“A combination of donors.” He swabbed the inside of her wrist with a square of wet cotton. “I want to see if you have a reaction to this first. If you do, we’ll give you the blood of each donor separately until we find a match.”
“And if there’s no match?” She hated to ask the question, but couldn’t stop herself.
Brodan gave her an encouraging smile. “Let’s not go there yet, okay?”
She nodded, her breath hitching in her lungs. Please let this work. Please.
With skilled fingers, Brodan quickly inserted the needle into the soft skin of her wrist, then followed up with a tiny plastic tube into her vein.
She bit her lip. Not from the pain. There was barely any. Whatever little pinch occurred on her wrist was drowned out by another onslaught of emotion. Tears scratched at her throat and she gritted her teeth against them and silently screamed. She was so fucking sick of tears! She was not this weak . . . But even with the effort, the admonishment, the salty bastards still came. Bubbling up. Blinding her. Escaping. Sliding down her cheeks.
In the moist blur, Petra saw Celestine, a cloth in her hand. The older veana leaned down and dabbed at Petra’s tears, while Wen whispered soothingly, “It will be all right, my Pets.”
“Did I hurt you?” Brodan asked, his warm hand on her arm, his tone heavy with concern.
“No.” Petra shook her head, blinking to get rid of the new tears forming in her eyes. “No pain, just fear. I’m scared, Brodan. I feel so completely out of control. This balas . . .” She turned her head away and cried softly for a second or two. “I’m already a terrible mother and the child hasn’t even been born yet.”
“That’s bullshit.”
The new, though familiar, voice made Petra turn. Behind Brodan, standing in the doorway wearing only jeans and matching severe expressions, were her brothers. Big, tough, blond lion shifters, Sasha and Valentin had always been her closest allies and her biggest supporters. They made her laugh and protected her. She was so grateful to them—and she couldn’t wait to see them as uncles to her child.
“If this blood thing Brodan’s cooking up doesn’t work, we’ve got another plan,” Sasha told her, a slight sneer on his full mouth.
“Damn right,” Valentin agreed with a punch of feline ferocity. “We love you too much to see this continue.”
“This plan of yours is to be our last resort only, boys,” Wen said in her strongest maternal tone.
“Yeah, yeah,” Val said.
“I don’t want that piece of shit male here,” Brodan said tightly, watching the blood move through the tube toward Petra’s waiting vein.
“None of us do,” Sasha said with true venom.
Valentin growled. “But you know as well as we do that we’re going to have to take some drastic measures if this doesn’t work.”
“What are you talking about?” Petra asked, her insides growing cold with confusion and worry as she gripped the edge of the mattress with her free hand. “What drastic measures?” She looked at each male in turn.
Wen turned back to Petra and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Just a backup plan, my Pets.”
Inside Petra, anxiety mixed with confusion and a lack of control for one seriously potent cocktail. “For what?” she demanded, looking from her brothers to her mother.
“Shit,” Brodan said gravely. “For this.” His gaze met Petra’s. “Your vein just closed up. It won’t even allow the blood inside.”
Celestine cursed, and Wen squeezed Petra’s shoulders.
Brodan stripped off his gloves, then glanced over and nodded at Sasha and Val. “Do it.”
“Do what?” Petra cried out, trying to sit up.
But her mother held her down, whispering words of love, while her brothers released terrifying twin growls and rushed out of the room.
The party’s over.
Or was it just beginning?
Synjon took off his shirt and draped it over the black leather piano bench. He loved to fuck, needed the release to keep his muscles content, and though he didn’t allow anyone to touch him, undress him, or speak to him, he made sure that the females who spread their legs and bent over the polished black surface of his Bösendorfer came in ways, durations, and decibel levels they’d never known existed.
“Are we going to your bedroom or what?”
The female who had spoken out of turn, the female he’d chosen for tonight, stood near the glass doors that the Roman brothers had walked through only a few hours ago. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she had one hip cocked in an I’m-the-bloody-shit kind of way. Her small, strong body was encased in a simple black minidress that paired well with her short blond hair, nose ring, and dark eyes. Blond hair and dark eyes. It had become his routine shag. For some reason, his body refused to take any female who sported the combination of dark hair and blue eyes.
It was bloody irritating.
He gestured for her to approach him. “Come, female.”
She didn’t move. “A little premature, don’t you think?”
His nostrils flared. Perhaps he’d chosen wrong with this one. Perhaps he needed to fill her mouth with something.
“I want to see where you sleep,” she said, her tone close to defiant as she started walking toward him.
“I don’t sleep. And no one enters my bedroom.” Or my bed. It was sacred space. As was the room that lay beyond. The one he’d constructed for a very special, long-term guest he hoped would be arriving soon.
“Turn around and put your hands on the piano,” he commanded.
Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared as she drew nearer. “So you don’t have to look at me? Is that it?”
With every look, every word she uttered, this female was growing more tiresome. In fact, Syn was wondering why he’d chosen her in the first place. With all the willing and wet hopefuls, why had he gone for curt and derisive? Both were heavy with emotional undertones—and he didn’t do emotions. Only physical, animallike need. Hot, hard, release-filled fucking.
He regarded her with a lift of one dark brow. “Your choice, female. And it’s a very simple one. The piano or the door.”
Her mouth twitched. “You’re really something—you know that?”
He glared at her. Was that humor in her expression? He didn’t think so. In fact, he was starting to believe this encounter was a grand mistake. He cocked his head. “I’ll walk you out. My driver’s downstairs. He’ll make sure you get home without a problem.”
“I don’t need a driver, asshole.” She grinned wide. “I’ve got wings.”
Before Synjon could draw his next breath, two males rushed him from opposite sides of the room. Growling and snarling, they bodychecked him so bloody hard he lost his vision for a few seconds. What the hell . . . ?
Widening his stance, he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. He was a natural fighter and a seasoned killer, but over the past week, ever since Cruen had bled his emotions, his instincts had been slightly off. He was slower to react. And it showed now.
“I want to kill him,” he heard the female say.
“We can’t,” said one of the males.
“No,” said the other. “But we could hurt him a little.”
Even without full use of his sight, Synjon felt the steady heat come up behind him. He whirled around and shoved his elbow into the neck of one of the males, followed by a fierce head butt to the face. He heard a whoosh of air, and the male’s bloodscent rushed into his nostrils. Familiar. Not vampire.
But whether enemy or estranged ally he wasn’t sure.
Someone grabbed his arms, pinned them behind his back. Syn growled and slammed his head back, meeting flesh and bone.