MARK OF THE VEANA

Boston

Present Day

Her fangs had been inside him only once, and yet they had left an unseen mark on his skin, his blood, even his breath. In consuming his blood she had consumed his very soul and now-every day, every moment he existed, she moved inside him, her unending hunger deafening as she searched and slithered through his veins, circled his muscles, squeezed until his brain threatened to explode.

Lucian Roman sat perched, as he had for the past seven nights, on the snow-crested roof of Bronwyn Kettler's brownstone. Still and menacing as a gargoyle, he ignored the vibration of his cell phone in his coat pocket and stared without purpose into the heavy snowfall, which dropped bride-white over the silent Boston credenti landscape. An hour ago, the streets had been alive with Impures running about, adorning the doors of their master's dwellings as well as the gates, fences, and lampposts leading up to the Gathering Hall. The tasteful bunting and subdued winter flowers were a testament to how the Boston community viewed the binding ceremony of its true mates-with serious and reverent celebration.

Now the streets were empty and silence reigned, as did the snow, and Lucian sneered in appreciation as the decorations for tomorrow's Veracou were quickly being buried in heavy white frosting. Would a blizzard annul the binding ceremony between Bronwyn and the paven who claimed her mark? Lucian thought not. But he would remain, affixed to the roof to watch. To wait. To see the binding done and over. Or-if his blood had its wish-to see Bronwyn run from her true mate, reject her body's choice.

As another wave of longing, of desire-ladened torment pulsed in his bones and brain, Lucian's fangs slowly descended and the blade in his fist trembled.

There were only two ways to stop this madness.

Fuck her or kill her.

And yet he could do neither and remain free. The former would turn him into a Breeding Male one hundred and seventy-five years before his time-a rutting animal with no conscience, no control, only a hunger to claim. While the latter would send him to Mondrar, the vampire prison, for all eternity.

Again he felt the vibration of his cell phone and again he ignored it. He knew Alexander would never give up looking for him, and in fact had seen his brother walking the streets below once already this week. But the eldest Roman had never looked up, and down below had found only snow and the censure of a community who reviled anything with a matching set of Breeding Male brands.

A sudden rush of sound, a faint cry, like air released from a balloon, stole Lucian's thoughts and left him with nothing but a raw, feral craving. He sprang to his feet, his entire body going forest-fire hot as a growl sounded in his throat.

Damn her. With one bite, she had made him into this, this animal, this creature of destruction, and though perhaps it hadn't been her intention to ruin him, he would make her pay.

His hand fisting the knife, Lucian moved like a panther down the pitched roof and over the edge, dropping to the small balcony attached to her room in near silence. The window was a large square, and in the handful of times he'd stood there watching her sleep, he'd surmised rather easy to maneuver through.

Darkness blanketed her bedroom, the only light coming from the streetlamps below. But to Lucian's keen gaze, it was enough to make out the furniture, the artwork on her walls, and the veana lying in her bed. As usual, she was on her back, her dark hair spilling out over her stark white pillow. In nights previous, she had slept soundly, unmoving, like the princess Lucian had insisted on labeling her.

But tonight, she moved.

Leaning closer to the glass, his insides still blazing with heat, Lucian narrowed his gaze on her lower half, specifically on her legs as they stirred beneath the white coverlet. It was as if she were running a race in her sleep, and yet, as his gaze trailed upward to her thighs, to the outline of her hips, he realized that the race she was running was the one that ended in climax.

Madness splintered his mind once again, and instead of pushing away from her window and returning to his rooftop perch as he normally did, he quietly broke the lock on her window, eased up the frame, and stole inside her room. Instantly, the scent of her yet unclaimed orgasm washed over him, and he flew to the bed and coiled over her like a snake, any last shreds of stability he may have had upon entering now dead, drowned, forgotten.

The white coverlet blinded him from the act she performed, but Lucian could imagine her hands working her core, just as he could scent the dance of her fingers inside her cunt.

He snarled softly at her, at the pale, perfect face that was framed with long black hair.

No veana had the right to be this beautiful.

No veana had the right to hold him captive.

Held in her own state of captivity, Bronwyn's eyes remained clamped shut, but her cheeks held the delectable stain of desire, and her pink lips were parted just enough for the ragged breaths of her building passion to escape. Like a dog in heat, Lucian leaned in and took one long sniff.

The mistake of it hit him instantaneously.

His fangs dropped to needle sharpness against his lips, and all he could see was blood, and all he could taste was sex.

All he could do was place his blade to her throat.

Bronwyn's eyes slammed open at the feel of cool metal. "You."

"Not who you were thinking about, Princess?"

Her arms shot out from beneath the covers; her fingers wrapped his wrist. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Don't move."

"Get off me, you bastard!"

The scent of her fear did nothing to stall him, only pushed his madness further. "Don't talk. Even your breath on my face makes me want to scratch at your skin to get inside."

Her gaze narrowed on his. "What's happened to you? You look-"

"I said don't talk!"

"If you're here to kill me," she said, her nails digging into his skin, "don't expect me to die easily or quietly."

