Blood Web: A Blood Curse Novel (Blood Curse Series Book 10) Page 11

  Luca Giovanni wasn’t just a greedy racketeer—the man was diabolically insane, a true sociopath in every sense of the word.

  He was as evil as evil came.

  And Gwen Hamilton had been trapped in his web of darkness.

  Come Monday, she would be taken to her very first John. Her one-month reprieve was over, and come hell or high water, she had to escape, even if it cost her her life.

  Gwen closed her eyes, bowed her head, and said a short prayer for courage.

  Kill or be killed—the law of the jungle.

  She would escape, or she would die trying.

  From his perch on a large gray rock, Xavier Matista crumpled the blasted missive in his fist, threw back his head, and howled at the timber wolf moon, his long, golden-brown mane twisting in the preternatural wind sweeping through the Mhieridian air.

  Those vile, cursed vampires.

  Keitaro and Nachari Silivasi.

  They had been leaving daily missives at the Swingle-Duplex penthouse for months, and this last one, well, it had finally gone too far: It had stolen Xavier’s breath and chilled his very soul.

  Canines, lykos, loup-garou—but especially Xavier Matista—salutations from Dark Moon Vale!

  As always, we welcome you to the valley: any day, any time of your choosing…

  And this little tidbit of information (forgive the doggy-treat reference) might help sway your decision: Does the general know that twenty-one years ago, most likely at the beginning of summer, he purchased a slave named Xia from Luca Giovanni (her likeness has been drawn at the bottom of this dispatch just to refresh the memory), and that slave had a child, a half-lycan female, named Zayda Patrone. Yes, how ironic; the general has a daughter.

  A daughter he also purchased twenty years later, chained inside a penthouse, and left to be found by the Vampyr.

  A daughter he freely gave away to his enemy (thank you).

  We understand that most lycan women are barren; human females are used to carry the mantle; yet children remain quite rare—and while they may not be valued, they are certainly kept close to home…

  Perhaps Daddy would like to come out from the portal and play.

  As usual, Keitaro Silivasi’s address was stamped at the bottom of the missive.

  The bastard!

  Xavier stared at the tops of the trees, regarding the Wolverine Woods, just south of the Western Pack’s villages, and once again, he recalled all the insult, all the damage, all the havoc the Silivasi brothers had left in their wake—all the bodies of dead werewolves that could not be replaced.

  He snarled, curling his hands into angry, clawed fists.

  Prior to this latest note, the vampires had always played fast and loose with the wording, some trifling bullshit couched in cryptic words: Curious as to why—how—we have your DNA? What else do we know about the so-called general, besides the fact that he’s impotent, afraid, and weak?

  And now Xavier knew why—how they got his DNA—what else they knew about the lycan general. The despicable vampires weren’t lying. The drawing looked just like Xia Patrone. Xavier never forgot a face or a name—and now that he thought a little more about Zayda, the girl’s mysterious eyes and that wild mane of hair, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

  Son of a bitch!

  General Xavier Matista had a daughter, a child of his own flesh and blood—apparently, he was neither impotent, afraid, nor weak—yet he had virtually handed the girl over to his mortal enemies on a silver platter. He had invited and watched as other lycan males took the most gratuitous and carnal advantage of his own genetic offspring.

  He sighed, trying to rein in his temper.

  At least the last part didn’t bother him…too much.

  Had Zayda been born in Mhier, her fate would have been quite similar: He would have eventually bartered her away to a powerful male. However, he would have chosen someone worthy, someone deserving of Xavier’s rank, someone meritorious of claiming, bedding, and mating a general’s daughter. He would not have passed her around so casually. It was beneath his station. Yet what was done was done…

  Rising from his perch on the uneven stone, he prowled into the dark, haunting night.

  Yes, Keitaro Silivasi, your missive changes everything.

  Wolves do not abandon their pups.

  And I would rather see Zayda dead than let you have her.

