Coven: (A Steamy Dragon Shifter/Vampire Romance) (Dragon Bound Book 1) Page 2

Nightwalkers as old as she usually had a large entourage, which made the warehouse perfect for housing her coven.

  She stepped through the single door that led between the nightclub to the main house and nodded at the two daywalkers she had guarding it.

  “Sanguenna,” they dutifully declared at the sight of her, bowing their heads and crossing their left arm over their chest to cup their throats. It was a bizarre genuflection only granted to a coven leader.

  Literally offering her their throats and their blood, it was the ultimate sign of respect.

  As they walked away from the guards, with Mia only dipping her chin in acceptance of their submission, the pair headed for Brady’s room as she said wistfully, “Remember the days when you used to call me Sanguenna?”

  He snorted. “The bad old days.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. Far too accustomed to his grim humor, she shot him a look as they traipsed down the cream-carpeted hall. “I rather liked it. I got less snark back then, too. You weren’t always such a misery.”

  “Now, I’m offended. If you wanted a court jester, you should have told me years ago when you were wining and dining me in Venice.” His glance was pointed but amused when she caught his eye.

  Grinning at the memory of their time in the Piazza San Marco, a memory that was bound to make her smile thanks to their antics back then, Mia chivvied, “For someone who’s about to have my fangs in his throat, you need to cheer up before I ingest your misery—we can’t all spend the rest of the night in bed.” Because emotions could be transferred between a nightwalker and daywalker feeding, ingesting misery was a thing.

  A bad thing.

  For her, it was the height of inconvenience, even if some nightwalkers considered it a boon.

  Feeding during sex was supposed to harness the best orgasm in the world, but she’d never partaken. Sex muddied the waters too much for her liking. She preferred to keep things professional.

  Well, as professional as dining on someone’s blood could be.

  Gruffly, all amusement disappearing, he mumbled, “You know I hate Christmas.”

  “And you know I love it, and the clients adore it even more,” she told him softly. “The holiday season is one of our busiest times, Brady. You know that as well as I do. You know how vital it is, especially when things quieten down in January.”

  He hunched his shoulders, constructing a physical barrier to avoid her remark. “Doesn’t make the memories any easier.”

  “I know,” she said in an even gentler tone, and leaned over to cup his shoulder and give him a one-armed hug. While his grouchiness did grow wearing, and her patience wasn’t without end, his unhappiness was founded in tragedy.

  Brady, with a human mother, had been raised with the festivities. He should have loved it as much as Mia did, but she understood. Memories could be a bitch. A drunk driver had snatched his mom away on Christmas Eve fifteen years ago, and ever since, Brady had been getting gloomier and grumpier. Not just during the season, either. All year round.

  They walked to his room with him tucked in her one-armed embrace, where he invited her in. Another tradition. He had to step inside first, open the door wide, and give her the same genuflection as her guards had. With a majesty that came from years in her position, she nodded regally and stepped into his room.

  It took five minutes to feed. Barely that. After so many years, they had it down pat. He stood beside his bed, head tilted to the side. She approached him with a business-like air, deleting any sensuality from the act as she pressed her lips to his throat, bared her teeth, and sank her fangs deeply into the thick, padded flesh.

  When his blood seeped into her mouth, he heaved out a sigh, and she closed her eyes in delight.

  After she finished, he’d be in a stupor for the next few hours. It was what they considered to be his rest. When he’d broken free of it, he’d eat—human food—then come to her side and his day would start again.

  For her, she could feel his blood, his heat, pouring through her veins, soaking into tissues that had grown dry after a day’s fast.

  Bloodlust filled her, and as always, was immediately tempered. The desire to drain him never evaded her but her control would never break.

  Would never falter.

  She’d lost only one daywalker that way—one too many—and though it had been back in her youth, when control was not in abundance, she still grieved Ricardo’s passing. Mostly because there had been acceptance, forgiveness, and understanding in his eyes as she’d struggled to combat the lust and had ultimately failed.

