Chapter 12

Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come.

The barest flutter of fingers over the head of Anton’s cock, and already he was about to blow. That wouldn’t do at all. Thoughts whirled in his head like a tornado, and he reached desperately to grab one. To have something to focus on so that he could hold back at least long enough to get Tyra naked, for heaven’s sake.

It was amazing, the clarity with which he could make out her features, even in the dark of the room. Tyra’s ordinarily rich brown eyes had gone darkdarkdark, her lids hooded, and that gaze never left his as she divested him of his pants and socks.

She slid forward to cover Anton’s body with her own, and despite the warm softness and please-god-kill-me-now of her still-clothed body, he couldn’t stop himself from pointing out: “The last time I tried to kiss you, you almost made me sing soprano.”

She kissed him. Her lips made a warm, smooth, whisper-soft caress against a mouth that barely deserved to say words to this female, let alone worship her with his tongue as he so longed to do. “Anton, if you don’t stop talking, I’m likely to remember all the reasons why this is such a God-awful idea.”

Right. A foreign-sounding growl emitted from the depths of Anton’s throat. His hands thrust under her shirt, pushing it up to her shoulders. “Your skin is amazing.” It was. Smooth. Soft.

That seemed like a better thing to say.

His hand caressed the back of Tyra’s neck and she moaned, honest to God moaned, and after some thrusting of hips and pulling of hands, with lips meeting sporadically in between, his female was naked and writhing underneath him. His female. His.

Anton’s hands were everywhere. The tips of his clumsy fingers ached to touch every smooth inch of her. He stroked, licked, and nibbled. Starting with her gently toned belly and easing up to the luscious swell of the most perfect breasts that heaven or earth could have possibly managed to produce.

His pulse surged and his cock throbbed harder when a tiny taste and a puff of breath caused one round, smooth-skinned peak to tighten and wrinkle into a hard point. He ignored the stab of pain in his side when he twisted to worship the hourglass curve of her side and the roundness of her ass and her hip, which were as creamy and delicious-looking as a warm cup of tea flavored with just the right amount of milk. Her legs, parted around him, were long and firm. And between those legs… dear God, he was almost afraid to look, much less touch.

This female—this amazing, beautiful, perfect angel. This warrior in such an impossibly feminine package. She deserved to be touched by cleaner hands than his. Hands that had never done what his had. But even as he thought it, one palm slid closer to the mound of her sex, delighting in the startling softness of the curls he found there.

“I can’t believe this.” It was the most unmanly thing he could have possibly said, but damned if it wasn’t true. All the times he’d watched her and fantasized… never in a thousand lifetimes could he have imagined being given the gift of this woman’s body… her blood… her.

“Anton,” she whispered in a low, husky voice as she placed a hand over his, the one at the juncture of her thighs, and–Oh God—thrust it, pointer finger first, into a moist heat so exquisite he very nearly passed out.

“Tyra.” Without further instruction on her part, Anton burrowed a thumb into those tight, damp curls to find the sensitive nub inside. This much he knew about. A tiny whimper told him that he’d found the right spot.

Anton thought he very well might die like this. With his head so light and dizzy, and his fingers curling and thrusting inside the most amazing place he had ever known. The nerves of his skin and even the blood in his veins were lit like an overstrung Christmas tree. Some kind of amazing shiver and tingle flew through him, and when he dragged his stare from the action at his fingertips to the molten chocolate of Tyra’s gaze, the tie between them was clear.

That cool rush flying through him was Tyra. Her blood. Her pleasure. How could he have forgotten that they were already part of each other? The infinitesimal jerk of Anton’s body over that stunning remembrance brushed his desperate, hungry cock against the hand working her core. With no warning, the orgasm he’d fought so hard to push away was back and a mere fraction from release.

“Anton, no. Stop.” Amazing how things could change in only a fraction of a second.

Tyra’s strong grip wrapped around his wrist. Pushed his hand away. Immediately his entire body chilled, as if the heat between her legs had been the only thing keeping him warm. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she gasped. “God, no.”

