Her Devoted Vampire Page 2

  “Fuck off, asshole. Get your own bitch to screw.”

  “She is mine, so I suggest you let her go, and find someone else to trouble with your juvenile tendencies.”

  Bridget wanted to protest anyone’s ownership of her person, but pain and suffocation overwhelmed everything else.

  “Tell you what.” Her assailant jerked her backwards and tightened his grip on her throat. “I’ll take her first, and you can have her when I’m done.”

  Fredrick laughed, but the sound was eerie and hollow. “I’ll say it again, but this is the last time, so listen closely. Let her go, and I may let you continue to breathe. Harm her, and my decision will be made. The choice is yours.”

  Bridget knew there was no way Fredrick could move fast enough to counteract the knife at her side, but she didn’t have the breath to tell him. The arm around her throat tightened once more, and the blackness crowded the edges of her vision. She had to stay upright. If she fainted while in this guy’s grip, she’d never escape. She tried to struggle, but her body felt like lead weights had been tied to her limbs.

  “Suck my dick, shithead!”

  Fredrick let out a hiss, and his eyes glowed red for a moment. Or maybe she was just hallucinating from lack of oxygen. Then he leapt at them, and she lost track of the sequence of events.

  She remembered the man behind her trying to yank her out of the way while thrusting the knife deeply into her side, searing pain screaming across her awareness. She remembered hitting the ground with Fredrick somewhere behind her when the thug let go. She remembered Fredrick coming at her so fast he simply disappeared from where he’d been standing. She remembered blackness swallowing her sight as her air ran out. Then she remembered nothing but the sound of roaring blood.

  Chapter Two

  “Suck my dick, shithead!”

  Black fury welled up inside Fredrick with the thought of this unwashed, ignorant thug holding the woman who smelled like pine forests in the sun. He still didn’t know her name, but she’d been the bright spot in the early evening hours since he rose. He woke with her face in his thoughts and a feeling of danger surrounding her. Now, danger had her by the throat, and his rage spread through his limbs, fueling his hunger.

  He leaped at the man and saw the woman stiffen for a moment as the fool shoved a weapon into her side, then yanked it backwards through her flesh. Oh, he would pay for that! Fredrick grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her off the knife while reaching for the man’s throat. She dropped bonelessly to the concrete as Fredrick hauled the shouting man toward him, sinking his fangs into his neck.

  The thug gasped, and his body froze rigid as Fredrick sucked all that hot, sweet blood out of his carotid artery. The man’s resistance waned as Fredrick dragged him down the alley then snapped his neck, dropping the corpse into a handy dumpster. Fredrick carefully wiped his mouth with his gloved hand and tore out of the alley to gather the woman into his arms, hoping no one had noticed her lying on the sidewalk. He didn’t think he could turn so many minds away from the incident.

  Fortunately, no one had come out of the coffee shop in the few moments of the attack, and he was grateful the humans of Boston were too busy to see his woman bleeding to death.

  My woman? Goddess, I hope so . . . if she survives.

  A wide black stain spread over the left side of her jacket, and he scented the blood pumping out of her wound. He rolled her gently, snarling under his breath as he scrutinized the damage. Her whole side had been torn from her hip almost to her spine, the ragged flesh shifting with each breath. The sweet scent of her blood called to him to feast, but the thug’s blood had sated his needs. He ignored the temptation.

  Scanning the Boston street for passersby, Fredrick lifted her in his arms and strode along the street, projecting invisibility. He wasn’t really invisible; he merely projected a suggestion to any onlookers there was nothing of interest to see, and their gazes slid away. He passed three women chattering excitedly about a recent shopping experience, and they didn’t even pause to look at him with his human burden.

  Fredrick reached his black Aston Martin Vanquish S and clicked open the doors. Grimacing at the mess, he laid her gently in the passenger seat and tried to ignore the destruction of the leather from her blood. He leapt over the car and slid behind the wheel, starting the ignition with a deft flick of the wrist.

  Oh, Goddess, please let her hold on until we get home!