  Shifting effortlessly into his massive beast, Xavier loped toward the woods on all four paws.

  For tonight, he would run it off.

  Tomorrow, he would devise a plan.

  And soon, he would come out from the portal…to play.

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday – 11:00 AM

  Natalia Giovanni exited the mansion through an exterior kitchen door. She traversed the narrow bridge across the Winding Mill Creek River and made her way along the unpaved path to the large wooden stables. As she pried the barn doors open, her heart began to ache. More than anything, she just wanted to saddle her favorite mare, or perhaps the proud blue-black stallion named Midnight that her father had recently purchased from a top, renowned breeder, and take him for a run.

  She never felt freer than when she was riding Midnight.

  Fifteen hands of power at her thighs; such grace, beauty, and stealth beneath the reins; the wind in her hair, and the world at her back. There was no feeling quite like it on earth, just Natalia and the horse, nothing and no one else—nobility, majesty, and absolute freedom, all at the courtesy of a resplendent beast.

  She sighed, letting go of the longing and her reverie.

  She couldn’t ride.

  Not today.

  At least not far enough to run.

  She would have to text Santos first, let him know where she was going, and didn’t that just feel like—sound like—the script from a really bad movie, or perhaps a nonsensical dream, the kind where flowers were made out of candy, frogs hopped around on clouds, and the mailman was really a clown, recently escaped from the circus? And, of course, the whole damn thing made sense because, after all, it was only a dream. And dreams were notorious for existing within an altered, fantastical reality, not unlike what Natalia was living right now…ever since Santos had found her.

  In a way, meeting the terrifying, handsome, elusive hacker after all these years was kind of like a living dreamscape: a crazy, bizarre, outrageous fantasy that wasn’t supposed to intersect with real life. Yet, the etchings on her wrist; the memory of his fangs; the fact that he was a nocturnal creature from a dark, foreboding mythology—he was literally a separate species—was a waking nightmare to be sure.

  And Natalia was caught in the spider’s web.

  It was as real as real could get.

  No matter how badly she wished it were so—that Santos was only a dream, or even a hallucination—she couldn’t deny the facts. And now, as she did her best to go about her daily routine, to move forward in the light of day, it all seemed so far away…so surreal…like it could have happened on a cloud…while she slept. Perhaps it was a dream after all…

  She wound her way through the maze of stalls, searching for the new, prized stallion—she couldn’t ride him, but she could stroke his mane, perhaps brush his coat for a while. She could at least begin the slow, intimate process of forming a bond with the magnificent animal; after all, horses didn’t like to be alone, and Natalia could use the distraction. Besides, if she could establish a connection this early on, create a safe, inviting nexus for Midnight, the effort would go a long way toward cementing their burgeoning horse-and-rider relationship.

  Yeah, right…

  What the hell was she thinking?

  “Get a grip, Natalia,” she muttered beneath her breath, as the reality of her situation came rushing back, front and center. “You aren’t going to have the time or the chance to get to know the beautiful stallion. One way or the other, your life is about to change irrevocably.”

  And that meant…forever.

  She refused to give the subject any
more thought.

  She had this moment to herself, and she was determined to live in it.

  Brushing some lint off her collar, she turned on her heel, strolled in the direction of the desired stall, then reached for a wooden mane-and-tail brush.

  Damnit.

  It was a good two feet out of her reach, hanging on a high metal hook beneath the rafters.

  She climbed on a stack of nearby haybales and stretched her arm forward, teetering on the uneven surface.

  She was so close now…

  Just a few more inches…

  If she could just lean forward a little further and flick it with her fingers…

  She extended her hand as far as she could, leaned toward the brush, and just barely grazed it with the tip of one fingernail: Damn, damn, damn! She was still too far away. Realizing she either needed to add a stepping stool to the miniature haystack or use some sort of implement to knock the brush free, she climbed down from the haybale, headed across the center aisle of the barn, and ducked inside a tiny tack room.

