Zauran Read online

  Her scent is rushing into me and my inhalations gorge on the purest spirit I've met. It vibrates power to the tips of my eyelashes, tempting me to pull her under and kiss her so deep she faints.

  Desire resonates a staccato tap up and down every vein, tensing my fingertips into her skin as I stare down at a woman who thinks she's helpless. She's so brutally powerful I feel like ripping Darise's heart out for him.

  But we're out of time. The stand of a bike meeting the paving outside rings the gong of destiny.

  “Ryan's here,” I tell her.

  Surprising me, slender arms tighten and she hides her face into my t-shirt, breathing heat all over my abdomen, making me harder.

  “No!” cries muffled, her trembling increasing to such a degree I am now fully aware of hard nipples pressing above the waistband of my jeans.

  “Zaria, do you want to hide in the serpentinite room? He won't sense you there. But he'll know you're here because your car is outside.”

  Two glistening dark cobalt eyes stare up at me. Long black eyelashes glossed with fresh tears clump together, making her look like an elf freshly woken in morning dew.

  “Make him go away,” she pleads in a hoarse whisper.

  I can hear the turmoil in her head loud and clear. I'm her safe place. In a world just turned upside down she's come to me, because of what I symbolize in her life.

  I've never seen her this vulnerable. Her fight has gone into hiding and she's clinging to defiance. She needs me to make her safe and now Ryan's fucked up that opportunity.

  Shoving fingers through my hair, I'm pissed off. She's needy right now. Ryan's timing couldn't be worse if he'd set his pocket-watch to the peal of Death's.

  Dipping down, whispering over her lips, I say, “Disappear. Go hide in my bedroom. He doesn't know the nature of our relationship.”

  “He does, he was in my head. He went everywhere, I could feel it.”

  That does it.

  I wish I could imprint my random emotions; I'll always be your haven. Never stop running to me, Zaria... But my elder is advancing to the threshold.

  When he knocks on the door, I press her firmly against the wall and out of the way, unwillingly torn from the heat she was melting against me when I bent to speak to her.

  She still wraps her sensuality into my DNA, and she still wants to know what forbidden darkness a neuri offers. She's here in rebellion, and her agenda was clear to see in her thoughts. She came to see if I still wanted her. I've never wanted anyone more, and now this alpha decides to warp my world with his sword of bitter fortune.

  Taking the step, I slide the bolt, swinging the door open to Ryan, smiling as I greet him with the savage kiss of four knuckles on a cheekbone.

  Chapter 3

  Božena:

  Walking to the ladies powder room, giggling from the potency of my imbibing and the thrill of Darise's French kissing, I'm forced to halt by an imposing man blocking my path in the gloomy passage.

  “I remember you,” he says, smiling with sinister seduction.

  Staring up into eyes like molten pearls I recognize him too. “Hello.”

  He comes closer, staring down at me like an angel bathing a forlorn soul in rapture. “Božena?”

  “Yes,” I nod, aware of my heartbeat accelerating.

  “You will recall you require a sponsor inside Pravus. Darise can no longer sponsor a mortal,” he says.

  “I know,” I nod again, harnessing my attention away from those impossible eyes, tracing his build as I examine storm-gray fabric clinging to muscles. His shirt is left loose and bunches over black leather jeans.

  He's tall, sexy, and oddly familiar.

  “I'm the only one left to sponsor you. Do you mind?” he drawls in a whisper so private and laced with lust, it weakens my resolve.

  I remember this. It's for my own good. Mortals need a supernatural guard inside Pravus; what they like to call a sponsor.

  Nodding again, my breath hitches when I look back up into his shining moonbeam eyes.

  His fingers are like the sting of a tropical sun under my chin, the touch tender and loaded with barrels of promise. My jaw is tilted with insistent pressure and his satin mouth presses mine open.

  A savoring tongue delves in and swirls bliss across the inside of my bottom lip. Attraction bursts fireworks through my synapses, slicking satin underwear and urging me to step back.