Her lips pressed together, fear tensing her jaw and the skin around her eyes-though the scent of arousal still lingered temptingly in the air.

The blade still held to her throat, Lucian's fangs dropped even farther as he uttered, "I hate you."

She stared up at him, unblinking, her nostrils flaring as she breathed in and out. "Hate me or yourself?"

He leaned in closer. "You've turned me inside out," he whispered near her mouth. "Do you understand that? I can't feed. I can't fuck." His head began to pound, his muscles too...Damn it, he wanted her mouth under his, her blood rushing over his tongue-her death on whatever was left of his conscience. If he pressed the knife just a hair closer, he could have it, have it all..."That night you came to me-"

"I didn't plan it, Lucian," she interrupted fiercely. "Goddamn it! I didn't plan to feed-"

He cut off her words, pressing the blade nearer to her throat. "Another word and I will be feeding from you."

"Release the veana, Lucian. Now."

Before Lucian even had the chance to respond, the knife was ripped from his fist. For one brief moment, the cold metal hovered in midair, then shot past his face and disappeared behind him.

Lucian whirled around to face the intruder, in the back of his mind hearing Bronwyn slip from the bed, taking her freedom. But his gaze, his focus was pinned on the hooded figure lurking in the shadows near the window. He snarled, "What do you want?"

"To keep you from harm," replied the ancient paven.

Lucian sneered at his father, the Breeding Male-the Order. "Too late."

"It will be if you continue on this path." Titus raised his hooded head toward the corner of the room. "I am sorry for this, Mistress Kettler."

Lucian turned and narrowed his eyes on the veana who, even in her fear, stood tall and imperious.

"I thank the Order for its help in this matter," she said, nodding at Titus. "Now, pray, get him out of here before my parents awake."

"Come with me, Lucian."

Instantly, Lucian felt the pull of his father, magnet to iron. It was a solid yank, and yet Lucian was immobile, his eyes locked on Bronwyn. He uttered a pained, "I cannot."

Bronwyn turned to look at him.

"She is to be mated in the morning," Titus said tightly. "She will feed from another and he will feed from her."

"Shut up!" Lucian roared.

"Your torment will pass."

"My torment has only begun!"

Lucian's gaze caught on the mark near the base of Bronwyn's thumb. The paven's mark-her paven. Feral rage slammed through him, and he shot across the room, forcing her deeper into the corner. She belonged to him. Her mouth, her gaze, her neck, her vein, her voice, her cunt. He grabbed her hand and pulled it to his lips. But just as his fangs entered her marked skin, he was yanked back, slammed into the one who had given him not only life, but the curse of the Breeding Male.

No blood met Lucian's dry tongue, but Bronwyn's cry of pain ripped through his black soul as Titus flashed him away.

Bronwyn stood in the corner of her now-empty bedroom, her legs shaking from both terror and unfulfilled desire-her mind already spent with questions she wasn't entirely sure she wanted the answers to.

But they came anyway.

How long had Lucian Roman been watching her? How long had he been perched on her roof? Just today? Tonight? Or many days? Lord, how many times had he seen her tears, her worry-her hands travel south to her core?

Groaning, she turned and faced the wall as her parents had forced her to do many times as a balas when she was a disagreeable force in their home. The coolness of the plaster felt good against her cheek and yet it did nothing to cleanse her fear.

Though the wound registered most unpleasantly, she didn't want to look at it. She didn't want to look down, at her hand-where that menacing vampire, that terrifying angel, had bit into her flesh.

She shut her eyes and prayed, as if those two actions could will away the crisis before her. This was truly her nightmare come to life. Lucian's fangs inside her skin, inside the mark of another.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she dismissed them and pushed away from the wall. She went over to the bedside table and lit her lamp. Slowly, she sank onto the mattress. Where moments ago she was writhing in a state of frustrated, hopeful pleasure, now there was only pain. Deep, aching pain running through her, river-quick. What was Lucian trying to do? Bleed her? Drink from her?

Punish her.

With a deep breath, she dropped her gaze to her hand. Blinking, she studied the white skin, the dark mark. The animal brand on her thumb-the one that marked her as taken, as the property of her true mate-appeared uninjured. Yes, Lucian's fangs had ruptured the skin, but there seemed to be no permanent damage done to the brand itself.

Her sigh of relief was so strident she nearly laughed.

She hated the effect this paven had on her-hated that even after weeks away from him, she could still taste his blood-not on the tip of her tongue where she might get rid of it with rations, but at the back of her throat. The sweetest blood she'd ever had, and God help her, the only blood she wanted in her veins now. She hated that ever since she'd drunk from him in his bedroom in the house in SoHo, she could never make it to orgasm. No matter how long and how hard she tried. It was deeply frustrating, not to mention humiliating. It was as if he'd granted her his blood, and had broken her in return.

His words, his accusations-his declaration of hatred as he'd hovered menacingly above her minutes ago-echoed in her mind...

Perhaps they'd broken each other.