  Killing someone and having them accept it was the worst form of torture, and it was why she was so careful with her daywalkers now. She didn’t want their fear, didn’t need their anxiety to make her feel like a big badass. Her self-control in the face of a temptation as life-changing as Eve’s was as vital to her self-esteem as anything else.

  When she’d had enough, when she felt reenergized, she pulled her fangs from his throat and licked her lips after the sharp tips retracted. Quickly sucking a few drops of blood from the puncture wound she’d made, she sealed the bite with her tongue then looked up at her blood-addled assistant.

  He had a dopey grin on his face as he reached over to pat her cheek. “Thank you, Mia,” he told her, sounding drunker than some of her clientele after a night’s binge-drinking. “You’re a star, you know that?”

  She hid her grin. He only ever complimented her when he was too high to remember to be grumpy. “Yeah. I do. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”

  He didn’t wait for her help, just toppled backward onto the mattress. When he started snoring almost immediately, she decided to leave him to it.

  She didn’t think she’d taken more than usual, but his reaction suggested she had. Normally, he had time to shuck off his shoes and strip down to his boxers before getting under the covers.

  Pondering the unusualness of his behavior, something he’d been manifesting the last few nights as well, she headed out of his room and carried on down the corridor to her office.

  When she got there, she heard a voice inside and frowned at the rugged notes which belonged to no male in her ken. Opening the door to the ante-chamber where her PA would ordinarily be seated yet was absent, she frowned harder at the scent of Shifter that blossomed in her nostrils. Sniffing a little more, she scented not just any Shifter but a reptilian one.

  A Dragon?

  That couldn’t be.

  Dragon Shifters were not only few and far between in this realm, but they also didn’t make appointments with coven leaders. At least, not the Sanguen who weren’t high up in the council.

  Still, as she bypassed the room and headed into her study, her second assistant, a newish daywalker who’d been with her only two decades, Elenor, fluttered around a huge male, seated in a club chair opposite Mia’s desk.

  He made the piece of furniture look minuscule, which was ridiculous. She didn’t buy furniture that would fit in a doll’s house, for God’s sake. Still, that was how it looked, because boy, was he something.

  As she swept into the office, he got to his feet. All seven feet of him. He was strong, big. Like Dwayne Johnson big with biceps she kind of wanted to bite, either that or see how much of them she could cover with her hands. He was covered up in an exquisitely tailored suit, but no amount of work from Saville Row’s finest was going to make him look smaller. The thin pinstripe merely elongated his length, and the oxford collar enhanced his thick throat. Jesus, she’d like to bite that too.

  Mouth salivating at the sight, she was quick to lift her eyes to his face and saw her fascination amused him. He was dark-haired, with sable locks that lay about his shoulders and looked as silky as a spider’s web. His jaw housed a mouth that looked eminently kissable, and a Roman nose added to his aura of obstinacy. His eyes were what caught her, though. Arched beneath strong brows, they were crystalline white and silver. And as she looked, a thin membrane slithered across his eye—the nictitating membrane, if memory served. It wa
s unobtrusive, and she only noticed it because she was looking at him so intently. Still, if his size hadn’t been confirmation, that was.

  He was a Dragon.

  There was a Dragon in her office.

  She frowned at him. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?”

  She refused to wince at how rude that was, but Elenor, more nervous than usual, stuttered out, “I’m sorry, Sanguenna. He barged in and now refuses to leave.”

  “She’s right,” the Dragon confirmed, sounding uncaring as to the accusation. “She’s not to blame for my being here. I need to speak with you.”

  Mia arched a brow. “Why is that?”

  He took a seat, and she folded her arms in irritation at his failure to ask her permission.

  Vampire society was heavily formalized. Even the most minute of faux pas could cause grievous insult.

  As she barely had any interaction with anyone outside Vampire society—she only danced with humans from time to time, and she certainly didn’t talk to them or fuck them—the shift away from formality put her on edge.