  There…

  Right inside the doorway…

  She found a small loop of rope hanging on the wall, one she could definitely use to dislodge the brush—it would work as well as anything else. Heading back toward Midnight’s enclosure, she climbed on the bales a second time and flicked the rope at the brush.

  What the actual hell?

  She must have hit it five times.

  Was the damn thing nailed to the wall?

  “Allow me.”

  A deep masculine voice brushed against her ear, even as a strong, muscular chest molded to her back, and Natalia didn’t have to turn around or glance over her shoulder to know who was pressed against her. She would recognize that sexy tenor—and that intoxicating scent—anywhere.

  Santos Olaru.

  Where the heck had he come from, and how long had he been watching?

  Natalia dropped the rope on the ground and held her breath as Santos extended a divine, chiseled arm around her shoulder, then reached over her head and removed the brush with ease. Show off, she thought, but “Thank you,” she said, waiting for him to step down off the haybale and give her some room to breathe.

  The male didn’t budge an inch.

  He just stood there.

  Holding the brush in one brawny hand and crowding against her, his chest glued to her back as if he were trying to absorb her warmth and infuse her with his. She cleared her throat to give him a hint, and he placed his free hand on the curve of her hip. She wrapped her arms around her waist to create a barrier between them, and he immediately tightened his grip. She decided to use her words instead…

  “How long have you been here, stalker?” she asked.

  He chuckled softly. “Not long at all, cara mia.”

  She sucked in air through her teeth. “How did you know where to find me?” And then she held up two fingers to forestall his answer. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’m sure it has something to do with blood.”

  If such a thing were possible, Santos leaned further into Natalia’s body. He bent his head and nuzzled her neck, then softly inhaled her scent. “It has everything to do with blood, pretty lady,” he drawled like a lazy jungle cat. “Yours has such a sweet, vanilla aroma, almost like a flask of cologne.”

  Natalia gulped. “Would you mind backing up?”

  “I would mind,” he murmured, “but I’ll respect your wishes if it really bothers you.”

  Natalia’s face felt hot.

  Clammy.

  Swollen.

  And suddenly hot.

  Like she was coming down with the flu.

  “It bothers me a lot,” she said. And then, afraid she might just pass out, she fanned herself with both hands.

  Santos bent to her neck again, only this time, he blew an ice-cold frisson of air over her heated skin. “Better?” His right arm snaked around her waist, the brush resting loosely in his fingers. His free hand settled on her belly, and he tugged her back against him. “Don’t lose your balance,” he whispered. Then he hoisted her into his arms as if she were virtually weightless, stepped down from the haybale, still holding her close, and raised her up in the air—to shoulder height at least—before setting her down gently atop the railing. Her legs dangled over the edge, falling naturally to either side of his hips, and he didn’t hesitate to settle his hips between them.

  “Are you crazy?” she panted, feeling both trapped and flustered. Her mouth was unusually dry. What the hell did he think he was doing? “You can’t just touch me whenever you want. You can’t just pick me up and move me around. And for that matter, you can’t just show up in the barn. Do you have any idea how many armed guards patrol this compound?”

  The corner of Santos’ mouth quirked up in a devilish grin. “I can’t?” he asked. “I think I just did.” He flashed those pearly whites, his smile like a strand of jewels, before winking like a mischievous kid, and his crystal-blue peepers lightened. “Apologies, Natalia girl.” He took a respectful step back, and Natalia exhaled with gratitude. “How are you today?” he asked, in a moderately normal tone. “I see you came to the barn to get away…a lot weighing on your mind?”

  She blanched.

  What was with him?

  And more important, who did he think he was?

  Yes, there was a lot weighing on her mind.