As the snow began to fall in the darkness outside her window, Bron prayed that her mating would kill this bond, this need, this ache between them. Because if it didn't, she had an eternity of misery, regret, and unclaimed passion to look forward to.

She lifted her thumb to her lips and was just about to blow on her skin, use her powerful veana's breath to heal her wound, when her hopes were utterly destroyed before her eyes. Was it an omen? she wondered sickly. Or the beautiful albino mocking her from wherever he was perched now? She didn't know, and really, did it even matter? There, on her thumb, the ink that had been implanted under her skin to fool her parents and the Order bubbled to the surface, inching toward the two pinprick holes, then slowly leaked out like oil from the ground.

Panic swelled within her, ballooning in her chest. Forget Lucian Roman and her unending need for his blood. She had a far greater problem.

She jumped up and scurried over to her desk, grabbed her cell phone, and dialed. She had to get to Synjon before the next eve's Veracou ceremony-their ceremony. She needed to get beneath his needle once again, and let him carve his mark into her skin before anyone discovered the truth.

Synjon Wise came out of hiding for no one. Nicknamed the ghost, the only vampire paven to ever serve as both an elite Special Forces officer in his native Britain and as an American Navy SEAL regarded his current existence as a spy, an assassin, and a bounty hunter for the Eternal Order as bloody perfection. With no family, no mates, no strings of any kind, he received his orders and carried them out without any chink in the reserved armor of the breed. It was a simple and satisfying existence to one who craved danger-an existence he could sustain for many centuries.

That is, if he'd chosen to ignore the call of one very surprising voice from the past.

Gunfire erupted below. Nothing sinister-not yet. Just the target practice of four human males who foolishly prided themselves on being amateur vampire trackers, irritating buggers, and credenti infiltrators. The pulse-bearing pack stood side by side on the ground, shoulder to shoulder over their low-flamed desert campfire, argy-bargy, knocking off shots into the black night. Less than three miles away was the Southwest Texas credenti, their target. Synjon had been following them for two nights through the Chihuahuan Desert, and he listened now as in between quick bouts of gunfire they decided on the best way inside the secret compound.

On top of a small desert hill, tucked behind a thick grove of ocotillo plants, Synjon silently checked his weapon supply. His orders were to interfere only if the four wankers attempted entrance into the credenti, but he wasn't keen on letting them get that far with the amount of weapons they had on them.

His cell pulsed against his leg, announcing a new text message, but he made no move to get it. In fact, as he watched the group below stamp out their fire, his instinct was to ignore the call completely. In the past, he'd carried only weapons, no communication devices. He liked it that way. Brilliant, old-school warrior mentality, that was. Once he received his orders, he took off, became invisible, unreachable. But things had changed since the phone call, since she had come into his life.

Yes, she was an exception to all his bloody rules. Beautiful, brave, and unflinchingly moral, Bronwyn Kettler had saved his sorry life-and his soul, once upon a time. Granted, he had known her for only one summer when his family stayed with relatives in her Boston credenti-but one summer had been enough to alter him completely. Synjon had been one sorry bloke back then; thin as a bowie blade with a head far too large for his frame. And the lisp...shite, the lisp that had nearly ended him before his time. The torture, the beastly knocks from the other balas, had been unrelenting and unbearable-until Bronwyn Kettler had stepped in front of him and taken on each ugly jab with her own brand of brilliant weaponry.

Syn grinned at the memory. That veana was a brick, wielding words with the same deadly accuracy as he used to shoot cherries from a tree at a hundred paces. Just thinking about her censure, her dressing-down of those who had sought to injure what little was left of his boyhood pride, made him want to love her in the way a veana should be loved, deserved to be loved-in a way he would never love again.

She had remained by his side all summer long, just as she had remained in his heart-not as a lover, but as the truest of friends...forever. Synjon had grown to appreciate her, to rely on her over the many years into his pavenhood, most especially when the woman he loved, the one who had slept by his side and was his true partner, though not his true mate, was killed, her body stolen before he'd ever had a chance to give her over to the sun.

It had been Bronwyn who had comforted him, who had helped him to grieve. She was the only vampire he trusted, and when she had come to him requesting a favor, he hadn't even blinked before agreeing.

Movement below caught his attention once again, and he watched as the four human males shouldered their weapons and set out across the desert for their three-mile trek to the credenti. Again, the cell at his boot pulsed. This time he snatched it up. No matter what his position, he couldn't ignore it. He wasn't a ghost anymore, and if it were her, she may have need of him.

His eyes dropped, roamed over her text. Bollocks...That albino paven again. Syn's fangs dropped. Lucian Roman would leave her be. After tomorrow, he would leave her be or find himself good and wasted.

Sudden gunfire stuttered the still night air and Synjon's chin jacked up. He replaced the cell back in its case on his bootstrap and leaped off the bluff onto the smoking fire. As a morphed paven, he could be there for her in an instant, but tonight she would have to wait a moment longer. Fifteen minutes perhaps. That would be sufficient time to halt, question, and dispose of the four human donkeys before they ever reached the credenti walls, he thought, flashing from the smoke of the fire in the soft silence that was his trademark.