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She arched an eyebrow and looked at Mike. There was no way in hell she would let a wolf order her about. “Would you like to—”
Zane snarled, and in a flash, her clutch flew out of her grasp.
Mike’s head reared back to avoid the missile, his expression clearly surprised.
Vivianne covered her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. She’d nearly smacked her date in the head with her bag. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at Zane. No, he’d nearly smacked her date in the head with her bag.
“Uh, that’s...fine,” Mike said as he bent to retrieve her purse. He handed it to her. “You were about to say?” he prodded her.
This wasn’t going to work. Not tonight. She had a furious, impatient werewolf ghost, or spirit, or phantom, or hallucination, or whatever the hell he was, effectively blocking any attempt she made at communicating with this man. Frankly, the effort to ignore him and pretend everything was normal was exhausting.
“Would you like to do this again sometime?” she finished gently.
Mike’s disappointment was quickly replaced with a smile and a nod. “Sure.”
He leaned down to kiss her, and Zane’s nose blocked her view of her date for a moment.
“I swear, if this turns into some sort of twisted voyeur experience, you’re going to need to make me some popcorn. Just saying.”
Vivianne tilted her head away from Zane, and Mike’s lips landed on her cheek. “Uh, thanks for a great evening,” she said, then turned and unlocked her door, stepped inside and gave him a shaky wave. She closed the door, then leaned back against it, shutting her eyes.
That had to be the most embarrassing, weird and frustrating—
“Can we talk now?”
She opened her eyes to glare at the six-foot-three-inch wall of infuriating male. He arched an eyebrow, and with his scruffy brown hair, and a short beard that framed his jaw and—wow, he had really nice lips. The bottom one was slightly fuller, and a mental image of her sinking her teeth into it surprised her. Mainly because it wasn’t an image of her ripping him to shreds like she tried to convince herself she wanted to, but because the image was playful and sexy and all kinds of wrong.
His brown gaze met hers, and for the first time she realized he had hazel flecks, green and gold shards the gradually lightened the longer they stood there, staring at each other.
She frowned. This...man, if she could call him that—was he even real? She reached out, swiping her arm across his body, and he closed his eyes as her arm swept through his body. She felt...nothing. No, maybe there was a slight change in air temperature. Or was she desperately clutching at any detail to justify what was going on?
Was he just a hallucination? But she didn’t really know him... She’d never heard his name before today. Would she hallucinate about a guy she never knew existed?
“We need to talk,” he told her quietly.
She shook her head. “No. You need to go away.”
She moved away from the door and walked right through him, hearing his swift inhalation as she passed. She strode up the stairs.
“I can’t,” he exclaimed as he followed her. Damn, he was so big. Even as some insubstantial existence, he seemed to swallow up her awareness, and she found it was hard to focus on anything else. Just like it had been hard to focus on Mike with this large, attention-consuming presence next to her.
Normally she was repulsed by the werewolves. They were animals, reverting to their inner beast with ease and frequency, their civility only a thin veneer, and their fragrance quite odious. Zane, though, smelled of something different. His scent was earthy, woodsy, with notes of myrtle, cedarwood and almond. How was that even possible? How could find a lycan’s scent be almost attractive? She slammed the door shut on him, hearing him growl in frustration before he floated through the timber.
The fact that she was having these reactions to him was what freaked her out the most. She could see something that wasn’t there. She could hear his deep, smooth voice in her head, but if he really was a lycan, she would never, ever find him attractive. And she did.
Which meant she really was going crazy.
“You’re not here,” she muttered, as she crossed to her bed and picked up the nightgown that one of her staff had placed at the end of the bed before they’d left for the day. Unlike her father, she didn’t like to be surrounded by servants, and wanted them gone by the time she came home. This was her space, the only place she could be by herself. She didn’t want to worry about who was watching her for whom, and as a Prime, that happened.
“Oh, I’m here,” Zane told her.
She wasn’t going to argue with him—because that would make him, or the hallucination that was him, all the more real.
She kicked off her shoes and didn’t bother to put them away. Instead, she marched into her en suite and closed the door. She looked into the mirror over the vanity for a moment. She looked...spooked.