  I do, moving to the wall, but he shadows the movement, using the wall to push me firmly into its carpeted covering, licking deeper into my mouth with his hand solidifying its hold in pure possessiveness on my neck.

  It makes me feel fragile, tunneling peril into my bloodstream.

  He lifts his head to stare deep chocolate eyes at mine, “I'm Jowendrhan. Darise's brother.”

  That's where I know you from!

  “I vaguely remember...” But my voice snuffs with the heat emanating off him and the hungry stare pinning me down.

  This attraction is primal, subconscious; overpowering my logic when I reach hands to press over the taut stretched fabric on his chest. Closing my eyes I rest my head back against the wall, experimenting with the unnatural warmth chasing into my palms from his muscles. He's built like a god, hard and defined.

  The hand moves from my neck into my hair, wrapping itself to knot in the strands, capturing and arching my pose to pull me in against his body. I open my eyes just in time to see muscles bulge when he braces our weight on his arm leaning against the wall.

  His delicious mouth claims mine again and it's instinctive to moan; unfurling years of pent desire into the caress of a gentle tongue framed with long incisors, treating me to the ownership of the last good vampyre on earth.

  Wow, he's the last silver eyed Vampyre.

  When my eyes open he pulls away just enough to murmur across my lips, “Yes, I'm the last. Lucky girl.”

  His bite into my lip is cruel, burning pain right up to my cheekbones, and his reaction to my blood hardens and presses into my body, announcing we've just moved over the threshold of polite.

  I've stepped from the light into the exhilarating danger of night. I've longed to sample this bittersweet apocathary. Sponsored by the last vampyre can only lead me into hazardous and enthralling catacombs. Willing to surrender, my resistance fades. His dominant claim gives me hope that dreams really can come true.

  *

  Zaria:

  Breathless, I watch the intimidating form fill the doorway. He leans his forearm above his head to support his weight against the doorframe while wiping blood away onto the back of his hand. His derisive smirk is aimed at me.

  I can't say I'm sorry Zauran smacked him. That's what you get for rummaging in someone's head without permission.

  “Zaria, my oh my, you surely do bring out the best in us,” sneers Ryan.

  Adrenaline pumps with the immediate drilling of my heartbeat at that. It's a threat. When Zauran met me he couldn't restrain his wild fire and he humiliated me so severely I'm surprised I ever forgave him. Stripped, fingered, forced to orgasm against my will, and now having someone twice his size say that to me, it ramps up survival instinct and I just run, fleeing to the opposite end of the passage.

  “Leave her alone,” says Zauran.

  It's an order which leaves no room for debate.

  Looking back as I enter the sanctuary of the kitchen I watch the two men eye each other. They're definitely related.

  “Correct,” says Ryan, his voice still the mesmerizing prayer of shredded stars. “I'm this loser's brother.”

  “Older brother,” says Zauran, clarifying for me.

  I could have guessed that. Ryan's just a more solid version of Zauran. He's about half a foot taller and a third wider.

  Cripes! I need to get out of here. Coming here was a mistake.

  Ryan shakes his head, filling the doorway and blocking the exit to outside, “No. I'll stay out of the way in the den until you leave.”

  He nods to me as if in confirmation, giving me the look of immi
nent harm should I contest his decision and make to leave anyhow. “I can make you, Zaria. And trust me you do not want to entice me back into your head because then I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  And with that hanging like mustard gas between us in the hallway, he takes a right and disappears.

  Zauran stares at me as if in indecision, finally exhaling so loud it barely conceals his despair when he closes the front door again.

  His voice jumps into my head, The kitchen? You do love to hide in my kitchen.

  It's true. This kitchen is the source of my misery.

  He strides fast with those lengthy legs that have a gap between them as if there is a fist between his knees. They're slightly bowed and it endears him to me. He has a moody walk, it sways his shoulders with each step, and when he pushes his windswept untidy black hair out of his eyes to stare down at me and his other hand connects in a heavy thump with faded black jeans, it makes me smile.

  His long sleeved Tee is pushed up to the elbows, revealing straight dark hair resting over the sexiest arms I've ever seen on any man.

