Eternal Sin

4

Cruen stood where so many lesser beings had stood before him. Where he had called to them, pulled them into his reality, rejected them.

The Hollow of Shadows.

Under the spotlight of a full moon, Cruen wanted to sneer at his predicament. But the action and the emotion behind it would steal the minimal energy that remained inside him. And though he grew worse with each moment he breathed, he had to appear capable and highly functioning before Feeyan and the others. For now, for today, he would tell them his only issue was a glitch in his ability to flash, the reason most frustratingly undetermined. He remembered something similar happening to another member of the Order many years ago. He hoped at least seven of the ten members would recall it now.

The temperature around him dropped another five degrees, the cold gripping his bones, weakening them further. It was truly disgraceful. The once all-powerful, feared, and respected vampire reduced to this. Begging for entrance to the plane he had created. Begging for an audience before the table he used to rule.

Damn Synjon Wise for his trickery, his treachery. What was his reasoning for this? Why not keep him in Erion’s dungeon? Why not just kill him outright?

An owl screeched overhead as Cruen walked toward the mouth of the cave. If he could just sit for a moment, find and collect his breath, save his strength. He wondered if Feeyan and the Order were ignoring him, his call. After all, they were a new, modern bunch now, and he had abandoned them for greater things. His self-serving agenda was common knowledge. And yet, even as he worked out the thought, he felt their almighty hand reaching for him, their strong and faithful energy wrap around him and pull. A weightless sensation moved through him as the Hollow of Shadows grew smaller and further away, while in his mind anger flared with the knowledge that even if he’d wanted to, there was no turning back. Feeyan had the power now. She was great. She was the leader of the Order.

And he was only a shell of the paven he used to be.

An even deeper, more bitter cold assaulted him as his feet hit compacted snow. At first Cruen was confused. Had the Order changed their reality—his reality—from sand to snow? Then, as Feeyan appeared at his side, tall and imperious, and the clouds parted before him to reveal several glorious white-capped mountains, he knew where he was and why.

“It is good of you to call, Cruen,” Feeyan said, her eyes matching the snow that surrounded them, while her expression mirrored the cold. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

He matched her crisp tone. “I was hoping for an audience with the Order.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I am the Order.”

It was like looking at himself only a few years ago. Ambitious, arrogant, secretive. He quite admired her in that moment. “So I’m to have a private audience?”

“I think it best to start there,” she said, studying him. “Don’t you?”

Cruen hesitated, handpicking every word that was to come out of his mouth. His successor was a complex veana. Not unlike him, she went beyond the boundaries of the Order to further her agenda, seek power and alliances. He had counted on standing before the group of ten and stating his case, his concerns. Now, with just their leader, perhaps he needed to play this game a little differently.

“We have a problem,” he began, the cold invading his bones, looking to weaken them further.

“We?” she repeated disdainfully.

“The Eternal Breed,” he said evenly, forcing calm, coolness into his expression. “I come to you as a concerned Pureblood.”

Her brows drew together in surprise, interest even. A small victory that gave Cruen the minute shot of mental adrenaline he needed to get attention, and action, for this lie he had conjured.

“A Pureblood looking for assistance,” he added.

Her mouth curved into a dangerous, disbelieving smile. “Since when do you need the Order’s help for anything, Cruen? You are all-powerful, remember?”

Yes. He remembered. And I will be back there again. As soon as I get to Synjon Wise. As soon as I dispose of this emotional disease inside me.

“This isn’t a personal issue,” he said, his eyes locking with hers. “It’s a problem for our kind.”

“What problem would that be? And why would you care?”

“Perhaps because I might be responsible for it.”

She fell silent, her narrowed gaze moving over his face, searching his expression, his body language. Cruen knew the intimidation tactic she was using. It had been one of his favorites. He nearly grinned. She truly had been his best pupil.

“Responsible how?” she said at long last.

It wasn’t the most optimal route to Synjon Wise, this lie he was about to tell Feeyan. No doubt Celestine and Petra would be caught up in the coming madness. But he couldn’t see any other way. He didn’t have the power the job required.