Her shoulders sagged. It was a good thing she hadn’t invited Mike in. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see her like this, or guess at what was going on with her—whatever that turned out to be. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked, tilting her head back. Marchettas didn’t cry. That’s what her father had said, the night he’d turned her.
Marchettas were the strongest of their kind, he’d said. It was why they’d become so successful, so powerful. Tears were a weakness. Feelings were a weakness. If someone in the Nightwing colony guessed that she was losing her mind, that she was mentally deteriorating, it would be a bloodbath within the colony until a new Prime was selected. And that was the internal strife.
If the other vampire colonies scented blood, a scandal or a weakness, they would pounce. If a shifter breed, like the lycans or the bears, suspected the Nightwing colony was weakening, there would be territory wars. Whichever way she looked at it, if she gave in to these hallucinations, if she let herself indulge in an annoying, frustrating, rude companion that nobody else could see, feel or hear, she was leading her people down a path to bloodshed and death. Despite what everyone thought, she really did care for Nightwing, for her colony. They were as close to a family she was ever going to get. She needed to protect them, if only from herself.
Tomorrow, she’d visit Ryder Galen. His family were shadow breed healers, and maybe he could figure out what was wrong with her. She just hoped she could trust him.
She got ready for bed, removing her makeup and brushing her hair. For once, Zane didn’t make an appearance.
Maybe she could control him, after all? Maybe he only appeared when she was tired? Or distracted?
She opened the drawer under the counter to put her brush away and paused when she saw the small bottle rolling around inside. The pills the doctor had prescribed for her recuperation postcoma. She’d had nightmares, horrendous nightmares about the attack, and these pills were supposed to help her sleep. They had worked—sometimes. If they’d blocked her nightmares, they might be able to block these auditory hallucinations...
She shook two out of the bottle and took them with a glass of water, then brushed her teeth. By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, she was already feeling relaxed.
“Now can we talk?” Zane muttered.
She kept her eyes resolutely forward as she crossed to her bed and pulled back the bed covers. Ignore him.
“You can’t ignore me forever, princess,” Zane said as he stood at the end of her bed, frowning. Her eyelids flickered. Could he read her thoughts now?
She climbed into bed, her lips firmly pressed together to prevent any response to him.
“We need to figure out what’s going on here,” he stated.
She brushed her hair off her forehead and lay back. Just ignore him. Her eyelids began to droop, and he stalked around the bed to stand by her hip. He really was a gorgeous man, all beautiful muscles, tanned skin, and she thought the close-cropped beard was growing on her. It gave him a rough, dangerous look that was very attractive.
Her eyes widened, but only briefly. Wow, these tranqs were good. They had to be if she thought Zane Wilder was kind of sexy.
“Speak to me, damn it,” he demanded.
She smiled. He was cute when he was angry. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to look closely at her eyes, his gaze shifting from one to the other and back again.
“Damn it, you took a tranq, didn’t you?” His lips tightened, and although it took a great deal of effort, she raised her fingers to his lips to smooth them out again.
“Shh,” she said soothingly.
He swore under his breath, his hands momentarily clenching, and then that smoky, inky fog swirled around him, and he was gone.
Her eyelids drooped shut, and her mouth dipped at the corners, and she could barely retain her last thought.
Don’t go...
Chapter 4 (#u4fb094d4-fdea-5d5f-83aa-754f6e9ea428)
Zane sat in the wingback chair next to Vivianne’s bed, his feet on the covers, and he watched her sleep. He didn’t have anything else to do. Her chest rose rhythmically, her breathing deep and even. She looked like a dark angel, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her features so relaxed, so damn composed.
She’d donned a white nightgown, the satin and lace concoction contrasted against her olive complexion, making her skin look warm and silken in the dim light that filtered through a crack in her curtains. He swallowed. He always gave her privacy when she was in the bathroom, despite the impression he’d given her earlier, but he hadn’t expected her to take sleeping pills to avoid talking with him. That didn’t seem like Vivianne’s normal style. He’d seen her in action. She was direct, decisive, and hadn’t shied away from anything, whether it was chairing a meeting with a bunch of seasoned vampire guardians, or negotiating with a strategic business partner.