  Not that he's a man.

  “You are not helping, Zaria.” He walks past me into the kitchen, slumping into a farm-style chair of carved pale wood.

  Dumping heels loudly on the kitchen table in their barefoot entirety, he rests long legs and flops his head back to stare at the floorboards of upstairs, leaving his arms draping heavily on either side of his chair.

  “Why the kitchen? Why is it the source of your misery?” he says to the ceiling.

  Perching on the chair next to his I survey the pronounced Adam's apple sprinkled with short stubble. I know from experience his stubble is softer than cobwebs and lately I've been wondering what it feels like when it combs a path down my spine.

  That snatches his attention to me like a homing missile. “Zaria, what the hell is going on?”

  Swallowing guilt back down, I wedge my fingers hand against hand between my thighs, staring at the floor. “I never get to cook. It's killing me.”

  “What does that mean?” he says.

  “Darise can manifest anything, any time he wants it. He doesn't understand how memories can be attached to simple things like cooking. I'm tired of coming home and never smelling food cooking. I don't have anything to make my mouth water, nothing that smells like home.”

  Daring to meet his mystical eyes, I know my emotions are showing. “Zauran, I never have the laundered smell of fresh ironing to hit my senses, no pot of soup slowly simmering on a cold day, no stew left to cook all day in the slow cooker and to fill every corner of the house with delicious temptation. I never get to enjoy the aroma of freshly ground coffee and baking cookies. I miss normal! It will always remind me of the instant comfort I found in your kitchen because of a simple pot of soup bubbling on your stove on the coldest day of my life. I've been deliberating about it a lot lately and every corner I turn in the maze of my mind leads back to this kitchen and that pot of soup.”

  Slowly sitting up, placing his feet on the stone tiles of the floor because he's immune to the cold, his palms press together when he leans his elbows on his knees and muscles coil with tantalizing tension. “What are you saying, exactly?”

  “Big girls don't cry, they get even. If you don't like the status quo make a change...”

  I trail off to stare back at him.

  “Are you saying what I think you're saying?” he says, his voice a thousand octaves gruffer than usual.

  Brushing hair away because it keeps cascading to cover my face when I look down, I harness the courage to meet his gaze. Inhaling, fighting back fear, I know he will hear without me verbalizing it. We never tried. I chose Darise without ever knowing all of you. I think I made a mistake. It was too quick, too fast, too impulsive.

  “Why now?” he says, raising two hallucinogenic eyes to engage mine.

  “If he can have a secret lover, so can I.”

  “But he'll know.”

  The rock in my chest slowly slides to weigh down my stomach. “I want him to.”

  “You're using me to hurt him.” It's a cold statement.

  His gaze narrows and he seems to be scrutinizing my very soul where it floats somewhere in the back of my head. Tension twists in my chest. I can't read his body language at all. I just dumped my heart, hopes, and fears, on this kitchen table and he's just sitting there!

  Is he judging me? Does he think I'm a repeat offender or something? Taking a stabilizing breath I lift my chin to set the record straight. “Zauran, he obviously doesn't want me. It's already over, I know it is. But before I leave him I'd like to know what my future holds.”

  “And you assume I am willing?”

  “Yes! Or you wouldn't have punched your brother for eating me alive with his eyes.”

  The silence hanging between us is like the squeaky wheel on a shopping cart. You can only take so much before you snap.

  I'm a freaking idiot. Any man who has to think about it this long isn't interested.

  “Forget it,” I say, needing to disappear with my shame.

  I'm bloody mortified I've made such a complete fool of myself.

  Eyes as dark as wet smoke hold my attention when he stands, taking the step to my chair and claiming my hands, pulling me up to stand before him.

  Anticipation and excitement swirl my senses like greedy quicksand. I watch him thoughtfully lick his lips through the bottom of my long eyelashes. I'm so tight inside I think I'm squeezing blood out of my heart drop by drop, it's making me faint.

  Any second now he's going to tell me I'm delusional and a complete moron who needs be grateful for the little you have pills.

  What's he waiting for?