“It all began when I was creating the Breeding Male,” he said, his gaze shifting to the skiers on the mountainside. “As you know, I used not only the DNA of Pureblood vampires, but also that of demons—”

She hissed at his side. “And animals. One sits on the Order. I must look at her every day. Despicable.”

Perhaps, he wanted to snarl. But the “animals” and the demons had been the route to the Breeding Male they all revered so. He would agree that they were not on par with the vampire breed, but they were serviceable, respected for their blood and all that it offered.

He continued to stare out at the snow, imperiously, unfettered. He had never wanted to reveal this secret to the Order. Doing so meant his research would be open to others. With a heavy breath, he said, “The DNA samples were not from animals.”

“What?” Her voice was very low.

His lips tightened around his teeth. Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps he should’ve come up with a different—

“Look at me!” she screamed.

Cruen had no choice but to obey. His head came around fast and sharp, his vision momentarily blurred. In seconds, he caught her fearsome gaze, and knew his willing body had just revealed some of its weakness.

Her eyes narrowed and she licked her lips, studying him. “If you didn’t use animals,” she said slowly, “how do we have the mutore and Order member, Dillon?”

The words, the revelation, hovered on the tip of his tongue. This was it. If he revealed them, their sheltered world, it was over. For them, and for him and his research. They would never grant him samples, test subjects, anything, ever again after this.

Feeyan was glaring at him with equal parts suspicion and gleeful curiosity. At his ear. Or lack thereof.

“What happened, Cruen?” she asked. “Animal bite?”

No.

Synjon Wise.

Nearly debilitating shame drained Cruen of any scrap of concern he might have had for his relationship with the Rain Forest and its inhabitants. The paven who had tortured him, skillfully removing his ear before setting his skin to flame under the light of the sun, must be found. His emotions returned.

His life extinguished.

“There are shape-shifters in existence,” he began, barely feeling the frigid air swirling around him. “They have a hidden world in the Rain Forest. They were once peaceful. Incapable of posing a threat to our kind.”

Feeyan’s eyes turned an emotionless stark white. For a second or two, she didn’t speak. Then her fangs lowered and she spat out, “And you kept this from us?”

Of course he had. And he’d have continued to do so if that hidden world didn’t now contain Synjon Wise. “I was trying to protect them. But they are no longer peaceful. They’ve taken our own.”

Her eyes widened. “Taken?”

He nodded. “Purebloods. A male, and a female in swell. The shifters keep them as prisoners.”

Nostrils flared, Feeyan ingested this news. “Abducting Pureblood vampires,” she said thoughtfully. Deadly. She turned to face the mountain just as a group of thick gray clouds approached. “Well, we cannot have that, can we? I rather prefer blood at mealtime, but I’m willing to try a little raw meat in honor of the Eternal Breed.”

Petra stood in a blinding-white patch of sunlight, panting, sweating, thrilled, hungry, irritated. Basically, too freaking close to being out of control for her liking.

Three feet away, taking up residence in the doorway of the dark bedroom, his stance cold and calculated, his sharp-angled face sporting a nasty burn near his left temple, was her adversary.

The one she’d grabbed, clung to, pulled—not to keep him out of the sun this time—but to get him into it.

Her eyes moved over him, dark blue jeans that hung on narrow hips, wide, smooth, lean-muscled chest, broad shoulders, thick column of neck and a hard, set jaw. She lifted her gaze to connect with his iron stare. “You look a little afraid, Mr. Wise.”

“I don’t feel fear, veana.”

“Right. It’s an emotion. I keep forgetting you’re practically a machine.”

“I am impressed, though,” he said, the burn at his temple still smoking slightly.

“Machines don’t get impressed.”

He lifted his hand to his temple, hissed as his fingers made tentative contact. “Acknowledging skill, strength, and cunning in one’s opponent is not an emotion, but an understanding, a reasoning of events.” His brow lifted. “Do you wonder why you’re suddenly so powerful?”

Yes. “No.”

“I don’t believe you. You, who wanted to know everything about your vampire self.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

She placed her hands on her belly. “Before I had to survive, fight.” She cocked her head. “Nice battle scar, by the way.”

“Not my only one, I think.” He took his hand from the burn. “Day’s still young and you look hungry.”

