Page 7 of Cursebound

“What’s the problem, though, Boss? Kill the chickadee and have done with it.”

For a man with such compassion for the weak, Matteo has no sympathy for the strong, and like all vampires, he assumes the Capelli Seer is strong. And in some ways, she is.

There is no problem, I tell myself as I say goodbye to Matteo and shove the phone into my pocket so hard I almost bust through the seam. I don’t care what her fate is. I don’t care how vulnerable she is beneath that tough surface or what will happen to her back at Don Vincenzo’s court. In the past, I let myself care, and it nearly ended me. I learned that caring makes you vulnerable. Vulnerability makes you weak. And I am not weak.

Except… those damn instincts again. I have no clue why, but I don’t want to kill her. Fuck me, look at her! She’s sitting in that fake leather booth, staring at her brandy like she’s never seen a glass before. Her face is held in her hands, her hair—that glorious, thick hair—draped around her shoulders like a curtain. Even from here, I can see the curve of her tits under her black sweater, and that’s enough to make my cock twitch. Yeah. Some parts of me seem to care more than others.

When she was held up against me, when I had her pinned, I came so close to losing control. To taking what she didn’t realize she was offering. It was there in the little panting sounds of her shocked breathing, how her pupils dilated with a need that she clearly hated feeling. The heat from between her legs as she rubbed herself on my thigh. And the smell of her… Damn, the scent of the woman. She smelled like every moment of pleasure from the whole of my too-long life rolled into one.

There is no way I can kill her. At least not until after I have fucked her.

That same sadness I noticed before is back. She tried to hide it with her wise-ass routine, but the moment she killed that brutal bastard Rogan, I swear I saw pity in her eyes. She actually felt sorry for him. And how she cared for his victim—the lost little lamb it would have been as easy for me to finish off as it was to save her—with such tenderness, such love. She’s Vecchissime, and not quite human. In my experience, not-quite-humans rarely display that level of compassion. I don’t know how she lives the life she lives with a heart that big.

I’ve heard some of the stories about her family. About her life. But our world is full of stories. What else do creatures like us have to pass the time? When you can live for centuries, there’s a story about everyone. Not many of them are true, and I never gave much thought to whether the legend of the Capelli tragedy was real. There was a fire, I remember—back in the 1920s, I think. Her sister? Parents? I’m not sure. It didn’t matter to me.

Her hands tremble as she lifts the glass to her mouth, and she angrily blinks away tears. The legend might not be completely accurate, but this is a woman who’s suffered and has become an expert in hiding it.

I’m drawn to her in a way that I don’t understand, and I want nothing more than to smash straight through that window, wrap her in my arms, and keep her safe—from Vincenzo, from Kurt, from the Rogans of the world. From anyone who threatens her or hurts her or so much as looks at her the wrong way. If she stubs her little toe on a doorjamb, I would tear down the whole damn frame and set it on fire.

Shit. Who am I kidding? I can’t kill her. Even if I do fuck her first. In fact, I’m almost certain that as soon as I get a taste of any part of her, I’m going to be fucking done for.

CHAPTER 4

ROSA

After getting the bemused and later inappropriately chatty girl into a cab home, we found a quiet bar still open. I have no idea why I agreed, other than the obvious reason: I really need a drink.

I am exhausted to my core, and now that the adrenaline of the night is fading, my usual state of melancholy threatens to return. I’m shaken up in all kinds of ways and quite simply don’t want to be alone.

It’s a stupid reason to be here with him, of course. I could be back at my hotel, letting one of those bored businessmen get lucky. I could go dancing or head to the airport and lose myself in the anonymous flow of humanity.

I could do any of those far more sensible things, but what can I say? I’ve never been particularly sensible. So here I am, gulping hard liquor while I fight tears and ignore what I’m feeling. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a damn good strategy.

I drink, and I blank it all out, and I tell myself that it’s absolutely fine to be sitting at this battered little booth in this battered little bar while my mysterious companion makes a phone call outside.

Before he left, he bought a round of beer and brandy. Vampires can’t get drunk like humans can, but I’ve been told that if they try hard enough, they get a little buzz. Maybe that’s what he’s chasing.

He walks through the door like a dark storm and slides into the seat opposite me. His thick hair is still damp, slightly longer than it should be, maybe overdue a trim. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jaw, and both observations reinforce my belief that I’m dealing with an Old World vamp.

The vamps who have been transformed since the Bargain was struck are frozen in exactly the same state forever. Their hair and nails don’t grow, and their bodies don’t change at all. If they happened to turn during an acne breakout and had a zit the size of a planet at the end of their nose, they’re stuck with it for eternity. Kids remain kids and the elderly remain elderly.

Old World vamps, though… Well, they’re different. They’re the elite. The ones from before. They do age, but very slowly. This guy looks to be in his mid-thirties, but he’s got at least four centuries on him.

His long fingers wrap around the shaft of his beer bottle in a way that has my temperature rising. The way his wet shirt clings to him doesn’t help matters. I gulp quietly and hide my reaction behind a sip of brandy. The shirt will dry, but the damage is done. I am already familiar with every ridge of his perfectly sculpted upper body.

I shake my head and look around the dimly lit bar. Anywhere except at him. My eyes will be glowing, as they sometimes do when I’m excited for any reason, and I’m not sure how successful I am at keeping this pesky little lust problem under wraps. Jeez. Maybe I should just fuck the guy and get it out of my system.

“Goths.” I nod toward the couple in the next booth, their skin whitened with powder, hair dyed black and back-combed, heavy on the eyeliner, and purple fishnet gloves on their hands.

He glances over and smiles. The human obsession with supernaturals is a constant source of amusement, perhaps more to vampires than any of us. The man sitting opposite me is all burnished-bronze skin over a muscular, athletic body, as far removed from pale and tortured as possible. He looks more like the lead in an action movie than a horror flick.

“They never pick on anybody else, do they?” he says, echoing my thoughts. “Always this fascination with the vampire, when sitting right here in front of them is a Seer. How old are you now, Rosa, bella?”

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it was rude to ask a lady her age, bello?” I retort, determined not to let him unsettle me.

He throws his head back and laughs, exposing the strong column of his throat, and I find myself wanting to sink my teeth into it. Being social with vampires seems to have negative side effects.

“The woman who gave birth to me was a maid, and I never knew her. She sold me to another mother—the one who raised me and trained me, and eventually transformed me when I was old enough to take to bed. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who worried about her age, believe me.”