Merry Christmas Eve, my beloved readers! Before we dive into the final chapter of book 2, I wanted to take a moment again to 1) thank all of you who have stuck by this story when it isn't your usual fanfic; 2) acknowledge you beautiful humans who have been reviewing - I see you and I absolutely ADORE you; and 3) just wanted to remind you again that this story will be on a brief hiatus for the remainder of the year. I will be back to kick off book 3 sometime in January (hopefully).
And based on the collective feedback received both here, in the PMs, and other platforms where I'm posting this story, we're going to forgo the aforementioned countdown ;) So enjoy the remaining suspense of will-they-won't-they while it lasts. And speaking of unresolved sexual tension...
CW: I'm back to my teasing UST ways in this chapter. You're welcome and Merry Christmas, lol!
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 40
Ground Rules
Vladislaus was only partly aware of his surroundings as he wandered into the welcoming darkness of his bedroom. The powerful sway of the sun, already making its daily ascent beyond his sealed flat, was like that of an old and familiar lover, beckoning him to bed where the restorative rest would soon greet him. After the events of the evening, the culmination of weeks of preparation, he found himself unusually exhausted. Crawling into bed was a luxury he would never tire of, the cool sheets against his naked skin like heaven as he sank unceremoniously into the mattress, the weight of the linens left to lie draped just at the waist, his pillow cradling his head.
He sighed heavily in relief as the familiar relaxation swept over him.
This was so much better than all those years spent sleeping in coffins or stone sarcophaguses in the dark ages.
And the world may currently be on the brink of going to hell, but at least he still had this.
Sleep evaded him, however – like clockwork – as the stillness of the dawn had his mind drifting as it so often did to thoughts of Francesca.
The memory of her hand holding his cheek, the way she had swayed forward to kiss him, that hunger in her gaze, softened by a look of affection… it left his heart aching. Of course, the suggestion of that would-be kiss left another part of him aching as well and he groaned quietly, rolling over onto his side as if curling away would somehow block the onslaught of his thoughts. But it didn't work. It never did. And without even meaning to, he soon found himself lost in a private fantasy of the woman – those eyes, her lips, that body…
He gritted his teeth, a soft rumble of an oath muttered under his breath.
Having certain parts of his anatomy in full and working order again thanks to her blood – while a relief – had also revealed unforeseen challenges. The decades without proper use left him feeling like an adolescent boy in the peak of puberty – complete with inconveniently timed erections that had him donning longer coats these days; not to mention the dreams he had been having for the last week. He wasn't above rubbing one out, but it wasn't his hand his blood and body craved.
The thought of her sent a tingle down his spine, pooling at the base as a familiar pressure started to build and then tighten between his hips. He shifted to make himself more comfortable, but the caress of sheets against his sensitive length had him swearing.
He wasn't sure if he should be angry or amused at how easily she inspired him. She didn't even have to be in the room… hell, she was miles away, and just the thought of the woman had him hard and at the ready.
Another night of tending to his own needs then.
He resigned himself to his situation, preparing to slip his hand beneath the linens when a sound from downstairs caught his attention. The click of the deadbolt of his front door. The door opened and closed soundlessly, but he felt the shift in the air – the presence of another. It was enough to bring him to a more neutral state.
Vlad remained very still, tuning his ears, his preternatural senses to any sound, but whoever had entered his flat was good. Stealthy as a ninja – not even so much as a footfall to be heard. He too could be silent, and he shifted, sitting up in his bed, preparing to slip out to see who this intruder could be when his bedroom door suddenly opened.
Who he saw standing there… it was like something out of a dream.
"Francesca?"
She didn't enter, lingering in the doorway, something glistening in her hand.
"Good. You're still awake," was all she said.
"What… how did you get in?"
She lifted the object she was holding, smirking.
"You gave me a key, remember?" she called out, and she tossed it toward him. It landed on the foot of his bed. "We need to talk."
Before he could ask if everything was all right, she held up her hand, a silent command for him to stay put. Her eyes darted to an exposed hip and a few generous inches of side-ass. Her brow arched, lips pursed together to keep from smiling.
