Killer Temptation (8 page)

“Hello.” She smiled.

The backdrop of the dark sky behind her made her stand out like a sumptuous picture in a fine art gallery; an absolute masterpiece. Tristan held his breath. It took everything to not haul her to his chest as instinct demanded. He studied her with great care. Even though a smile fit her lips, it didn't quite meet her eyes.

In their earlier conversation, she had mentioned something about a family tragedy. A sharp pang lanced through him. The thought of his
moitié
upset caused an insufferable ache inside his chest. She was
his,
and he would take care of her. Cupping her elbow, he led her into the living room. Not only did her usual aroma surround her, but the faintest hint of burnt candles. She must have lit some hours ago. He imagined her in a room of low candlelight…his room, to be precise. "Can I get you a drink?"

One, dark blonde brow shot upward as her luminous grey gaze fell on him.

“Relax. I’m not offering you blood,
ma douceur
.” Well, not yet. That would be expected in due course. He couldn’t help his grin. All the anxiety from the last week over not seeing her was now replaced with eager excitement. He had her and would never let go again.

She rubbed the base of her neck, wide eyes searching the room. "Are we alone?"

"Alone as can be...my family are in their rooms underground."

From the pucker in her brows, the idea of living beneath the ground must seem outrageous. In time she would adapt to such dwellings. After all, as his mate she’d be required to live with him in
Désuet
—the cave in Dordogne on the south-west countryside of France. Their home, where they would raise a family and spend all eternity together. His fists clenched and unclenched by his sides. How he couldn’t wait. Besides, patience had never been his strong point.

"Do you have wine?" she asked, hesitant to meet his eyes.

"Alcohol? Are you nervous?” Good to see he wasn’t the only one. The wild thump of his heart hadn’t slowed since she stepped through the door.

Her gaze strayed from his, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "A little."

Tristan nodded for her to take a seat, and then made his way into the kitchen. She traipsed around the room, tugged at the sleeves of her jacket as she studied the fibro ceiling down to the smooth floor. He spied on her through the kitchen window as he opened the cupboard door above and took out a bottle of 1872 Pinot Noir and a Bordeaux glass.
Good year
.

Oblivious of his gaze, she slid her fingers through the burgundy fringe of the vintage floor lamp, then sat at the edge of the leather sofa and withdrew a small golden object from her handbag. Lipstick. She removed the cap, twisted the cherry coloured stick and spread the creamy cosmetic over her small mouth. She didn't need it. She was gorgeous without makeup, but her efforts to impress made him grin.

Tristan stored the bottle back into the cupboard, picked up the wine glass and preceded into the lounge area. Brianna placed the cosmetic back in her handbag. She appeared distant, in a world of her own. He held out the glass.

Startled, her gaze shot up, followed by the little jolt her body gave at seeing him there. Did he frighten her? For a long moment her stare held him in place, those grey eyes wide, and shone with…tears? "Brianna," he murmured. "
Dieu
, you're trembling." Something wasn’t right.

The foot of the glass clinked as he set it on the coffee table. He sat beside her, wrapped her into his embrace, but her trembling increased.

"What's the matter?"

"I didn't expect this to be so hard...where are these feelings coming from?" She swept away the tear trailing down her cheek. "Why do I care so much about you?"

"Don’t be frightened by your fondness,
ma douceur
. I know they are intense, but I will explain." Her skin reminded him of the roses he would find as a child when he and his brother’s snuck out of
Désuet
late at night and wandered the open fields to collect flowers. They had made it a competition; whoever assembled the best bouquet for
maman
won. The petals of the pink roses had possessed a softness greater than silk, just like her skin. He lingered on the feel as he glided the back of his hand down her cheek.

Brianna shot him a quizzical look, brows furrowed. Poor thing must be so confused. For centuries his kind spoke of
moitiés
and destined partners. She was human and from a witch family. Witches were not able to recognise the soul-binding connection between themselves and their mates. This would be hard to explain, but she must understand what this meant for her, for them. "You are my
moitié
."

