Accidentally Married To...A Vampire? (13 page)

Helena was seized by two steel arms. She felt Niccolo’s heavy breath in her ear. “You go when I say, bride.”

“I’m not your bride, you arrogant ass!” Helena squirmed in a futile attempt to break free. “I’d actually have to marry you to be called that, and it’s never gonna happen! What the hell was I thinking? I love the sun. I love my mother and friends. I love pizza and Twinkies! I don’t love you!”

He turned her so they were nose to nose. His venomous glare burned a hole right through her. “
Buon
, I have news for you, human. I only have to take your blood to claim you, or in your words ‘marry,’ because you are my mate. We
are
bonded. I never believed such a thing existed, but now I do! I think of you day and night. I feel every beat of your heart and every breath. I feel every childish, weak emotion! And you’re goddamned full of them!” he raged. “Do they ever fucking stop? It’s driving me mad! Mad! So, trust me, this—us—has nothing to do with you consenting or your ridiculous human love, or this…Tina woman!”

He could literally feel her emotions? Could she feel his, too?

Of course.
Since she’d met him, she’d felt lost. Like there was another dimension to her she couldn’t quite articulate. In his presence she definitely felt more turbulent and amplified. It had to be this bond.

Helena gasped as she realized he was bending his head toward her neck. For the first time ever Helena caught a glimpse of those long white fangs. She didn’t know how vampires were made, but she’d seen enough movies to know that many believed it just took one bite.

Or, is that for weres?

Dammit, Helena. Fight, you moron!

Helena kicked and screamed, fighting his unrelenting grip. “No, Niccolo, don’t do this! I don’t want to be your wife!”

With a shiver, she felt his lips—not fangs—press into the soft flesh at the base of her neck.

“But you already are,” he said with an acerbic whisper. “You are my vampire-wife. I tasted your delicious blood the night we met, and now we are bound forever whether either of us likes it or not. The ceremony we've been planning was merely tradition, a symbolic gesture to be performed before you are turned.”

Sweet immortal pickle!
She'd gotten married at the eternal courthouse and didn't even know it?

***

Niccolo stormed from the penthouse, charging straight for the elevator, and kicked his black leather boot through the wall. It was paper thin from numerous repairs over the past few months.

“Irrational woman! Who the hell does she think she…” He froze with his finger on the down-button, suddenly feeling like he’d been hit by a blunt object.

He’d actually yelled at her.
Yelled
at Helena? Then he’d left her crying in a heap on the floor and yelled at her again. A few choice words, too. The shameful truth barreled down on him. “I am a son of a bitch!”
I let it happen again!

Being mated to Helena was worse than a curse. It was an abomination of nature.
Torture!

For the first few weeks after they’d met, he was in denial. But he researched his symptoms and came to realize he’d been wrong, dead wrong, about this whole mate business.

Yes, there was a connection the first night they’d met, but this…it was ridiculous. And the connection only grew stronger each day.

Cruel!
The desire he felt to take her body was nothing short of unbearable. Torturous images replayed in his mind of her soft body writhing beneath him while he pumped himself between her silky thighs. The more he denied himself, the worse his hunger for her became.

Yes. Hungry. So hungry…

He’d never been so goddamned famished. Yet, he could barely feed. And make no mistake about it, he’d tried. But everyone tasted like putrid trash, including the humans he’d sampled from the queen's pool of willing blood slaves who were far tastier than his normal fare of rapists and thugs with the blackest of auras. This morning, out of pure desperation, he’d opted for bagged blood—cold, lifeless, revolting. One of his men compelled him to keep from vomiting.

There was no getting around it. He wanted Helena.

One week to go.

Could he make it? Only if he stayed away from her. But if he did that, he’d never have a chance to win her. He was running out of time. He had to turn her willingly—that’s what Cimil had said.

Why hadn’t the insane goddess warned him that the icing on his frigid misery-cake would be exposure to Helena’s emotions—an IV drip filled with concentrated, irrational, human feelings! Distance dulled the effect, as with any bond, but in her presence, he didn’t know where she ended and he began.

She got angry; he got livid. She felt lust; he spiraled into a sexual frenzy.

Then there were those emotions that lacked descriptive words. PMS, for example. Helena had it on his last visit, giving him the overwhelming, simultaneous need to fuck her and cry uncontrollably.

The fucking part he could relate to, but crying? Vampire didn’t cry!

He could only hope things would stabilize—as others had told him they would—after her transformation.

His hands dropped to his side as he stared at the open elevator doors. His heart thumped wildly against the walls of his chest.

Anger. Sadness. Guilt.
Helena is feeling all these things.

He let the elevator leave and turned back to tell Helena he was sorry. Would it be enough? He still couldn’t tell her the truth about his world or how he spent his days.

Buon. To hell with it! I must to tell her I’m sorry.
He reached for the front door as Helena screamed from the other side, “You lying leech! And if we’re vampire-married, then I want a vampire-divorce! Do you hear me? I want a divorce!”

Niccolo winced. That was not a good sign.

Chapter 7

Andrus stood in the empty foyer tiled with dingy white marble and illuminated by a lonely, dusty lamp sitting on the floor.

His eyes burned as he ran both hands through the spikes of his hair. It was four in the morning, but he had been summoned by Antonio who believed office hours were for mortals or the weak.

Andrus snarled to himself. The last time he had come, that bastard Antonio had sadistically dangled the one carrot which could make him hop: he promised their situation would soon be evolving.