  He probably should take her to the emergency room, but something held him back and raised his possessive instincts. One human too many had touched this woman. He’d be damned if he let some ignorant hack take her away from him.

  He slammed the accelerator to the floor as he sensed her body sliding toward death in each second, her heat dissipating in the air of the cabin. If they could make it his home in Gloucester in less than twenty five minutes, he’d have a chance at saving her. He flipped open his cell and dialed home, waiting impatiently for Szilvia to pick up.

  “Come on, come on, pick up the damn phone!” He jerked the wheel, and the car skidded onto Massasoit Road

  off Highway 133.

  “MacGregor Residence,” Szilvia’s voice answered pleasantly.

  “Szilvia, get clean water, biodegradable thread, sterilized needles, and lots of clean cloths ready in the infirmary.”

  “What did you do, Fredrick?” Her voice dripped with acid. He’d been known to make a few mistakes in the past.

  “I’ll tell you later. I’m already at Samoset and coming in. Be ready.”

  He hung up and concentrated on the dark road that wound to his driveway and the elegant wrought iron gate stretched across it. The gate swung open, and he zoomed through, checking on the unconscious woman beside him. She was still alive. He sensed her heartbeat like the bass thump of a warped techno song, but it was slowing.

  “Hold on. Just hold on a little longer,” he whispered.

  His old brownstone stood on the Little River, not quite the last house on the road, but it had sufficient grounds to let him live in peace. He skidded to a stop in the horseshoe-shaped drive and shot out the door, leaving it open as he slid over the hood. The passenger door almost ripped off its hinges when he jerked it open, but he cut back his strength before he destroyed his car.

  She moaned softly when he touched her, and his gut clenched.

  “Easy, almost there,” he whispered as he cradled her against his chest.

  The scents of fresh blood and autumn forest assaulted his nose, but there was less blood on his seat then he expected. The information barely scratched the surface of his awareness as he strode to the side door of the mansion. He slammed through, chastising himself for enjoying the scent of the victim in his arms as he carried her into the infirmary.

  But, damn, she smelled good!

  Szilvia, Cynthia, and Matt awaited him with all the things he’d requested. Szilvia’s disgusted expression soured when she caught sight of his burden, but the other two only looked curious.

  Fredrick laid the woman out gently on the table and began to remove her coat. Each time his hands brushed against her skin, he had to still a shiver. Why was she so electric? Matt distracted him when he inhaled deeply through his nose.

  “Where did you find her? She smells wonderful!” He tugged on the sleeves of her jacket.

  “Boston.” Fredrick ignored the spike of possessiveness in his voice.

  Matt’s hands faltered, and the women froze, startled.

  “You went to Boston tonight?” Szilvia asked. “Whatever for?”

  Fredrick gritted his teeth against his assistant’s disdain and shifted his stance to remove the delicious woman’s boots.

  “You had to go to Boston to get a good meal and sex? You couldn’t simply find it here in Gloucester?”

  “Well, they say some of the best sea food is in Boston.” Cynthia’s lips curled with amusement as she prepared the antiseptic and needles.

  Szilvia gave Cynthia an icy stare, but when the black-haired woman didn’t react,
she turned back to Fredrick. “I’m not helping you with a She-Meal.”

  Matt whistled appreciatively, jerking Fredrick’s gaze up the woman’s body. Matt had opened her shirt. Her breasts pressed against the lycra fabric of her bra hard enough to show her nipples. Rounded like ripe grapefruit, he imagined their taut sweetness pressing against his tongue, and his body responded to his thoughts.

  Think of something else!

  His mind helpfully served up an image of her glorious breasts in the finest, softest Hungarian lace, perhaps blood red, which would complement her skin.

  Not helping!

  He estimated the enticing mounds to be cup size D, and while he appreciated them, he did not appreciate Matt’s delighted perusal.

  “Roll her onto her right side,” he said through gritted teeth, trying to think about moving furniture or mowing the extensive lawns outside his home. Anything to keep from ripping Matt’s throat out. “She’s been cut beneath the ribs. It’s deep. We have to get the blood stopped before she dies.”