  Was he trying to offend her, or was he simply unaware of the rules?

  “I’m Remy Dreconis,” he told her, his tone silky smooth. It was in direct contrast to his rather coarse appearance. Not his suit, granted. But without that, she knew he was rough and ready. That suit was his attempt to appear more human.

  He really shouldn’t have bothered. It wasn’t working.

  “And why are you here?”

  “Because we have need of each other.”

  She blinked at his audacity. “I didn’t even know your name, never mind you, so why should I need anything from you?”

  He wasn’t offended, she sensed that, but his nostrils flared in ‘mini’ outrage—males were so easy to rile—then, he tilted his head and smirked. “You don’t know?”

  She glowered at him a second, strode toward her desk, and sat in her chair. It was a grandiose thing. Not to her taste, but then, not a thing in this room was. Her ante-chamber was where she attended to guests, and if the council came calling, her peers, this was where they talked.

  Her own private quarters were far more modern than this homage to Louis XV. Her chair was more a throne. Gilt edged and in a royal blue velvet, it was high, and she towered behind her desk.

  Surprisingly, for something so old, it was comfortable. Either that or she’d just gotten used to it over the years.

  Image was everything to Vampires.

  That meant she had to tower over not only the desk, but the people in front of the desk too. Only trouble was, there was no towering over someone as damn big as Remy Dreconis.

  “Explain,” she commanded and watched his mouth turn down in a grimace.

  “You’re very rude, aren’t you?”

  “You can say that after you barged your way into my office and took a seat without my permission?” she demanded, her tone quiet and without inflection. No sign of how that inherent lack of respect had irked her.

  She could tell her words, but lack of reaction, confused him.

  He nodded. Once. “I apologize. It has been a long time since I’ve been around Vampires. Your customs and formalities are endless. I never remember them.” He wafted a dismissive hand as though those very foundations of her life meant nothing.

  All her years on this planet and the arrogance of men had yet to cease irritating her.

  It was true what they said—familiarity bred contempt. Not acceptance.

  She sniffed her disinterest in his lackluster apology. “That still doesn’t tell me why you’re here, Mr. Dreconis.”

  He scraped a hand across his jaw. “No. It doesn’t, does it?”

  “Enlighten me.” Her eyes flashed a warning that she’d take no more procrastination.

  “Have you been taking more blood than usual?” he asked, disarming her with the question that triggered her own particular contemplation after Brady had passed out, fully clothed on the bed.

  She thought back to yesterday evening when he’d done the same. And the night before that.

  “Don’t answer. I can see that’s a yes.”

  She blinked, irritated. Through gritted teeth, she declared, “It must be pleasant to be a mind reader.”

  “Your lack of reaction was a reaction in itself,” was all he said, making her purse her lips. “Are you running hotter than usual? Is your temper swifter to burst? Having unusual dreams?”

  She narrowed her eyes at the highly personal questions, and inwardly stiffened at the last one. It took all she had not to react and, instead, waspishly demanded, “Is there are a reason behind this insulting line of interrogation?”

  Remy huffed, and she saw a tiny flicker of flame burst from between his lips.

  At the sight of it, she jerked back, grimacing as she knocked her funny bone on a knobbly bit of her chair’s armrest.

  She hadn’t known that was even possible.

  Had she not believed him before, there was all the proof she needed.

  A Dragon was, without doubt, in her office. Sitting in a too-small visitor’s seat, and looking remarkably suave for a beast too dangerous to have a permanent residence in this realm.

  “Trust me to get landed with an irritating Sanguenna,” he grumbled under his breath, seemingly unaware that he’d just shocked the hell out of her.

  “You’ve not been landed with anyone,” she retorted, annoyed at his assumption.

  “Unfortunately, we both have.” He raised a hand and rubbed at his forehead. Then, before she could bitch and demand further explanation, he held up his hand and grumbled again, “Did you know that the only way a Dragon procreates is with another paranormal?”