“Evolving” was not a word Andrus would have chosen. It implied a natural order to things. This long-awaited change would come by brute force. Blood. Pain. Souls lost.

No matter,
he mentally shrugged.
Life is long. Too long
. Without this coming change, it simply wasn’t worth living.

He reached for the tarnished brass doorknob, hoping and praying this would be the last time his shadow darkened the doorstep of the Demilord compound.

He pushed open the heavy oak door and found Antonio in his usual place behind his dimly lit desk, dark eyes buried in the thick leather bound text.

Antonio had occupied the same Victorian in Sausalito, north of San Francisco, for the last one hundred years. Nothing in it ever changed. Not one piece of dark furniture, nor the dusty bookshelves that reached the vaulted ceiling. Antonio, too, was trapped in his world, and Andrus knew this was the one reason he could trust his putrid excuse of a leader to deliver what he’d promised: escape.

“You summoned me, Sir?” Andrus’ tone danced on the dangerous precipice between respect and mockery.

Without lifting his hateful eyes from the text, Antonio said, “You’re late as usual. Sit the fuck down.”

Andrus took his time slipping off his black leather duster, which matched his standard leather pants and boots, and threw it on the back of the chair across from Antonio’s desk before he complied.

Antonio continued scanning the pages, flipping one after another.

“Is that the same damned book you were reading last time I was here?” Andrus criticized.

Antonio’s head snapped up. “You idiot. This is the only remaining book of the Oracle of Delphi.”

Holly hell. How did he get his hands on something like that?
“Didn’t know she wrote,” Andrus replied, masking his astonishment. According to legend, her books continued rewriting themselves in spite of her death sixteen-hundred years ago. But the books were supposedly destroyed by Julius Caesar in the fires of Alexandria.

Antonio ignored Andrus’ comment. “I’ve been waiting for a sign. And it’s finally come—the moment we’ve waited for.”

Only the tick of Andrus’ left eye alluded to his excitement. “Finally. I was beginning to think I might have to kill you to get you to move.” He leaned back into the chair, arms crossed against his chest.

Antonio slammed his fist into the desk, his eyes slowly burning into Andrus.

Andrus was unimpressed.

Yes, like him, Antonio was a large man built for battle. But Andrus had been taking on monsters ten times more fearsome for centuries now. All Antonio ever did was sit behind his goddamned desk, kissing the gods’ asses. He’d never once lifted a finger for Andrus or his men while they endured day after day of hell: killing, tracking….killing some more.

Antonio growled. “Anything worth having is worth doing right. So shut the fuck up, and go kill the bitch as planned.”

Andrus met his glare. “I’ll do my part. You just remember that when I do, justice will come for you. And by justice, I mean me.”

Antonio’s eyes rolled as he laughed. “The book has spoken—you will not find me here when you return.”

A spark of joy lit Andrus’ face. “You mean the gods have granted my wish, and you are to be injected with molten lava then disemboweled?”

Antonio slammed the heavy book shut. “The book says that I am to leave. You now lead the Demilords.”

Fucking great.
Andrus stood and swiped his leather coat and headed for the door. “I’ll still hunt you down when this is over.” He slammed the door behind him.

So close now
, he thought.

***

Leaning over the white marble sink, Helena stared into the mirror. How could she have let this happen? “You’re disgusting!” she scorned herself.

She splashed warm water on her unusually pale face—another irritating reminder of how she’d let Niccolo change her. This time of year, she’d normally have a nice golden glow. She used to spend almost every weekend, well into the fall, at the beach. How could she have given up so much?

Niccolo’s arduous words pummeled her mind. “You’re already my wife, Helena,” he’d viciously said last night. Why hadn’t he told her before?

Cold, heartbeatless bastard
. She’d actually thought he loved her. Was she living in some delusional trance the last two months?
And he actually had his men take away my laptop and cell! Bastard!

Helena slipped on her favorite pair of jeans, her Uggs, and low-cut pink angora sweater.

She made sure the blinds were drawn and then casually strolled to the front door. She took a deep breath and prepared for an Oscar-worthy performance. Her life depended on it.

As expected, she found Viktor at his post, arms crossed with a bland look on his face. She practically had to unhinge her head to accommodate the upward angle to look him in the eyes. Viktor was at least seven feet tall, had fierce cobalt blue eyes, chest length blond hair, and was built like a Viking tank. Like Niccolo, he always wore the standard black clothes. Today it was black leather pants, rich, dark brown leather boots, and a thick black turtleneck.

He was almost as breathtaking as Niccolo.
Damned beautiful vampires. Hate them all!

“Yes?” He raised one golden brow.

Helena spoke in a sugary sweet tone, “I need your help opening a bottle in the kitchen.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m here to guard you, not be your servant.”

“No,” Helena corrected politely, “You’re here to take care of me in Niccolo’s absence, which includes ensuring I get fed properly.”

Viktor still didn’t move. Not an inch.

“Okay. Fine. Let’s call him and ask.” Helena reached for the cell phone clipped to Viktor’s belt.

Viktor gently pushed her hand away.

She shook her head and walked toward the kitchen. It was time to put some of her keen observations to good use. Several weeks ago, Helena had casually commented to Viktor how she missed her mother. His eyes had turned a slightly darker hue. Then he’d responded, “Treasure each moment before they are gone.”

Viktor had experienced loss.

Was it because he’d outlived everyone he ever loved? She felt guilty using his pain against him, but it was the lesser-evil of options.