it, that Baker couldn’t be trusted.”
A muscle worked in my jaw. If only our truth-sense worked on vampires and dhampirs, not just humans. She could be spinning us a tall tale and we’d never know.
Brien’s lip curled. “But you would say that, wouldn’t you? To save your own skin. And if that’s true, why bring Jerome? He would’ve listened in on the negotiations, known you were lying about Baker.”
Nyx’s gaze jumped to mine, a cry for backup…for trust.
I looked back, stone-faced. But my knee started bouncing again.
She rolled her lips between her teeth, then blanked her face.
“I didn’t have a choice about Jerome,” she told Brien. “I didn’t even know he was coming too until right before I left.” She dragged in a breath. “Everything happened so fast—which I told Cain. I had no way to get him word.”
“And Nazaire?” Brien asked. “You don’t think he would’ve followed up with Baker? He would’ve taken your word on it?”
She spread her hands. “I think so, yes. But either way, I’d have bought some time. Time for me to contact Cain or someone in your syndicate. By the time my father followed up, Baker would’ve been neutralized, right? My father might’ve wondered what happened to him, but he wouldn’t have been sure.”
“Mm.” Brien fell silent, letting the pressure build.
Nyx kept her eyes carefully down.
“Say I believe you,” he said at last. “Say I even invite you to remain here on Lilith Island. I understand Cain offered you sanctuary with us.”
Her spine went rigid. Her gaze lifted to Brien’s face. “And I said no.”
“Does that decision still stand? Jerome is—?” He glanced at me.
“In his final grave,” I confirmed.
“Won’t you take heat for that from Nazaire?” Brien asked Nyx.
Her fingers dug into her thighs, a quick, almost imperceptible movement. “He knows I’m loyal to him.”
Which wasn’t an answer. Not really.
“You can’t go back,” Brien told her. “You know that, don’t you? Cain tells me you were on that island with Lemaire and Pascal. You were the only one to return from that, too.”
Her eyes slid sideways. Probably remembering how the SOB had punished her for that mess on the island. As if a single dhampir could’ve stopped four vampires. She was lucky she’d survived.
“And now Jerome,” Brien continued, voice soft but relentless. “Three vampires Nazaire trusted. And instead of returning to Quebec, you vanish.”
“Because of Cain,” she protested.
“We know that. But will your sire?”
Her throat worked, a small, betraying swallow.
Time to turn up the heat. I placed my palms on the coffee table, forcing her attention to me.
“Brien’s right—you can’t go back to Quebec. Cut your losses, Nyx.”
Her chin notched up, defiance in every striking, impossible-to-ignore angle of her face. “Maybe I can’t go back to Quebec, but if you let me go now, I can leave the country. Nobody ever has to know I was here.”
I snorted. “You think crossing a border changes anything? Your sire will hunt you no matter where you run. With us, at least you stand a chance.”
“So then I’m a prisoner here,” she said flatly.
An unwelcome sliver of guilt slid under my ribs. I set my jaw and ignored it. She deserved everything we threw at her.
I rose back up. My friends’ eyes jumped between the two of us like they were watching a tennis match.
“That’s up to you,” I told her. “You can be our prisoner—or our guest.”
I stepped back, and Brien took over, calmly listing what we knew about Nazaire. That he’d been pocketing a third of the profits in Fleur and Lemarie’s blood-slave ring. That he’d intended to buy Eden and her unborn baby, and enslave them as well.
Most of it, I’d already told Nyx. But Brien ended with the newest—that we had credible intel Nazaire had orchestrated Prima Lenore’s slaying.
Nyx looked a little sick. “Your mother?”
“That’s right.”
Her brows pinched. “But why?”
“Fuck if I know.” Brien dragged a hand over his nape, his cool exterior slipping so that he looked almost human, a grief-stricken son missing his mom. “But this is my mother we’re talking about. If you know anything, can help us in any way…”
Nyx folded in on herself, arms around her middle like she was trying to hold herself together. “He doesn’t tell me anything. But—”
“Go on,” Brien encouraged her.
She let out a breath. “He’s ambitious. He’d challenge Dussault if he thought he’d win. So maybe—and this is just a guess—but maybe he wants this.” Her gaze drifted around my quarters. “The castle. The island. Everything.”
Brien shook his head in disbelief. Talon swore. I rocked back on my heels.
Talon spoke first. “He wants the Maritime Syndicate?” he asked, incredulous.
“Maybe?” Nyx cut Talon a short, unhappy look. "He’s targeted Brien, you, and now Cain. And before that, Brien’s father. Either directly or through the women close to you. You’ve been playing defense for years, right?”
The three of us traded a look. It tracked. But damn, the guy had balls.
“I don’t think he expected Brien to consolidate power so quickly, though,” she added.
“His mistake,” I muttered.
Nyx turned back to Brien. "You're young. To my father, that makes you vulnerable. Unworthy of being primus."
Brien just shrugged. He was used to that kind of crap from older vampires, which just showed how they let their power and centuries blind them to the truth. The man was fucking dangerous.
“Stay here on the island,” he told her. “I haven’t forgotten the intel you passed us. I owe you for that.”
She blinked several times. For a heartbeat, I thought she might soften. Then her lips pulled into a knowing smile.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Your offer comes with strings. You want my help to get to my father. Quid pro quo, isn’t that how this works?”
My fists clenched at my sides. She was going to refuse. Of course, she was.
But I couldn’t help respecting her for the way she held her ground, refusing to betray that sonuvabitch who’d sired her.
Infuriating. And the Dark Gods help me, impressive.
“Yes,” Brien admitted without hesitation.
He lifted a hand as she started to shake her head.
“Hear me out. We can’t let him keep striking at us without retaliating.
With or without you, we’re going to move on him.
You can make it easier on yourself by helping us.
You’d take a blood oath, swearing your allegiance to me and the syndicate.
You wouldn’t be a full-fledged member, but you’d be under our protection. We could use someone with your skills.”
Nyx drew a long, deliberate breath, then said, “No.”
It was clear her mind was made up, and Brien saw it, too. “That’s your final answer?”
“Yes. Like I told Cain, I’m not a blood-rat. And I’m done being used.” She spat the last word like it tasted foul.
His face hardened. “Put her in a cell,” he told me. “We can’t have Nazaire’s spawn running around loose.”
I gave a clipped nod. “Understood.”
Talon waited until Brien left to move closer. “Need any help with—?” he jerked his chin at Nyx.
At Brien’s order, Nyx had shuddered. Now she sighed and seemed to wilt, her shoulders curved forward, her mouth turned down. Apparently, she’d been holding herself together with spit and string.
I worked my jaw, furious that she’d tossed Brien’s offer back in his face. “No. I’ve got it.”
I poured another glass of blood-wine and thrust it into her hand, standing over her until she drained it.
Talon frowned. “What’s up with her?”
“Silver poisoning. I used the new cuffs.”
I took her left hand and showed him the still-weeping wounds encircling her wrist. She didn’t resist. Didn’t even look at me, just sat there, staring at the coffee table like I wasn’t even in the room.
Talon whistled. “You rinsed them with salt?”
“Yeah—before we left the mainland. She says she’s allergic.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“What Brien ordered me to do.” I hooked my hands under Nyx’s armpits and hauled her to her feet. “Lock her in the fucking dungeon.”