  Your undivided attention, whispers into my head in a demanding tone.

  In typical Zauran style he pushes the boundaries immediately, covering my breast with his palm, using the other to cup my head and yank my hair to tilt my face up to stare over the planes of his chest hidden beneath a shirt so tight it's revealing, up to his face full of dark triumph and primitive lust.

  In a rip of displaced air his mouth is on mine, his tongue in mine, hands lifting me and wrapping my arms over his shoulders; my legs guided and forced to lock around his lithe hips.

  His passion is defeating my neurons like a crusader sent to convert. Keeping my eyes open, I'm held hostage in his gaze, afraid and thrilled in equal measure when he walks us toward the other door in the kitchen. The one with steps leading up to the second floor.

  Really? You don't think I'm a heartless hussy? I think to him.

  Jesus Zaria, I need to spend more time in your head because you are torn apart inside. Did he do this to your self-esteem?

  I can't swallow with the invasion of his kiss, yet I can feel the tendrils of his presence slipping into my head and worming deeper. I... You really want me?

  Want you would be putting it the polite way. When you were shivering in the hallway, before Ryan ruined the party, I wanted to tell you my door is always going to be open to you. Zaria I will always catch you when you fall.

  Gripping tighter I squeeze for all I'm worth. In a world where everything's unstable, Zauran has become my rock. A very distracting mountain of a rock that I've been fantasizing something shocking over.

  The answer to that thought is nothing shy of mental and neurological annihilation. His tongue is hot, possessive, his mouth forcefully imprinting mine, the hand over my spine staples me closer to him. I'm locked in Zauran bondage that breathes intimidation.

  Oh sweet Mary, the saints can't save me now if I've made a mistake.

  You haven't made a mistake, and I'm about to prove it to you.

  Chapter 4

  Zaria:

  Dropping me on a wide bed still covered in chilling charcoal shadows, he hauls his shirt off in one fluid movement, spearing me with the intensity of his expression.

  I think it's meant to be dominant and scary but the mischief in his eyes sabotages the stern cast of his face. The creviced corners
of the room cling to icy drafts and shirking shadows, enticing bumps across my skin when he tugs my fleece jumper up and over my head.

  Like an illumined manuscript enriched with antiquity he caresses reverent fingertips down my spine, ready to open my pages and inhale the library of my soul, tracing fingerprints across me to read my goose-bumps like braille.

  Prowling over me, his advancing nearness forces me to retreat. My spine sinks onto puffy duvet fragrant with the crisp smell of his winter rain scent.

  I'm vaguely reminded of how mammoth and muscular he is with the sight of ripples and clenching bulk wreathed in darkness and shifting shafts of ghostly moonlight.

  His fingers flex wide before gripping into the linen next to my head; hot lips whisper arcane secrets in the first language down my neck. A tongue slides hotly over my undulations to circle and snare my cold tense nipple.

  I always wondered you know.

  “What... wonder...?” I manage to exhale, my breath misting as if we're in a tomb encased with walls of judgment.

  What color your nipples are.

  A rakish smile greets me when he lifts up to look at me, leaving my nipple brittle.

  The expression in his glittering eyes is the look of a knife plunging in to siphon out my soul.

  It's eerie in here suddenly.

  With every movement etched muscles dance between the moon's caress and blots of black shade, wafting the thermal ambiance of his skin at me.

  He smells so enticing. Closing my eyes briefly I inhale personified comfort.

  Unbidden I recall the stories of neuri which I heard as a little girl. They are the Serbian werewolves who roam seven nights a year; the length of God's creation. They are all powerful and dangerous.

  I sense that danger now. Power emanates from him in a strange warm current which dips and rises through the riming cold pools of the room. His irises shutter with strange light, staring into me as if those eyes are portals to heaven and are allowing me to glimpse the sanctified guarded by the neuri.

  Like ectoplasm, or supernatural plasma, the glow spreads to embalm my skin, my face, my hair; and it's exquisite. It's the sensation of sparkles bubbling and fizzing against nerves, tickling them into a trance of indulgent solace.