Oh, thank fuck. He had barely begun to process the dizzying relief, to grasp at the intense joining of their auras, their spirits, or whatever the fuck it was, when a pair of deceptively soft hands landed with an iron grip on his shoulders.

Before Anton could blink, he’d been pulled, flipped, and mounted. The breath left his lungs in a mighty whoosh the second his back hit the mattress.

Now that was a female.

“Wait.” Hands on Tyra’s hips, Anton squeezed his eyes and gritted his teeth, willing his body under control with every fiber of his desperate being as she straddled him. Just one slip of his hands and he would be inside of her…

“What’s wrong?” With her curls matted against her wrinkled forehead and her body poised above him, Tyra was absolutely without question the most amazing thing that Anton would ever see in his lifetime.

Not one damned thing was wrong. She was amazing. Fucking amazing. “What about… can I get you pregnant?”

“No. Only at the full moon.”

A slight shake of her head, and that was all Anton needed. Tyra’s gasp and Anton’s, thanks to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in, collided in the air at the same time his hands released her hips and allowed their bodies to join.

Holy, holy, holy shit. He could have died right then and there, and he would have left the earth the happiest man ever. Tyra planted her hands on his chest. Sweat made her fingers slide just a little, just enough to get his nipples hard before the bite of her nails sank into his flesh. His head dropped back with a hiss. The ride was… unbelievable. Both of them were breathless, their stares locked firmly with each other’s as Tyra’s body rose and fell, milking him for all he was worth.

Anton bit down hard enough to crack his teeth. He would not last long. Dear… fucking… Lord.

His heart skipped a beat when a thunderous bang sounded from beyond the door. Someone was knocking on her front door. Dammit, he really hadn’t meant it about dying right then.

“Tyra!”

“Shit.” Rather than stop, as Anton assumed Tyra would, she sucked in a breath and sped up.

“Tyra, that sounds like the king.”

“Shh.” Tyra folded forward so that their bodies were flush against each other and her lips met his. Long fingers pulled his hands from her waist and threaded their fingers together above his head. Slicked with sweat, their bodies slid together, their breath sawing and mingling so loudly that Anton barely heard the bang of Tyra’s front door slamming open and then shut again.

Barely.

“Tyra.”

“Shh.”

The muscles of Tyra’s sex squeezed as if to drive home her point, and Anton was no idiot. Or he was, but he did as she instructed him and shut up. He blotted out everything else, including the vampire king outside who was likely about to kill him. His world narrowed to nothing but two sweat-slicked bodies and Tyra’s golden face. Their noses bumped together as she moved, faster and faster, gasping louder.

He was so close, but he wanted to know that he’d pleased her.

“Tyra.” The bang on the bedroom door came just as Tyra’s body shook, her head thrown back in a silent scream of ecstasy. Anton’s split second of turning his attention over her shoulder to the door made him miss the strike of her fangs.

The pinch was exquisite, so unlike the pain of before when her life had been on the line and he’d been afraid for the both of them. So fucking amazing that with the first suck of her lips at his vein, he shuddered and thrust hard. He spilled inside her as the pounding went on outside the door, and everything went white behind his eyes.

“Oh hell, yes.” For the next few beats of Anton’s heart, he and Tyra were alone inside a quiet, imaginary bubble. The forces outside the door were nothing but a distant echo as he wound his arms around her back and held on. Feminine muscles rippled gently beneath his hands as she sucked, licked the wound, and rested her forehead against his.

Their hearts thumped in perfect time with each other.

“Shit, I shouldn’t have done that. You’re still healing.”

Then reality returned with a loud, angry rush. He took a deep breath. “No. I feel amazing. Better than I can ever remember.” He really did. That blood of Tyra’s must be powerful stuff. Even though he’d been injured, and even after the physical exertion of lovemaking, he’d never had so much energy.

Another series of loud bangs sounded from the other side of Tyra’s bedroom door. “Tyra Yavn Morgan, I swear to God, if you don’t open this door in the next thirty seconds, I’m gonna break the fucker down and I don’t give a damn what you’re doing in there when it happens.”