  “What’s so important about this She-Meal?” Szilvia flipped her white-blonde braid behind her shoulder and crooked one hand on her hip. “There are plenty of them in Gloucester. She doesn’t look that different from the rest of the Ameri-trash around here.”

  “Holy shit!”

  Matt’s exclamation summed up their collective reactions. She definitely had a wound, but it was only a rough pink scar as if it had happened a month ago rather than hours. She healed like one of the Elder Races! Who was this woman? His vision hadn’t warned him about her abilities, only that she was in danger. What was she?

  “Who is she?” Cynthia echoed his internal question, her brown-gold eyes glowing in the light. “She’s not a werewolf. At least, she doesn’t smell like one.”

  Cynthia was the Luna, the alpha female of the Gloucester pack, and she was head of Fredrick’s security. He trusted her nose over anyone else’s.

  “She’s not a vampire, either,” Fredrick said quietly. “I don’t know what she is, but my vision wasn’t wrong to go after her.”

  “You had a vision about her?” Szilvia asked in a horrified voice as she looked at their patient.

  Szilvia held the position of Fredrick’s second in command. She oversaw all of his many financial interests, and her expertise in management showed with profitable results. However, he’d noticed her attachment to him had grown, and her disdain for his “She-Meals”, as she called them, bordered on palpable. She’d once admitted her love for him, but his own feelings never mirrored hers despite their decades of association.

  “So this is why you went tearing out of here earlier,” Matt said as he eyed their patient. “I can see why. If she’s not a werewolf or vampire, and she’s definitely not human, what is she?”

  “Maybe she’s Fae,” Szilvia said, her voice surprisingly mild.

  “No, she doesn’t smell Fae.” Cynthia sponged the dried blood off the woman’s side. “In fact, she doesn’t smell like anything, not even like the humans.”

  “Whatever she is, let’s get her cleaned up and into a bed,” Fredrick said. Too bad it isn’t into mine. “We’ll figure out what she is when she wakes up.”

  He slowly dragged the soft towel over her side, pretending not to notice when his fingers extended beyond the fabric. One brush of her skin reenergized his erection, and he had to take his hand away before the others noticed. Cynthia raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as she examined the wound track. The woman’s regenerative qualities turned the scar into nothing but a thin white line running from just above her left hip almost to her spine.

  “Wow.” Cynthia met Fredrick’s amazed gaze. “Think she’ll wake soon?”

  Fredrick shook his head. She seemed to be breathing well enough, but there were no signs she was coming around. He worried she might have retreated too far to come back to a damaged body. But if she could heal this quickly and this well, why would she need to retreat?

  “What’s her name?” Matt asked as he frowned down at their female conundrum.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Szilvia’s acidic voice had returned. “You just rescue a bleeding She-Meal, bring her here, and you don’t know her name?”

  “I didn’t have time to ask,” he told her quietly, ignoring her taunting. He’d learn the woman’s name. He had plenty of time now that she’d arrived.

  “Check her wallet. I’m sure she has some sort of identification on her. They generally do these days.” Cynthia handed Fredrick the ruined coat.

  Why didn’t I think of that? He hid his chagrin by searching through its pockets.

  He pulled out the book, now ruined by all the blood, and tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a wet thud. More searching revealed a black cell phone with a cracked LCD screen, ChapStick, a set of keys without a car key, a pocketknife, and simple nylon wallet. He snatched the wallet and opened it to the ID carrier, ignoring the tremor in his hands.

  The name printed in bold black letters at the top of the card read, “Bridget Shanahan.” Satisfaction rolled through him. Hello, Bridget.

  Chapter Three

  Bridget opened her eyes and sat up with a gasp. Fear and adrenaline coursed through her as she searched the world around her for danger. The room around her appeared quiet and empty. Plush chairs and lacquered tables filled the space, but no one sat at any of them. She shifted her feet to the floor, momentarily tangling them in her glittering emerald skirt.

