Page 9 of Cursebound

He stares at me, suddenly serious, his fingers tapping on the tabletop in a manner that suggests it may not be long for this world. His anger scares me a little. Not in a sexy way, just the average “oh shit, have I pushed the apex predator too far?” way.

“Do you know a vampire called Kurt?” he asks, ignoring my outburst.

“Like Kurt Cobain, Kurt? Ummm… No, I don’t think so. Should I?”

This conversation has taken an even stranger turn, and I’m starting to think I’ve made a huge mistake. I need to leave, to get away from this creature and all the confusing shit he stirs up in me. I need to sleep, maybe for a hundred years. There isn’t enough of me to go round as it is, without all this crap.

“Did you know Anna Lombardi?” He grabs my wrist and holds it steady, being careful not to grind the bones this time, just making sure I don’t leave. What a gentleman.

“Not really. I was only four when she died. I don’t know much about it.”

“Your family didn’t tell you what happened to her?”

“My family,” I say, pulling my hand free, “probably didn’t want to scare the living daylights out of their kids by telling them horror stories.”

I’ve asked over the years but have been met with a wall of silence. My family is world-class when it comes to keeping secrets, but I figure they were kept for my protection.

There used to be three girls in my family—Angela, then me and Serena. When Anna Lombardi was killed, Angela was twelve, and Serena and I were really little. Vecchissime powers don’t start to manifest until we’re about ten, so at that stage we knew Angela was a Healer, but nobody knew about Serena and me—whether one or both of us would be a Seer. Everyone must have been hoping for it because the last Capelli Seer was my long-gone grandmother.

None of that was in our orbit at the time. My parents made sure we were protected from it. We knew that Anna was dead, and that was sad for about a minute because we were kids and we didn’t really know her.

“What the hell has Anna Lombardi got to do with me? Or with you?” I ask, frowning. “And why are you stalking me, Luca da Firenze? I see that pretty tattoo on your chest. Is it a dragon?”

I’m trying to unsettle him, trying to regain some control of the conversation and how it’s making me feel. Thinking about the past, about Serena and my family, isn’t something I enjoy doing.

I’m also genuinely curious. Tattoos are associated with the Coscas, but I have no clue if the ink is a badge of honor, simply aesthetic, or some macho pain tolerance bravado bullshit. If I was hoping to throw him off-balance with the change in subject, though, one glance at him tells me I failed.

“You want to see, little malocchio? You want to look at the Firenze dragon?” Malocchio is the vamps’ allegedly offensive nickname for us. It means the evil eye, which I actually think is kind of cool. I’m hard to offend, so the name doesn’t bother me, but there’s a challenge in his words and in the look he gives me. Shit. So much for gaining control.

Silently, without breaking eye contact, he unbuttons his shirt. Slowly, the fabric parts, each flick of his fingers revealing another delicious slice of rich burnished-gold skin. I want to look away. I tell myself to look away. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed, my eyes fixated on his torturously languid progress.

He tugs the edges of his black shirt apart, and I gulp audibly as I am confronted with a perfect slab of muscle. The tattoo must start on his back, and the huge wings of the black-and-silver dragon swoop over his broad shoulders and upper arms, flowing with breathtaking artistry all the way around and underneath his pecs.

I can’t stop myself. I reach out to touch the intricate lines with my fingertips and trace the design over his chest. The sculpted planes of his body are cloaked in silky-soft skin; he is iron wrapped in velvet. I have never seen anything so magnificent in my long life.

His eyes meet mine, and the silver rings around his irises seem to flare and flame. For a moment, we are both silent, and I wonder if he is as confused by this as I am.

“What is happening here?” I murmur as his hand covers mine, pressing my fingers hard against his flesh.

He sighs and shakes his head, and there’s a flicker of confusion as he replies, “I don’t. Fucking. Know. All I do know is that I need to protect you.”

My heart sings at the thought of letting him. Of giving up the fight, even for a little while. Sleeping in his arms, safe from the dreams, safe from the visions. Safe from everything—except him, I remind myself. This man is dangerous, no matter what mystical juju is sparking between us.

“I don’t need protecting,” I snap back, pulling my hand away and shoving it into my pocket so it can’t misbehave again. “Especially by an Old World Cosca vamp who’s probably killed more humans than I’ve had hot dinners. I don’t know you, and I don’t want to know you.”

There is a second—less than that—where he looks hurt. Then the shutters come down, and he sneers at me and refastens his buttons. “Think you’ve got me all figured out, gattina mia?”

“I’m not your kitten, and yeah, pretty much. Enough to know that I don’t trust you, that I’ll never trust you, and I’ll certainly never need you.” The quiet fury in my voice is directed as much at myself as it is him, but it still feels good. It clears the lust from my mind, and I feel almost like Rosa Capelli again.

“Never is a big word.” He leans across the table so his face is only inches from mine. “And as for not needing me… Maybe you don’t. But you need something. Tonight, I took that stake from you like it was a child’s toy, and we both know you were mine to do with as I pleased. If I wanted to drink you dry, you wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.”

My amulet flares hot on my skin, telling me I am in danger, and I’m not sure if it’s from him or from me. He’s right—he could have drunk me dry. Even now, with this budding anger rising inside me, I find myself imagining what it would feel like to have his mouth on my neck, his teeth on that soft, sensitive skin. Licking, probing, biting…

Lethal. It would have been lethal.

I refuse to back down and keep my eyes locked on his. I can’t let him see my weakness.

“You’re right,” I answer, clearly surprising him. “You could have. But that’s not a point in your favor, big guy. It just means I should never be around you again. Most of the vamps I encounter aren’t playing in the big leagues. The majority are fucking idiots. I probably need to train harder, stay more alert, but we’re both aware there are more Rogans in the universe than Old World vampires with your… skills.” I was doing so well until that last word, and I hate that I falter over it. That my stupid sex-crazed mind immediately went to those kinds of skills.