Anton realized the harsh rumble that filled the room was coming from him. No way was anybody going to see her the way she was right now. No way was he going to let the king lead him gently to the slaughter. This was his female. He wasn’t leaving without a fight. Most importantly, there was his father to kill.

“Shit,” she murmured again and slid off, leaving him cold. She raised her voice and said, “Just a second.”

Anton’s hand stilled hers when she reached for her shirt. “I’ll go. We both know he wants to see me,” he said. His large hand caressed her smaller one and moved in to kiss the remains of his blood from her lips. “No worries.” He smiled and ran a thumb over the worry lines on her forehead. “He’s not going to kill me out there in your living room, right?”

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “Hope not. That carpet’s taken enough of a beating.”

He placed a kiss on her shoulder and made a hasty grab for his pants. “We’ll talk later.”

They absolutely fucking would. Anton might not have a clue what love was supposed to be, but he sure as fuck wasn’t going anywhere without a serious fight. The way they’d been so in tune with each other just then? It had to be something real. It did. If only they had time…

“No. I’m not sending you out there alone.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and leaned down to gather her clothes from the floor. “I’m not trying to insult you, but it wouldn’t be right.”

He couldn’t help but stare for a moment at the long, graceful curve of her back while she bent over. Her neck was so long, and her hair was curled and scrunched from the sweat of their lovemaking. He swept it to the side to give one last kiss to that intimate piece of real estate before going out to confront Thad.

Oh no.

Anton’s vision, sharpened even in the dark by Tyra’s superior blood, landed on a mark just below her hairline. A strawberry-colored birthmark in the crude shape of a heart. He had one like it just under his own hairline. All wizard offspring did. Some sort of magical marking tagged in their DNA, or whatever. Anton wasn’t sure how that worked.

Tyra opened her eyes again and sat up straight. The slight smile fell from her face, replaced by a look of worry. “Anton, what’s wrong? He won’t really kill you. I wouldn’t let him even if he tried.”

He shook his head and schooled his features, leaning to place one last kiss on her satiny smooth cheek. “No, I know. I want to do whatever I can to help your kind. He’ll see that. Please stay here. He needs to see that I can face him without you.” He made a hasty grab for the doorknob behind him, suddenly anxious to reach the living room where Thad was likely waiting.

Anything to avoid telling this beautiful, fierce vampire warrior that she wasn’t part human, after all.

She was part wizard.

***

Finally, the crying had stopped.

Xander slumped in Eamon’s comfortable leather chair. The sound of the central air kicking on was almost deafening, given the extreme silence now that the baby was no longer wailing. His phone clicked softly, the keyboard and screen flashing each time he slid it open and shut. Until he became too agitated by the flashing lights, and then he’d pause and start all over again.

Exhaustion and blood hunger made his eyes very sensitive to the bright light from the screen.

Flay had called. Word was spreading across the estate of some craziness about a wizard being brought into their midst by Tyra, King Thad’s sister… Ugh. He scrubbed a palm against his forehead. He barely remembered their conversation already and it had been… what? He checked the phone. January 7… close to midnight. Flay had called barely an hour earlier. Something big was going down; that much was clear. Tyra had brought this wizard in as a potential weapon—sounded like maybe a big attack was planned. More and more lately, he was wishing he could be back out there, be part of the fight again.

The bedroom door clicked open and Theresa stepped out quietly, baby monitor in hand. Her hair hung down her back in almond-colored waves. Today’s dress was red. More of a somber burgundy, really, but its color drew attention to the fact that her skin was unusually pale. A creamy ivory, when it should have been more of a honey tone. When she turned to smile at him, the circles under her eyes were even darker than they had been the evening before, and the one before that.

She sank into a matching chair opposite his. “You look worn out.”

Quite possibly, sadder words had never been spoken aloud. He managed what he could of a smile. “Says the female who just gave birth?”

She had the decency to look chagrined, at least. “Just trying to be polite.”

“I put a glass of water over there for you, next to your chair.” He gestured toward the walnut end table at her elbow. “The midwife and the doctor both said it’s vital that you keep up with your fluids while the baby is nursing, remember? They said water, juice, herbal tea… blood.”