If he was going to be honest—and in the middle of the night, in a darkened room, with the only other occupant knocked out by sleeping tablets, he could afford to be honest—the Marchetta Vampire Prime had surprised him. She’d faced every decision she’d had to make with a calm confidence. She had a reputation for being ruthless, especially with her enemies, but he’d also seen her be fair. She was a hard taskmistress, but she never demanded of her staff anything she wasn’t prepared to do herself. And he’d been with her since the moment she’d awoken in that nutty little clinic under her father’s home, and she’d been hurt. She’d been tired, and yet she’d never let anyone see it, not even her brother, and most especially not the senator.
She’d swung into action immediately, taking control of everything in a seamless, effortless maneuver that had been almost genius. In a pack, if the alpha prime became ill, there was usually a leadership challenge. Only the strong could lead, and Vivianne had given that impression immediately—only he knew how much it had cost her.
Those moments she’d hidden behind closed doors, trying to catch her breath, or those long nights where she was plagued by nightmares.
Her hand twitched on the cover, drawing his gaze. There it was again, a flinch. He looked at her face.
Her brows were pulled in a faint V, and her head moved slightly in denial, her lips forming soundless words. He sat up. She was dreaming again. No, not dreaming... She flinched, and this time the movement was sharp, almost violent, and her hand rose as though to ward off something.
Her head rolled from side to side. “No,” she whimpered.
Zane frowned as he leaned forward. “Shh,” he whispered and reached for her hand.
His head spun, and he heard a loud, rushing sound, like a thunderous waterfall. He stumbled, falling to the ground, dizzy. His knees were on concrete, and he felt the burn in his palms, as though he’d skidded along the surface. A driveway. What? Zane shook his head, then looked up when he heard a scream.
Vivianne was struggling against a black wolf beside a dark car and tripped over the body of her dead guardian. The large black wolf stood over her, teeth bared. Her skirt was ripped, and he could see the mangled wound on her thigh, the bloom of dark red on her side.
Vivianne’s eyes blazed, her fangs lengthening, and she bared them at the beast, hissing as the wolf growled.
The lycan lowered his head, his jaws snapping, and Vivianne dodged those razor-sharp teeth, pushing against the powerful chest. The lycan fell back, and Vivianne managed to regain her feet before the black wolf launched himself at her, and Zane winced as he heard the dull thud of her body hitting the car door behind her, and Vivianne’s cry of pain as those teeth sank into her shoulder.
“No,” Zane yelled, his voice emerging as a deep roar.
The black wolf turned, and Zane glared at him, his head dipped low as he let a low, dangerous rumble emerge from his throat. The black wolf turned tail and ran. Vivianne stared at him, her hand pressed to her shoulder, but even now, Zane could see the crimson blood turning black as the lycan toxin started to act on her vampire blood.
Her face was pale, and he saw the stark realization in her eyes, the awareness of the death sentence she’d just been handed as she slowly slid down the side of the car. He raced toward her, catching her before she hit the ground.
She shook her head, her brown eyes tearing up. “I let him down,” she choked.
“Shh,” he whispered, smoothing her hair off her face.
“I’ve let them all down,” she said, and he could feel her trembling in his arms. He laid her gently down on the driveway and drew his singlet off over his head. He ripped the garment into shreds and pressed the rags to her wounds. She frowned, then gazed down, fingers tugging at the cloth.
“No, leave it—”
“Let me see,” she whispered frantically, surprisingly strong as she struggled against him. She peeled his fingers back, and they both looked down. Zane frowned. Her clothes were torn, but her wounds were closed. Healed.
He sat back on his heels, confused, and he saw the same confusion in Vivianne’s eyes as she sat up. She ripped her blouse open, twisting to look at the wound that had been on her side. Nothing. No marks, no scars, not even a smear of blood. Zane reached out, stunned, and slid his hand over the skin, trying to find the wound he’d seen.
Her skin was flawless, smooth and golden. Warm. She wore a lacy sage-green bra, her breasts swelling above the decorative cups. Her breath hitched, and he raised his gaze to hers. He stroked her again, watching her eyes darken with awareness. She didn’t brush his hand away. She didn’t move away from his touch. She did tremble, though, and this time, it wasn’t from shock, judging by the heat in her eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side, his eyes on hers, until he could gently press his lips to the silky smooth skin of her shoulder. She swallowed, a soft gulp drawing his lips up in a smile as he kissed her again, this time closer to her collarbone. She moved her head to the side, her hair sliding back over her shoulder.
