Blood Shadows (45 page)

Nachari looked at him skeptically, and then, as if someone else had magically possessed his body, he threw a playful fist at the king’s shoulder, socking him like he might have once done with Shelby, just to test his reaction.

Napolean rolled his eyes. “Oh, shit—what have I started?”

Nachari took a literal step back. “Did you say
shit
?”

Napolean shook his head. “No.” And then he smiled.

Nachari grinned. “So, I can come play with your kid; drive your Land Cruiser; and TP your house on Halloween?”

Napolean chuckled deep and low in his throat, the reverberation giving Nachari pause. “You
will
come play with my kid—often; you will
never
get your hands on my Land Cruiser; and if you TP my house, then you had better watch your back.” He paused for emphasis. “I said I was your brother, not a punk.”

Nachari laughed loud and heartily then.
Wow
. Napolean Mondragon had a sense of humor.

Who knew?

Turning all at once serious, he crossed his arms in front of him. “There is something of importance I have to tell you, something I learned from the dark lords while I was away.” He told Napolean about Braden and the secret Noiro had shared—the fact that the male was exempt from the Blood Curse and would never have a
destiny
. Since Braden was unquestionably Vampyr now, he could never mate with a human female, either. And the cruelest joke of all was the fact that Braden was probably the only male in the house of Jadon that could actually sire female children.

After several minutes had passed, Napolean finally shook his head and grimaced—a strange reaction, indeed.

“What?” Nachari said, slightly taken aback.

“You know what this means?” Napolean asked.

“No, what?”

“He will have to be promised to Kristina.”

Nachari stood stock-still, just allowing the information to settle in for a moment. Finally, he whispered, “Oh…shit.”

“Indeed.” Napolean laughed out loud.

thirty

Nachari stood outside on his rooftop terrace just gazing at the stars and contemplating how beautiful the sky was, how deeply he had missed the stars and the moon. He needed to unwind after his meeting with Saber, as well as his discussion with Napolean, and he wanted to make sure that his energy field was clear and his thoughts were focused before he turned his attention to Deanna.

Despite his best intentions, the door to the tranquil space opened, and Deanna walked out onto the roof, her long, model-esque frame taking his breath away at first glance.

“Hey, you,” she called softly.

Her voice was a welcome sound. “Sebastian?” he asked instinctively.

“Sleeping,” she answered, smiling. She sidled up behind him and wrapped her long, elegant arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. “How’d it go tonight?”

Nachari stroked her arm and sighed. “It went,” he answered. “And I’m still in one piece.”

Deanna took a deep, cleansing breath and looked up the stars, but she said nothing.

“I went to see Saber,” he continued in a thoughtful voice, “and I spoke with Napolean.”

To her credit, Deanna didn’t react. “And the…Dark One…is he still alive?” Her voice was as soothing as it was direct.

“He is,” Nachari answered. “At least until the sun comes up on Sunday.”

Deanna shook her head rapidly as if dismissing the horrific thought. “Will you be there?”

Nachari lifted his arm and brought her closer, beneath his side. “It depends on what my
destiny
wants—if it’s important to her, for closure, then it’s important to me.” He shifted his weight to bring her even closer. “It’s not going to be a pretty scene, Deanna; death by sunlight is pretty…horrendous.”

Deanna shrugged and nuzzled closer. “I don’t really have a preference,” she admitted. “I mean, the moment your brothers knocked him out, I had closure. I knew they would never let him get to me again.”

Nachari couldn’t help but think that she had no idea, whatsoever, how truly strong and unshakable she really was. Or what he would give to roll back the hands of time and be the one to confront Saber in that hot tub—to get there before Napolean.

“The main thing,” she continued, “is what you need. Do you want to be there?”

Nachari considered her question carefully. “I guess it’s a house of Jadon thing—code, honor, justice—it’s the way I was raised, so yes, I do.”

Deanna nodded in agreement. “Okay, then. We’ll go.”

She seemed to simply understand. She just got it. That he was as much a warrior as a wizard. That he was of a different species—Vampyr—which meant he didn’t think or react like a human. But how she understood this so easily, he couldn’t fathom.

Nachari shrugged then. “In all honesty, compared to where I’ve been the last four months, the entire execution will probably seem sterile.” He frowned apologetically. “I’m sorry, Deanna. It must be
uncomfortable
, to say the least, to hear your mate making constant references to hell.” He tried to smile, but he really wasn’t feeling it.

Deanna ducked from beneath his side and took a step forward to face him. She leaned back against the terrace wall and thought about his words. Apparently, deciding to change the subject, she gestured toward the ground. “Did you know that I used to be terrified—and I mean scared out of my wits—of heights?”

“Used to be?” Nachari asked.

She shrugged. “Now that I’m Vampyr,” she spoke the word halfheartedly, “and I have so many strong, capable brothers to catch me, there’s little reason to fear much of anything.”

Nachari growled possessively, surprised at his own base, territorial response.

Deanna ignored it, unaffected. “
And
,” she continued to elaborate, “just for the sake of general information, I was also afraid of spiders, really bugs of all kinds; that, and popping corn.”

Now this made him laugh. “Popcorn?” he asked for clarification. “You mean the stuff made by humans like Orville Redenbacher?”

Deanna flushed and looked away. “Not the popcorn itself,” she bantered, laughing. “The sound of it…the popping…it’s a sensory thing, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Nachari teased, eyeing her warily. “And to think, I thought you were utterly perfect.”

Deanna slapped him playfully. “What does that have to do with being perfect?” She raised her jaw. “I am!”

He smiled broadly then. “You are,” he said, agreeing.

She rolled her eyes.

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I said you are perfect.”