"Your what?"

"
Moitié
. It means half; you are the other half of my soul. My mate...mine."

Her eyes grew round, mouth trembling open.

"I know this must be strange for you, but—"

"How do you know I’m your...
moitié
?"

"The connection between us that night at the ball should’ve made me realise, but not until I bit you did I know. It was your blood."

Her wide gaze landed on the glass of wine, as though pondering what he said. Those glittering greys settled back on him. "But your kind drinks blood all the time," she insisted.

"
Oui
, blood is nourishing, plus vital for all vampires, but only the blood of a
moitié
would spread through my heart, giving me a strength I never deemed possible. A bodily reaction I’ve never experienced with anyone except you. You are mine, Brianna."

"This can't be true." The fierce whisper tore from her lips as she shook her head. He had no doubt the news would shock her, but to refuse him...that wasn't expected. Between vampires the connection was mutual and impossible for either partner to deny.

"I’m not lying,
ma chérie
."

"But, you're a vampire..."

Tristan sighed. At last, he understood. Just like every other species, she was wary of vampires. "Brianna, I want to make you happy. Name whatever you want because I want it for you. I know we just met and this must all seem so rushed, but you mean the world to me. You're my mate."

Tears hovered at the edge of her eyes, threatening to spill. He did not miss the slight tremble of her body, or the pink hue spreading over her cheeks. Her wide gaze shot to the coffee table again. Why didn’t she meet his eyes? His jaw tightened. He must reassure her. "I assume you heard about the recent incident at the ball?”

Moments ago she shivered, now she sat as still as cement. Oh yes, she knew. He continued. “It’s created some controversy between the witches and vampires. I know you come from a family of witches, but I hope this doesn't cause strife for our relationship."

Her gaze snapped to him, eyes slanted and fuelled with...fury? She captured his face and brought him close. He must have mistaken the anger in her eyes, because she drew him down until their lips brushed. She kissed him long and hard, with purpose and intent.

Tristan shut his eyes to savour the brush of her lips and taste her sweet mouth. As he eased his lips open, wanting more, he froze. Acid or, at least something just as harsh inflamed his tongue, travelling down his throat, into his stomach. Tristan inhaled…nothing. He could not breathe.

His eyes shot open when she shrank back. Her pretty small mouth twisted with disgust, nostrils flaring with harsh exhales. Like a brewing storm, the grey in her eyes grew dark, observing him with fervid abhorrence. Yes, pure, red-hot revulsion radiated off her in waves.

No, she cannot hate me. She’s my moitié.
He raised one hand to caress her face, but she lurched off the sofa before he managed a single touch.

The acid in his body thickened. Distressed choking and wheezing rang in his ears. It was him. He made those sounds. Another long wheeze resonated as he struggled to catch air. Fog clouded his mind; body draining of strength.

He fell to the hardwood floor. Thrumming pain shot up his knees on impact. Suffocating, he clawed at the wooden floorboards. Splinters cut through the skin beneath his nails as he fought for essence. He peered at Brianna who stood over him. No hint of concern in her eyes, no cry for help surged past her mouth. She was calm in a disturbing way, like a cold shell, a dark void of a soul with no emotion. Other than the painful sense of not breathing, a far worse realisation dawned…she had done this to him on purpose.

"Die, you blood-sucking bastard!" Her vehement tone rasped out each word.

He stared at his
moitié
, his life. "Why?" His throat scorched like steel wool scraped along gravel, and the sound was much worse. She didn’t answer him. His watery gaze followed her as she stepped around him and ran for the exit.

Tristan lay there, enduring the flames licking through his body, killing him in languid motion. His eyelids grew heavy. Just as they drooped, numerous shadows rushed toward him. An echo of distressed voices shouted.

"Find the bitch and kill her," someone said in a loud, clear voice. Who spoke? He wasn’t sure.