Her mouth watered at his words, his suggestion. The struggle to keep him from bolting had only aggravated her hunger. Being near him now, scenting him, was torture on her system. And to think, just hours ago the thought of blood on her tongue, running down her throat, made her gag.

Of course, she hadn’t been thinking about Synjon’s blood then.

Her mouth twitched at both the irony of the situation and the emergence of her fangs.

“So what’s the plan?” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “You wanted me here, Muscles. Now you have me. For a few hours at any rate.”

A tidal wave of emotions, anger, and lust barreled through her. Needing his blood was one thing, but what he’d just implied was another. She abandoned her sunlit patch and moved toward him. “Let me make something very clear, Mr. Wise. I don’t want you here.” Confident in her strength, she came to stand within an inch of him. “I don’t want you at all.”

He smiled, but there was no true humor in his expression. “You’re practically drooling as you stare at me.”

“I don’t drool.”

“Open your mouth, let me see your fangs.”

“Fuck you.”

He pretended to be shocked. “Not in front of the balas, love.”

“Don’t pretend you care anything for the balas,” she said through gritted teeth.

A sudden gust of pain assaulted her then, and she shuddered and winced before reaching for the wall to steady herself. This was bad. This whole mess. He was right. The bastard. She was drooling. She wanted so desperately to control herself around him, but her body, and the balas inside her womb, knew what it wanted. And it would go to any lengths—even the humiliation of its host—to get it.

“I’ll tell you what,” Syn said in a soft, calculated voice. “You want my blood? Take it.”

Her gaze flipped up to meet his. Just the words, the suggestion, the offer, pained her.

“You do want it?” he said.

Her eyes narrowed as she glared at him, and her entire body shuddered with need. She hated the thought of blood in her mouth. But his blood . . . “Yes, I want it,” she ground out. Shit, I crave it. I obsess over it. I lust for it.

He leaned closer, whispered, “Why do you hesitate, then?”

“Because, Mr. Wise, what I crave is toxic.” Her top lip trembled. “Despicable sludge. Poison.”

Dark brows lifted above intrigued eyes. “You speak of my blood.”

A grunt of sarcastic amusement came from her throat. “The paven’s a genius.”

“Are you in love with me, Petra?”

“What?” She recoiled. “Shit, no. Never!” The thought made her sick. Or was it hunger and need raging inside her that twisted her empty belly? It was so hard to decipher what emotions coincided with what situations.

“Then why does it matter to you if my blood is moralistically toxic? It’s not logical. If you need it, you take it.”

Logic. Christ, logic had no place within her. Not now. Not this week surely. She couldn’t reason that way. She drew on lust and pain and hunger and angst. “What I don’t want to take is you inside my body.”

Syn’s eyes shifted to her belly. “Too late, love.”

She hissed at him, and the balas moved and stretched against her skin. Automatically, she placed a hand there and started rubbing in slow, soothing circles.

“I’m here,” he said evenly. “Only until the sun sets. Take it now while it’s available to you.”

Her fangs dropped completely, pressing against her lower lip. Gods, she hated this, hated her brothers and Dani for bringing him here, making her face him.

Want him.

This male who would’ve killed her and her child if Cruen hadn’t bled the desire out of him.

She growled deep in her throat and gripped the wall tighter. No child should have a father like this one—a father who didn’t want them or care about them. After she brought this child into the world, after the madness inside her ceased to reign, she was going to make sure she gave her new little life a true family.

“Your hesitation is foolish and a waste of time,” he said. “The balas clearly wishes to feed.”

“Don’t speak of my child.” She inhaled deeply, trying to control her hunger and a new wave of melancholy. “If it actually happens, this transaction of blood is between you and me. But first I want to know what it is you want.”

His brows lifted.

She sneered at him. “You don’t work on empathy, Mr. Wise, or understanding or kindness, remember? So what is it you want?”

His nostrils flared as he pulled in a deep breath. “When the sun goes down . . .”

“I let you leave?” she finished for him.

His eyes filled with amusement and he laughed softly. “Even with that glorious new strength you possess, you won’t be able to stop me in the dark. But looking the other way, calling off the cats if they pose a problem.” He shrugged. “That I will take.”