Maybe it was the condensation on her water glass that made it slip from her hand just as she lifted it to her lips. She muttered quietly and returned the tumbler to its coaster. “Xander.”

They had been dancing around the topic for a couple of days, but finally there it was. Xander found it hard to look directly at her, so instead he rubbed his forehead and studied the small table on which her drink sat. It was bold and dark. Classic, with clean lines like the rest of the furniture in the room. Everything, including the Panasonic plasma-screen television and the unfussy cabinet it sat on, spoke to how much time Eamon had spent in this room before his death.

Jeez. Jeez.

Xander squared his jaw and forced himself to meet her amber-eyed gaze. “Theresa, nobody knows better than I do how difficult it is to move on.”

“I won’t do it.” Her voice was barely a whisper, kept low so as not to wake the baby, but the fierceness of her conviction was unmistakable.

Xander sighed. As a vampire, as a warrior, he respected and honored her resistance to drinking from someone other than her departed mate. Before Thad had posted him to guard Theresa, Xander had given consideration on more than one night to stepping outside his door and running until the sun rose and burned him alive. But this… he couldn’t let her do it.

Only a few days out from the birth, and she was exhausted. She was healing but too slowly. And as much as it might pain her, she had a tiny infant who was relying on her for care. They didn’t have the luxury of waiting for her to be at peace with drinking from someone other than Eamon. So he did something he had never done for anybody.

He got down on his knees. “Theresa. Please.”

“Xander. My goodness, get up.” Her face flushed and she covered it with her hands. Embarrassment, probably.

Well, that made two of them.

He nudged his way alongside her legs. Pressed as close to her as he dared. Carefully, like he was approaching a frightened woodland creature, he used the barest pressure to rest his fingers on her cheek. “Theresa, you have a helpless baby in there that has already lost his father.” He closed his eyes against the memory. “I was there for the birth, Theresa.

“Remember all the blood? Remember how you were in labor from Sunday to Tuesday, and by the time he arrived you barely had the energy to push him out? Just how long do you think you can continue caring for Eamon’s namesake when you barely had the strength to get through bringing him into the world? That child can’t afford to lose his mother, too.”

He had her. When her face crumpled and a tear slid down her cheek, he was forced to blink back the moisture pressing in his own eyes. The pearl button of his cuff flew to who knew where when he yanked up the sleeve. “Theresa. You have no idea how sorry I am.” This is hard for me, too.

The room was ominously quiet, save for the heavy beat of both their hearts, the tick of the hallway clock, and the tiny, tiny snores coming from the baby monitor. “I know,” she whispered. “I know. I just don’t think I can.”

“He’d understand,” Xander said. “And he’d want you to take care of yourself. Of your family.” That much was true. He brushed his fingers against her face once more. This time, his wrist brushed against her lips.

When her mouth opened and her fangs sank in, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. Tried to focus on the gentle suck of her lips, the delicate sweep of her tongue, the brush of her long hair against his hand.

He tried not to notice that it was all so different from what he was used to. The size and shape of the body, the fact that she was sucking at his wrist instead of his throat. The crushed velvet dress that was soft underneath his left hand. Tam hadn’t worn dresses much at all.

His biggest failure was in blocking the room itself. In his heart, Xander knew he was doing this for all the right reasons. But the warm, soft, pink lips of a fallen comrade’s mate on his skin as she sat in a leather chair that still held the scent of its old owner—and as Xander knelt on the dark brown carpet next to a rattan basket of never-to-be-read-again Sports Illustrated magazines—brought it all into vivid mental focus, even though he tried for it not to be. For all of his guilt, he might as well have made love to Eamon’s mate on top of their oval coffee table.

I’m so sorry, Eamon.

Xander held his body so still that his muscles ached. He needed to get out of this house. Back to helping the fight against the wizards. Maybe to find out what was going on with this rumor about a wizard Tyra had brought in. Or finally to take that sunbath he kept pondering. Either way, he’d gotten Theresa to feed, and once she was out of the woods, his usefulness here had passed, right?

Just then, lights flashed on the nearby monitor and the baby cried.