  Hello. Why am I wearing a dress?

  Fear gave way to curiosity as she fingered the smooth silk fabric covering her body. When did she get this dress? And why did she feel like she’d woken up at a swanky dinner party? She extended one leg and admired her shimmering leucite heel. Even her toes sported emerald green nail polish. She raised her head and looked around.

  Soft music played from the speakers recessed around the room, and warm golden light poured from the track-lighting above the counter. The display case shelves held row upon row of decadent pastries, and the scents of cinnamon, chocolate, and coffee met her nose.

  Am I back at Snickerdoodles?

  Bridget scanned the room for something familiar, but everything seemed just off kilter, as if the lines of the room didn’t quite match up. She leaned forward to see the windows around a large potted palm, and a soft, cream-colored, cashmere shawl fell off her shoulder, covering her hand.

  Bridget gasped as her eyes caught on a spreading crimson stain marring the creamy color. She lurched to her feet and threw the shawl away from her, praying she hadn’t ruined her dress or the leather sofa. Where had the blood come from? Despair flooded through her as tears sprang to her eyes. Intense pain stabbed her side, and her knees buckled. She collapsed back onto the couch and groaned, clutching her ribs with one hand.

  What had happened? One moment she’d been reading a trashy romance novel in the coffee shop, the next she reclined on a leather couch dressed for an evening on the town with a bloody shawl and a body injury.

  Wait. That makes no sense. I forgot the book, didn’t I? She shook her head, but the pain remained.

  “Bridget! Bridget Shanahan!”

  Her head jerked up at a man’s voice calling her name. Her pain receded as she focused on the sound of the door opening, and a blast of cold air buffed her bare shoulders. A man dressed in an elegant tuxedo with an emerald green cummerbund and bowtie bolted into the room, almost knocking over several chairs in his haste to reach her. He threw himself to his knees on the floor, his black trench coat fanning around his legs like a cape. He wore a look so full of concern Bridget wanted to ask what was wrong.

  “Holy Goddess, are you all right, my dear?”

  She stared at him blankly. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him?

  “Bridget! Tell me you’re all right!”

  “Uh—”

  He slammed her into his embrace, squashing the stuffing out of her.

  “Good Goddess, what happened to your shawl?” He released her and picked
up the bloody garment. “There’s blood here.” He swung his gaze back to her, scanning her body for injury. “Are you hurt? Is this your blood?”

  His words rumbled with a subtle Scottish burr that made her heart flutter and warmed her from the inside out. A mixture of apple spice cake and vanilla filled her nose and sparked a memory of a blustery Boston street. When had she been outside?

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  The intensity of the pain had faded, but tension in her ribs warned her not to make any sudden moves.

  He dropped the shawl and gathered back into his arms, squeezing gently. Bridget sighed and closed her eyes, quite content to be pressed against his warm, delicious chest.

  “So, you’re not hurt?” He pushed her back and stared at her intently with his chocolate brown eyes.

  Those eyes.

  “Bridget?”

  “Oh, uh, sorry. I’m a little shaken up, but I’m okay. Really.”

  “I’m so sorry I was late. I had some last minute issues come up with one of the shops,” he said as he stood and offered her a hand up. “I had to renegotiate the deal on the coffee from that Californian farm, and they insisted they hadn’t used pesticides; but my investigation said different. It was a mess.”

  Coffee?

  “It’s okay. I’m fine, really. I just need to get my bearings.”

  Bridget swung her gaze to the ornate grandfather clock at the end of the counter and felt bone-deep sorrow at the time on its face. Tonight had been her debut, and now they were at least an hour late. It might not be New York, but the Boston Elder Society didn’t wait for anyone.

  Hang on, debut? Boston Elder Society? Is that where I know Fredrick from?

  She shook her head and rubbed her cheeks with her hands. None of this made any sense. She’d never been part of any high society in Boston.

  “You’re not fine.” The man wrapped an arm around her waist. “Here now, let’s get you into a chair, and I’ll get you a cup of something warm. Tea or coffee?”