  She blinked at that rather off-topic question. “No. I didn’t. Why is that relevant?”

  “It can’t just be any supernatural. Ghosts, seers, wizards...they’re no good. They have to go into heat.”

  “So, other Shifters…?” she asked, playing along in the vain hope the man would get on with it and leave her office. He was too distracting for her, and his own, good.

  “It’s a special kind of heat,” he admitted.

  “What kind of heat?”

  He gritted his teeth at her interruption. “Are you also aware that there are only five female Sanguen currently in the US? One or two in Europe. A handful in China and Russia?”

  Her top lip twisted into a sneer. “Sexism, you can’t even escape it when you’re a Vampire.”

  His eyes narrowed at her sarcasm. “It makes your kind incredibly rare.”

  “What kind?” she snarled. “I’m a female Vampire, not a Martian.”

  “No, you’re a female Sanguen. There’s a difference. Your power, in comparison to that of a regular female Vamp, is indescribable.” He scowled at her. “And don’t try to make out like you don’t realize that.”

  She bowed her head. Once. That was about as much of a concession as he was going to get out of her.

  He blinked again at her rigid stance. That weird membrane of his fluttering out for a longer period, she wondered if that was a tell. Did that happen when he was pissed off?

  Satisfied at potentially having sourced a weakness, she watched him, waited for him to give her more answers.

  “Are you aware that only Sanguennas go into heat?”

  She shot up straight at that, glanced over at Elenor, and snarled, “Get out.” Her assistant nodded swiftly and scurried away. “What the hell are you saying? I do not go into heat!” Of all the nerve.

  Remy grimaced, his eyes drifting over to Elenor as she scampered off. “I’m saying that only a female Sanguen can go into heat. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “And from your earlier questions, I presume you were trying to ascertain if I was going into heat?” She packed as much loathing into that word as possible.

  Recognizing her disgust, his voice was faintly apologetic as he stated, “My Dragon senses its mate is nearing her time and, I’ll admit, I’m on edge as a result.”

  Figur
ed the words, ‘I’m sorry,’ didn’t exist in the vocabulary of a male like this.

  She frowned at that vague response, then, curious despite herself, asked, “Does that mean you’ve visited the other Sanguennas in the US?”

  “Most of those around the world,” he confirmed.

  “Because you’re seeking your mate?”

  He nodded. Once.

  “Why are you looking for a female Sanguen?” It seemed a peculiarly specific area to search for a mate. Why not other Dragon females?

  “Haven’t you been listening? Because they’re the only ones with the innate power and strength to carry a Dragonling to term.”

  She reared back in surprise at his first, and only, candid answer. “Other Shifters can’t...?” When he shook his head, she grimaced. “From your ridiculously chauvinistic attitude, I’d hazard a guess and say I’m the last Sanguenna you’ve to meet.”

  Another nod.

  “And because your Dragon knows its mate is approaching heat, you know this is the time to hunt for her?” Yet another fucking nod. She huffed at his sudden silence. “What if it’s a Sanguenna who hasn’t reached the position yet but has the power of one?”

  He frowned. “It doesn’t work like that. The female Sanguen only goes into heat when she’s at the summit of her power. That’s how it works.”

  “No, that isn’t how it works. A stranger doesn’t barge into my office one day and decide to inform me that we could be mates, and if we are, it’s because my body has decided it’s time to make babies, which has stirred your beast into action.” She rolled her eyes at the ludicrousness of the situation. “I mean, it’s insane.”

  “What about our world isn’t?” Remy demanded, and she could tell she’d hit a nerve with her dismissiveness.

  “Don’t pull that card,” she warned. “You know full well I’m not being difficult here. You know what you’re saying is crazy.”

  “Maybe it is, but it’s the way of it. Why do you think so few Dragons are born? Because so few female Sanguen are born.”

  “So, Dragons are only born to women like me?” Another nod. “Your mother was a coven leader?”

  “Yes,” he growled. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”