She stared at him, this paven before her. Someday her balas would ask about its father, and she would be forced to remember that Synjon Wise hadn’t always been a heartless, emotionless shell. That in fact he’d been generous and funny and irreverent and sexy as hell once upon a time. For the good of her balas, she would remember how close she’d felt to him the night they’d conceived. How he’d asked her to come with him, promised to teach her, show her the world of the Eternal Breed.

And for the good of the balas, she would leave out the fact that he’d wanted to kill not only Cruen but perhaps even Petra herself.

“Shall I make it easy on you, love?” Syn said, cutting into her thoughts with the rusty blade of reality. “On the both of us?” He brought his wrist to his lips, and with his eyes pinned to her, bit down. “After all, I have guests coming at midnight.”

The scent hit her like a tree branch to the face. Knocking her out, sending her to heaven. She could almost taste it on her tongue, luscious, sweet like nectar. And she was so thirsty.

She stared at his wrist. Thick, strong, and oozing that wondrous, yet toxic, blood. This would satiate her, calm her, feed her.

This would save her balas.

Never in her life had she wanted something as much as she wanted what flowed in slow, mouthwatering twin lines down his wrist.

She reached out, snatched his arm, and pulled it close. Fool or forager, she couldn’t help herself. Her gaze narrowed on his forearm as her fangs dropped lower. Gods, she remembered how it felt to be bitten, to be drunk from. Sweet pain and intense pleasure. She didn’t want to feel that again with him. She wanted no connection to this male who cared nothing for her and her child.

But unlike the paven himself, his blood was impossible to resist.

When her fangs entered his vein, Synjon’s breath caught in his throat. But when she began to suckle, taking his blood into her mouth, her fingernails digging into the back of his hand as she worked, he lost his breath completely.

He’d fed others in the past, a simple, sometimes sensual contract. After all, it was the way of the vampire. But this . . . blood exiting his veins at a rapid pace, and what blood remained heading straight for his groin, making his cock stand at attention. Well, this was a problem.

One feed.

That was all he was giving her.

A soft, almost guttural groan escaped Petra’s throat as she changed the angle of her draw, as she gripped him tighter. His wrist felt weak and wet, and irrepressible desire flooded him. Unfortunately for that moment, intense sexual desire hadn’t been taken from his blood. Only his emotions, past and present. Only what Syn had allowed that piece of shite paven to take.

He sagged into the doorframe, his eyes drifting closed, the burn near his temple all but forgotten. This was trouble, what raged inside him. Perhaps more trouble than the desire to kill, to torture. He wanted to take her. Fuck her. Right now. Again. His fingers vibrated and his mouth filled with saliva. He saw it clearly playing out in his mind. He wanted to strip her naked, ease her to her hands and knees on the rug behind him. He wanted to look her over, see her round bottom lift toward him in anticipation—see her juicy, pulsing sex. He wanted to position himself behind her, slide his cock to her entrance, then thrust deep, pressing against her womb as his hands gently cupped her belly.

The belly that housed, cradled, and protected the balas.

He pulled in air. This wasn’t good. In fact, it was bloody madness. Considering the child inside Petra’s womb as anything more than fact could ruin his plan. It was why he’d stopped fighting midway through Cruen’s bloodletting. He’d seen a new path, a better way to exact his revenge.

And a bargaining chip in the form of a child could cost him that revenge.

A hiss escaped his lips and he opened his eyes to see her pull back from his vein, her lips delectably bloodstained. Just inches away, her gaze lifted to meet his and though Syn’s instinct was to lean forward and clean his blood from her mouth, lap at the excess with his willing tongue, he held himself in check. Not just because any further intimacy between them would be foolish and would weaken his resolve, but because there was something glistening in her eyes that intrigued him. Concerned him.

Calm, calculated ice-blue fire.

“The balas likes your blood.” Her tone was as cool as her stare, and in one swift movement she brought his hand to her belly. “Feel. If you can.”

The sensation lasted only a second—from inside her body, through her skin and into his palm—but Syn could not deny its impact.

Was that a shock of emotion?

From a small, satiated being?

He ripped his hand from Petra’s belly and stated flatly, “We’re done here.”

Petra didn’t move. In fact, she was so still, it was almost eerie. Then she grinned. “I don’t think so.” Blood stained her teeth. “I think we’re just getting started.”