"Put on some pants first," she said. And then she shut the door.
Frankie had never moved as quickly as she did descending those stairs to the open area of the first floor of Dracula's apartment. Draped in shadow and little else, he had looked like something out of a dark fantasy, naked in that enormous bed with only a charcoal colored sheet keeping him from her greedy view. She knew what lay hidden underneath those linens. Just the thought of it had her licking her lips and bee-lining for the kitchen, desperate for something to keep her mouth busy, though the devil knew her present thirst would never be satisfied by blood or alcohol.
She opted for one of his fancy bottles of dhampir hemo before making herself at home in the main sitting area. After discarding her coat over the back of one of the sofas, she moved to switch on the gas fireplace in an effort to keep her hands busy now and to add some light to the pitch black of his flat. The sun had already risen in the sky, but the thick steel coverings over his windows effectively blocked out even the suggestion of light.
It was the shadows that unnerved her. They mirrored the state of her mind – shaded corners where wet and lustful fantasies played out in secret, away from prying eyes. She poured herself a drink and nursed the glass slowly, attention fixed on the flames in front of her.
But nothing she did could distract her from the way his uninhibited presence swept over her like a wave when his bedroom door finally opened.
This was stupid.
So very, very stupid, and she cursed herself silently for her impatience.
She should have waited until sunset, when she was rested and sane. But no! Like a glutton for punishment, she had come here, knowing full well that she had no intention of leaving this place untouched. And from the way she could feel him staring at her even with her back to him… evidently she wasn't alone in that feeling.
Still, she made herself turn to face him.
He was wearing pants, as requested – sweat pants, of all things, the waistband barely hanging onto his hips, leaving those delectably chiseled oblique muscles between his hipbones open to her scrutiny. She swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
Christ almighty, would she never stop being surprised at how beautiful he looked?
The firelight – if it was even possible – somehow made him all the more delicious, carefully sculpted muscles contoured in shadow, that lion brand on his chest making her feel possessive, avaricious. He never interrupted her study of him, didn't even utter so much as a word of judgment as she shamelessly raked her gaze up and down, and down, and slowly back up again.
Somehow, she managed to find her voice.
"Sorry for showing up unannounced," she said, still holding the glass in her hand, as if it were an invisible barrier, the only thing keeping her from pouncing on him. There was no way she was going to drop it and get blood all over that beautiful fur rug.
"Not at all. I see you've already helped yourself to some refreshment." His eyes flicked once to the bottle resting beside the hearth.
"Yeah," she replied rather lamely. "Hope you don't mind." He shook his head once.
"By the way, this is still yours," he added, extending his hand. The key she had discarded in his room was resting in his palm.
"You sure?"
"Last I recalled, I never asked for it back," he said with a faint smile. There was something predatory in that curve of lip, something lethal and dangerous in his gaze – or maybe it was just the fire reflecting in his eyes?
Whatever it was, it made a small shiver run down her spine.
She took the offered key, careful not to touch his skin, before placing it on the mantle of the fireplace.
"You wanted to talk?" he cued.
"Yes," she said, shaking her head once as if to dispel the lust that had been fogging her brain. "I'd like to start training with you again – in the late afternoon. As soon as possible, if you're free."
"Won't your disappearing lead to questions?" he asked, turning to take a seat in one of the armchairs. She followed, opting to sit on the sofa across from him.
"It would, but I've already taken care of that," she explained, glass still in hand, holding it like a shield now. She wondered if he noticed. "I spoke to Rémy after you left this morning."
"And what exactly did you tell him?"
"Half-truths. I told him that the time you and I had spent together in France was the chief reason why I had warmed to Dracula in the first place." The smile she wore turned a little mischievous. "That you had been so convincing in your accounts of his honor and qualities, that I found myself softening to the idea of him. I also told him that our sparring sessions were designed to not only hone my skill, but to help me attain better control over my blood-rage – that we had been making great strides in that effort until he found it necessary to needlessly separate us. I told him that his interference had threatened to have me relapsing and that the brief manifestation of my dark passenger during the broadcast could have been far more dangerous had it not been for your previous efforts."