“No,” she corrected. “That’s what you said with your mouth; what you said with your eyes was something entirely different.”

Nachari chuckled. “Ah, so you can tell the difference already?”

“Yep,” she answered, a look of self-satisfaction alighting her eyes, “I can.” She looked away then. “And that’s how I know you aren’t being completely open and honest with me…yet. Even though you want me to be completely open and honest with you.”

Now this concerned him. He lowered his head to better meet her gaze. “Deanna…” When she continued to look away, he reached for her chin and softly guided her eyes back to his. “Don’t look away, sweetheart. What do you mean?”

She paused, fidgeted a moment with her hands, and then calmly placed them at her sides. “I’m the one who drew you in my sketches, remember? I’m the one who saw all those horrible images of the underworld…of the torture.” She raised her hand, traced a soft finger along his jaw, and then placed it back by her side once more. “I saw the truth…with you…long before I met you. Do you really think that I see it any less, now that I actually know you?”

Nachari wanted to change the subject, to simply push it aside, reassure his
destiny
that everything was fine, and go on being lighthearted, but he didn’t dare. The woman before him meant way too much to him already, and earning her friendship, gaining her respect, was way too important to their future. “What do you see, angel?”

Deanna looked deep into his eyes. “I see an incredibly handsome, absolutely spectacular—yet haunted—male.” She tilted her head to the side. “I see you, Nachari.”

He reached out and brushed the back of his hands against her stunning face, marveling at the smoky color of her eyes, the fullness of her lips, the high, gentle plains of her exotic cheekbones. Brushing a thick lock of dark golden-brown hair behind her shoulder, he said, “Does it bother you—what you see?”

Deanna shook her head emphatically. “No, Nachari…far from it.” She stood silently while measuring her words. “What bothers me is that I don’t know how to break through the invisible walls of the prison you’re still living in, and I don’t want to start our lives…going forward…looking from the outside in.” She paused, as if still searching for the right words. “Nachari, I didn’t know you before, so I can’t give you any words of encouragement. I can’t try to convince you that you’re still the same person, and honestly, I know if I had gone through what you did, I wouldn’t be the same. But I do know a kind heart when I see one. And character isn’t something easily built…or destroyed.” She studied his expression as if reading every nuance. “You are an honorable male, Nachari Silivasi, and as impossible as it might seem, you are even more beautiful inside than out. This, I know for a fact. I just do.”

Nachari’s ageless heart warmed beneath the sweet caress of her words. He took both of her hands in his and kissed her knuckles, each one slowly in turn, before gently prying her fingers open in order to kiss the center of her palms. “And you are my entire world, now, Deanna—you and our son.”

“And Braden,” she teased, “and your brothers…and the honor of your house.” She smiled broadly then. “I get it. And I’m fine with it.”

He hesitated, looking away. “Okay, so you get it—but tell me this: Do you think, in time, you will actually come to love it?”

“To love
it
?” she repeated, chiding him playfully.

He dropped his head and laughed, knowing he’d been caught. And then he raised it and held her gaze with uncommon courage and intensity. “To love me.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she matched his courage ounce for ounce. “It’s already starting to happen,” she whispered, and then her face blushed a deep coral red.

“Come here,” he growled deep in his throat. “Show me.” With that, he hauled her forward and covered her mouth with his.

Deanna molded easily into Nachari’s arms, his wondrous height making him the perfect fit for her softer, more pliant body. She reveled in the feeling of his lips over hers and sought his tongue in earnest.

He didn’t hold back.

Giving her more of his passion.

More of his heart.

When his eyes began to burn red with intensity, she knew she had ignited a deep fire within him, and she had no intention of extinguishing the flame.

She reached up to cup his face in her hands and whispered, “Make love to me, Nachari. Here. Now.”

He growled once more, grasped her by the waist, and began to kiss her more earnestly. Eyeing the door to the brownstone, he murmured, “Let me get a blanket.”

Deanna shook her head, knowing that he was still being so very careful with her feelings, her body, her comfort. “No,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I want you to make love to me…
now
.”

Nachari’s eyes darkened with fever, and a slow moan escaped his lips as his eyes met hers, almost as if searching for verification.

He got it.

Oh, did he ever get it.

Reaching for the tie to her robe, he pulled the opposite ends apart and slid it off her shoulders. As it fell to the ground, he ravished her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, dropping all the way down to his knees to taste her stomach…and her need. But feeling her urgency, he didn’t stay there.

He tugged his shirt over his head with one hand, while deftly unzipping his jeans with the other; then he kicked off his pants and made quick work of his skin-tight boxers. His movement was almost feline in its grace and agility.

At a glance, there was no doubt that Nachari was ready for her—his arousal was positively magnificent in length, width, and virility. Stunning her with the swiftness of his movement, he grasped her by the waist, lifted her onto the terrace wall—glancing only momentarily at the perilous fall behind her—and parted her thighs. In an instant, he was inside of her, pressing all the way to her womb, and she gasped at the startling sensation.

And then her head fell back in ecstasy.

His body moved with restless urgency, plunging in steady, mind-numbing thrusts as a series of moans and groans escaped his lips, each one more primal than the last.

Deanna arched her back and concentrated on the heavenly feel of him—every inch, inside and out—the magnificent flesh that pressed against her soul, causing stronger and stronger friction to build in her core; the strong, muscular arms that held her aloft and intimately, possessively close; and the harshly beautiful face that grew taut with feral pleasure as his own passion mounted.

His fangs began to extend, and she couldn’t help but stare, all the while grinding tightly against him. He was driving her out of her mind. Not knowing if she would love it or regret it, she pushed her long, layered tresses behind her shoulder and tilted her head to the side. He groaned with approval and need. “Oh, gods…Deanna.”