Her scent hit him, low in his groin, tugging at him, hardening him. Cinnamon, musk and a zing of ginger. His lycan nose peeled back the layers of her natural fragrance, delighting in the full body and spicy tones, and his body throbbed. He slid one arm around her slender waist, the other sliding up the creamy column of her throat to delve into the dark curls that had tempted him for so long.
He lifted his gaze to her eyes. She was watching him, and she raised a dark eyebrow.
“What are you waiting for?” her voice was low, husky, and his beast inside perked up, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he’d regained awareness in that hospital room.
His lips curved. “Patience, princess.” He lowered his mouth to hers.
* * *
Vivianne closed her eyes as his lips touched hers, giving herself up to the sensation. His tongue slid inside her mouth, and her breath caught in her chest. She could feel her breasts swelling, rising for his attention. His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer, and she sighed when her breasts met the muscular wall of his chest.
He growled, his torso vibrating against hers, and she moaned at the exquisite sensation, her arms sliding up over his broad shoulders to twine around his neck. He leaned closer, and her mouth opened further as his tongue and lips played with hers.
Her heart thudded in her chest, her nipples tightening, and she scraped her nails lightly down his neck. He made a deep, low rumble of pleasure, his hand tugging her head back, and she arched her back. Her nipples were hard little nubs beneath the lace of her bra, a delicious friction sensitizing them further as his chest moved against hers. He slanted his mouth at a different angle, and the kiss got even better.
His hands roamed over her back, smoothing, scraping, smoothing, and she writhed to his rhythm, her own hands skimming the defined rope of muscles across his shoulders, delving into his hair. It was long enough for her to curl her fingers in and pull, and she decided she liked scruffy, after all, especially when his head tilted back, and she could trail her lips down his neck, feel his pulse on her tongue, smell that enticing male fragrance that was cedarwood and spice. He dipped his head again, and it became a playful tussle of nip and lick between them.
His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and Vivianne’s eyelids flew open.
She was flat on her back, the bedcovers twisted, and Zane hovered above her, panting. His eyes mirrored her shock, and she swallowed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
Something dark and battered flared in his eyes, and suddenly he was gone, the midnight tendrils of inky fog swirling around her.
She sat up in the bed and stared out into her empty bedroom, blinking rapidly in the gloom. Had she—had she just dreamed that? Or had it actually happened?
* * *
Zane strolled along the line of shelves, scanning the spines of the several hundred books as though he gave a crap.
Whatever, as long as he didn’t have to look directly at Vivianne.
You shouldn’t be here.
Even the memory of the words still stung. No, he shouldn’t be here, watching her sleep, kissing her in her dreams—how the hell had that happened?—or just floating along like a shadow in her life.
She hadn’t acknowledged his presence, and he was secretly relieved. If they didn’t talk about it, they could pretend it didn’t happen, right?
“Tell me, what is this about a campaign?” Vivianne asked quietly. He wasn’t going to look. He wasn’t going to look. Zane glanced over his shoulder. Okay, so he looked. Her expression was remote, cool. He shook his head. She was talking to her father, and they both sat there as though facing off against adversaries. Vampire families were about as warm and cuddly as a porcupine on crack. His gaze drifted over her.
Today she wore her hair in a single braid that twisted from one temple, around the back of her head and over the opposite shoulder. Pretty. She wore a gray silk blouse that billowed and rippled with her movements, and a slim-line skirt that followed the shape of those sexy hips of hers. He frowned. He should be strung up. He should rip his fangs from his jaw and hand them in, skin that pelt of his and burn it, because after what he’d done last night he should resign from the lycan breed before he shamed them any further.
Kissing a damn vampire, even in a dream, was not the done thing.
“Well, it’s more of a bill, and you must keep this confidential,” Vincent Marchetta stated, his expression just as stern as Vivianne’s. Zane wrinkled his nose. The older man wore the stink of death, his dark eyes cold and soulless. A true vampire who made Zane’s skin crawl.
Vivianne sighed. “Dad, of course—”