Vladislaus' grin was pure devilment as she spoke.
"You clever, wicked thing," he said, as if he were proud of her.
Her smile matched his own.
"He asked why I didn't just tell him that that was the case beforehand and I told him that it was none of his business. That he should have trusted me. But with this war looming over us and the prophecy and everything else… well, suffice it to say, it was easy to convince him that our sessions needed to be reinstated."
"I have no objections to helping you if that's what you want," Vlad offered casually. "I have an empty space in the back near the guest bedroom that I haven't figured out how to utilize. Or if we need more room, we could clear out the furniture in here."
Frankie nodded.
"I also told him that his majesty expressed a wish for me to visit with him regularly," she added innocently, pretending to pick a piece of lint from her skirt as she crossed her legs, one knee over the other. "And that he requested to have you present as intermediary."
"And what did your brother have to say to that?"
"He gave me his blessing," she answered simply, gaze heated as she finished what was left in her glass. When her eyes fell on him again, he had shifted in his chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
"Not that you need it," he said darkly.
She uncrossed her legs, knees barely parted as she finally placed her empty glass down on the nearest side table, her eyes never breaking from his.
"I most certainly do not," she said.
And then the tension snapped.
Dracula moved in a blur of mist and shadow and then he was on her.
His lips molded to hers, a hungry kiss that became sexual very quickly – his tongue thrusting into her mouth, the movement erotic and just slow enough to have her insides unspooling. He had her laying beneath him on the couch in a matter of seconds, encircling her wrists in his grip before holding her hands above her head on the armrest, his free palm smoothing up her leg and under her skirt as she cradled him between her open thighs.
She moaned when he kissed her again, the feel of his tongue warm against hers – slow, yet aggressive. Frankie thrusted her hips upwards, pressing herself against him. Fuck, he was hard already. With the arching of her spine, her breasts jutted forward, begging to be touched. He answered the call with both hands, smoothing over her, thumbs lingering to caress and tease her nipples through the fabric, kiss deepening.
He kissed like an artist, as if his lips and tongue were brushes and her mouth, her neck, the shoulder he had just freed – it was his canvas.
Too much.
It was too much at once, and Frankie found herself drowning before even realizing that she had gone completely under.
Her inner demon was already raging in its cage, begging to be set free – to devour, to mark, to consume.
"Let it breathe, Francesca," he groaned into her neck, but the reminder was strained, impatient – her nails were already biting into his naked back, knees up so she could hold him there between her legs.
"I can't when you're touching me like that…" she panted, her glowing irises flicking red when his mouth moved between her breasts, fingers nudging the fabric of her dress out of the way. She whined when he ran his tongue between the two swells of soft flesh, up the center of her chest and then along the front of her throat as she leaned her head back, spine bowed, opening herself to him.
His voice lowered an octave, a growl rumbling in his chest.
"Francesca…"
It was a warning – a warning to get control.
But she was lost in the sea of her lust, eyes begging him.
Take me. Take me now. Please, please, please…
He knew he should slow it down, but he couldn't. He brought himself flush against her, hard muscle to pliable breast and then his mouth was whispering over her skin. Her neck – the target; a mark for his lips, his teeth, his tongue. She arched under him, the friction of her undulating utterly divine as his mouth wandered, teasing the column.
Her body was already so willing, burning and screaming.
He wasn't sure he had it in him to deny her – risks be damned.
His name escaped her and he caught it within his lips – careful at first, then escalating to deep dives of mocking thrust.
She wanted that tongue someplace else, somewhere lower.
It was dangerous, this need to be claimed by him – and somehow, in the fog of her lust, she emerged, panting as she struggled against her mounting blood-rage.
With a hand to his chest, she pushed him back as she sat up beneath him suddenly, gasping for want of air.
"I can't," she insisted. "I can't control it. Not with you…" but her words broke off into a moan as he leaned forward to suckle the side of her neck, and then she was sinking back down into the sofa again, his body still perched over hers.