  Not the least of which was his boldness, his confidence, the license he took with her body, and the games he played with her head. She thought better of voicing her protest, lest he think he had the upper hand. “Yes, I came to the barn to get away from the mansion and to be alone.” She placed undue emphasis on that final word; then she snatched the brush from his hand and shimmied down from the railing, careful to avoid making any more physical contact. She took three purposeful steps toward the gorgeous stallion, who was prancing a bit nervously in place, perhaps reacting to the presence of a dangerous predator, stroked his neck, and whispered a gentle greeting. Midnight immediately settled down, and she began to softly brush his mane—anything to keep from looking at or dealing with Santos Olaru.

  The presumptuous vampire…

  “He’s gorgeous,” Santos said, appraising the stallion with appreciation, and there was nothing in his voice but sincerity. “How long have you had him? What’s his name?”

  Natalia exhaled a sigh of relief. “Midnight. He’s fairly new. My father…” Her voice trailed off, and she lowered the brush. Luca was a sensitive subject, the fact that she was the daughter of a wicked and dangerous man. And as if her emotions weren’t conflicted enough, she had no idea what would become of her papa after Sunday, whether Santos would ever let her see Luca Giovanni again.

  She wasn’t sure that she wanted to see him…

  “Your father?” he prompted.

  His tone was absent of judgment, so Natalia swallowed her shame and tried again. “My father purchased him from a prominent breeder about three months ago for thirty thousand dollars. I absolutely adore him…riding him… I think he might be my favorite anything in all the world.” She cringed at the stupidity of her words, and why had she told him Midnight’s price?

  It was just…

  It was just that she was so accustomed to playing her role, maneuvering in haughty and nefarious circles, entertaining millionaires on behalf of Giovanni, Inc.’s shell corporations, seemingly innocuous charities, trying to make her family…and their wealth…more legitimate.

  But in truth she sounded like a spoiled child.

  My favorite anything in all the world…

  My father purchased him for thirty thousand dollars…

  Santos must think she was a brainless prima donna—he couldn’t possibly understand what she meant, or what she lived: the fact that Midnight’s presence—his feel and his smell, his powerful spirit, and his indomitable will—was more enticing to her than all the wealth on the planet, than all the servants, expensive clothes, or trips to the salon. He couldn’t possibly know that if Natalia had her way, she would
throw a time-worn saddle on Midnight’s back, fill two saddlebags with a week’s worth of provisions, and head up to the hills where she could get lost in nature: listen to the sound of the wind, revel in the warmth of the sun, and meditate to the rustle of leaves all around her. Yes, this beautiful, unpretentious, wholly magnificent animal was her most favorite anything in all the world. When she wasn’t exploring her laptop or hacking into databases for the challenge, she was usually in the barn.

  She raised the brush, returning to Midnight’s mane—she wasn’t going to try to explain it.

  Santos grew enigmatically quiet.

  He reached for her wrist, halting her motion, then gently removed the brush from her hand. Once he had balanced the brush atop Midnight’s railing, he rotated Natalia softly by the waist, turning her around to face him, and then he cupped her face in his hands. “Look at me, cuore mio.”

  He called her my heart in her second language, and despite herself, she looked into his eyes, and her heart fluttered wildly in her chest.

  “How long have you done that, Natalia girl?” he asked.

  She frowned, not understanding. “How long have I done what?”

  “Apologized for being Luca’s daughter?” he said. “Carried your father’s guilt? Wrestled with shame because of your very existence? We don’t get to choose our parents, Natalia. We play the hand life deals us.”

  Natalia blanched at his words. He was prying much too deeply. “Are you reading my thoughts?” she asked, feeling utterly exposed and appalled.

  “No,” he said emphatically, “but then, I don’t need to. Your eyes, your body language, your energy is quite expressive.” He placed both hands on the railing behind her, boxing her in with both his body and his scrutiny. “You are so incredibly beautiful, Natalia Antoinette. So regal. So smart. So capable. But you wrestle with demons that are not your own. I felt that footprint, even on the web.”

  Natalia raised her chin in defiance, ignoring the arms that fenced her in. “You don’t know me, Santos Olaru. You have no idea who I am or what kind of life I have lived.”