"It could takes months… years for you to get that kind of control over it," he murmured into her skin. She was on the verge of losing herself to him entirely, but then he broke away, pausing. "There is another way."
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't at first. The sudden lack of sensation was jarring, but then he began to caress the side of her face, slow sweeps to help quiet and soothe, his expression as calming as his touch. When she was notably steadier beneath him, anchored, in control, he explained.
"If we were blood-bound," he began, but then he saw the flash of panic in her eyes and he stopped talking.
"That's too much too soon and you know it," she said.
"I know what I want," he stated, insisting. "I want you."
"I want you as well, but to be blood-bound? That's a huge commitment to make just to circumnavigate my blood-rage. I love you, Vladislaus, but I'm not going to knit my soul to someone just because I want to fuck, consequence-free. Blood-binding is permanent," and she touched his face, her countenance full of earnest. "It's forever. There is no undoing it."
She had trouble reading the look on his face just then. He seemed less disappointed than she had anticipated, but she didn't like the way his brows had furrowed over.
"Is this genuine hesitance talking, or is it your need for control? I'm having trouble telling the two apart."
He hadn't meant it to be taken as a jab, but it had, and she started to push him off of her. He leaned back so she could sit up, but then grabbed her arm before she could get off the couch entirely.
"Oh, no, no… you're not running away," he stated firmly. "Answer the question."
"Let go of me!"
"I will when you stop acting like a child," he replied.
She growled at him in warning, but he didn't even blink. Instead, he moved off the sofa to sit on the edge of the coffee table, giving her space, but also so he could face her fully. His hands remained on her knees, impeding her escape.
"Talk to me."
It was a command, not a request.
She scowled, looking every part the petulant child, but to his credit, he never mocked her. He just sat there, patiently waiting.
"I'm scared, all right?" she snapped after nearly a minute of glaring, but his hold didn't let up.
"Scared of what? Of me?"
"Of course not!" She almost sounded offended.
"Then what?"
She didn't elaborate, of course. She didn't need to – not with that look in her eyes. He had seen it before. Every time she spoke of…
"Alphonse," he said with sudden clarity. He leaned back, releasing her. Frankie made no effort to move that time. She only crossed her arms, holding herself, a look of shame in her eyes as her gaze diverted away from his.
She couldn't bear the pity in his face, let alone his uncharacteristic patience with her.
Not when all she wanted to do was scream…
It had been centuries since those black years of mortality. She had even killed the Duke, had murdered him with her own two hands. Her ex-husband was far beyond touching her now, and yet even to this day, just the memory of him – the things he had done to her and how powerless she had felt in their marriage. It was as though she would never be free from him. Even Augustine hadn't been able to so thoroughly damage her the way Alphonse de Châlon, Duke of Nivernais, had. And she hated it. Hated him for the power he still held over her even in death. But even more so, she hated herself for allowing him to have that power, even after all these years.
Relationships didn't frighten her, and sex – that was easy.
But marriage, commitment – being permanently bound to another soul…
That required a certain level of trust that she wasn't even sure she was capable of anymore.
Vladislaus sighed heavily, scrubbing his face with a hand before leaning forward, elbows on his knees so he could bring himself to her eye-level. She still wasn't looking at him, and from the waves of shame and disappointment he was picking up on, it was easy to understand why. He would have to tread carefully.
He said her name, ensuring to keep his tone neutral, his voice steady. Her expression cracked when he spoke and he brushed the back of his finger against her knee – a gentle nudge reminding her not to shut him out. The tension in her shoulders relaxed gradually until her hands fell into her lap, but she still hadn't turned to look at him.
"I admittedly have a tendency of doing these sort of things out of order," he confessed. "Usually it's sex first – emotional intimacy later, and that's if it comes at all." Her eyes fell to where his finger now touched her hand, a silent question. She answered, curling her finger around his, but the shame never left her face. "If doing it the other way around will help you feel better, if that's what it takes to make you feel safe, to trust me, then so be it. I would never want to force you into something you're not ready for."
Frankie finally looked up, meeting his gaze.
She still looked so guilty and it pained him to see it.
"But I want you to know, Francesca – I know what I want. I want you and only you. I've already waited this long… I can wait a little longer."
She smiled ruefully, squeezing his hand as a tear streamed down her cheek. He caught with his thumb and the tenderness in his touch nearly shattered her.
"In the meantime, we'll keep working on your blood-rage," he added. "And if it happens that you get a better handle on that before deciding to take the blood-rite, then I should probably warn you that I will very much enjoy driving you out of your mind with pleasure."
The laugh that escaped her reached her eyes and he nearly exhaled his relief.
"Why am I getting the distinct impression that we're going to have to carve out at least a full twenty-four hours from our schedules when we finally fall into bed together?" she asked. That suggestive arch in her brow had him feeling devious.
"Oh, dragă…" he purred, "I wasn't being dramatic when I told you I had been thinking long and hard about all the things I want to do to you. We'll need three full days at least."
"I hope sleep is somewhere in that itinerary of yours," she replied tartly. He grinned.
"I'll try to pencil it in somewhere, but I make no promises."
She balked at that.
"I'll try to keep up."
"Oh, I'm sure la siréne will be just fine," and he lifted her hand between them, bringing her wrist to his lips. He kissed the long-silent pulse point once, holding her gaze as he did so.
When he was certain the earlier tension had abated, he finally returned to sit on the sofa with her, situating himself in the corner with one leg draped off to the side so she could sit between his thighs. He pulled her back into his hold, her head tucked between his arm and shoulder. They lounged there in the silence for several long minutes, contented, his fingers ghosting over her leg, absently caressing.
"When we become blood-bound," she said after a while, her choice of words not lost to him, "will that awaken the lamian strigoi part of me right away, or do you think it'll be a more gradual thing?"
"I'm not sure," he admitted. "From what Antón and I have discussed, it sounds like it just puts you on the path. To unlock the power that comes with it requires a sacrifice."
"What kind of sacrifice?"
"I don't know." He paused. "When you had me enter your mind when we were in France, I encountered something – I think it was the lamian strigoi part of you."
"Really?" she asked, craning her head to look up at him. "Did it say anything useful?"
"Unfortunately, no. It was like sitting in on a conversation where most of the context was missing."
"Do you think the Signore could help shed some light on the matter?"
"It wouldn't hurt to ask," he conceded, still caressing her thigh.
She sighed, offering no further reply, content and comfortable in his arms. After a while, her eyelids started to feel heavy, the sway of the sun taking its toll. He must have sensed it in the way she had relaxed so thoroughly against him, because he was pressing a soft kiss to her temple now.
"Stay with me," he murmured against her skin. "Stay the day with me."
Her eyes fluttered shut, but she moved her head to the side as if in a half-hearted attempt at a protest.
"But my brother…"
"Is not your master," he interjected firmly, though his voice remained soft, deep. His fingers were still tracing intricate designs along her thigh, the hem of her dress nearly all the way up to her waist. "Stay with me," Vlad breathed against her hairline.
"And what? Sleep in your bed?" she crooned, rolling over a bit so she could better look up at him. "Like in France?"
He nodded.
"No sex," he promised before adding with a wry grin, "Unless you initiate it first. Then all bets are off." He kissed her softly and she chuckled against his lips. He then tenderly caressed the side of her face with the back of his fingers. She looked so beautiful like this – serene, peaceful. "I miss holding you," he found himself confessing, not sure why he felt the need to tell her, but not regretting that he had.
The drowsy smile that spread out over her face warmed him down to his toes.
"I miss it too," she breathed. "You know – I haven't slept well since we were there."
"Neither have I."
"And we do need our strength for the days ahead."
"We most certainly do."
Her smile turned into an impish grin as she coiled her arms around his neck, lifting herself up so she could brush her lips against his. The silken caress nearly undid him.
"Then let's go to bed, your majesty," she murmured against his mouth. He scooped her up in his arms and rose from the sofa, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a flower. A rose. His French rose. His lionheart.
"As my queen commands," he said, and then he carried her up the stairs to the bedroom.
End of Book 2