Tristan fought with all his might to do the same. "
Non
. No one. Touches. Her." Blackness consumed him as he used his last ounce of strength to croak out the words.

Chapter 5

She’d tried to kill him. Tristan lay in bed, gaze fixed on the rough, rocky ceiling. To live the long life he had, one might be satisfied with the concept of dying. And if life was as trivial as before: a day after day, year after year necessitated routine, he’d be more than happy to perish. Now, however, he wasn’t willing to die. Not when he found the reason he lived for so long, the purpose to exist for longer, but how unfortunate that his reason wanted him dead.

He requested a few candle sconces to be lit, making the place dimmer than usual. Sometimes, he wondered what life would be like having a window to perch on, or a skylight to stare upon. But, natural light did not touch this far underground. A good thing, since he wouldn’t want to suffer the burns and blisters that affected a Pure like him. Besides, the dimness matched his mood.

The shadows obscuring the stone walls and floors resembled his doubts on life, numbing his twisted emotions for revenge. Darkness was home, where he belonged. Any brighter made him think of Brianna’s golden hair, which then made him mull over how she wasn’t with him. Why did she turn out to be a vindictive, little snake? And how had he not seen this coming? Had she planned this from the beginning, running into him at the ball, revealing her shy yet liberated demeanour? The concept plagued him.

Had every moment he shared with her been a complete lie? His fists curled around the silk sheet. No…not everything. The way she responded in the office, she couldn’t have faked her lust, her need. She begged for him, regardless of what her initial intentions involved. Without doubt he understood her response.

But, of course, if she wanted to stay with him, she wouldn’t have tried to kill him. He released the sheet, fists clenched by his sides, nails biting into flesh. Tristan inhaled, long and slow, to calm the livid thunderclouds rowdy within him. He once considered himself a sympathetic man, now he wasn’t so sure. He changed, withered into a bitter, cruel being.

His health strengthened in the last few weeks, but to regain full power, he needed to consume blood. Brianna's blood. He felt strong enough to find her and
that
he would accomplish. His brothers worked hard already, tracking her down. Now he’d wait, garner his strength and confront her. Although physically he held hope for a full recovery; mentally he suspected the worst.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in." He sat up against the red silk pillows. The thick wood to his chamber swung open. Mikel, his older brother, stormed in, breathless. He wore the same charcoal knife-hem shirt and black Jodhpur trousers from last night. His dark, wavy hair in disarray. "Did you run a marathon all night?" Tristan asked in a dry, humourless tone.

"We found her."

His arms bunched with tension, matching the strain in his face. Throwing back the silk sheet, he stood from the four-poster bed and fought against the sudden dizzy spell. "Let me change." Apprehension heated his voice. Adrenaline fizzed through his veins like expensive champagne, giving him the strength to stand straight.

"Are you certain this is the woman you want, the woman you need?"

His brows puckered and he spun toward Mikel. “Of course I want her. She's my
moitié
."
Why ask such a stupid question
? From the moment he drank her blood he recognised she belonged to him. Her very essence flourished his insides, made his body pulse with vitality. And yet, one kiss did the opposite; draining him almost to death.

Mikel’s nostrils flared. "But she tried to kill you. It doesn’t make sense that the two of you are meant to be," he grated out. From the hard set of his jaw, clenched fists by his sides, and the ruthlessness in those dark eyes, his brother could pass as the Grim Reaper. The fact Brianna was his mate didn't seem to matter. Mikel loathed her for what she had done. After all, his brother shouted the order for her to be killed that night, but Tristan demanded she be left alone before falling into unconsciousness, unable to bear the acid burning pain any longer.
Dieu
, the pain… as if liquid heat melted his organs, killing him with slow agony. He still struggled to believe a kiss started the torment.

Yes, he guessed it was her kiss. An Impure from the council surveyed him, sampled his blood to prove he had been poisoned. Did the witches force her into murdering him? Or did she do this out of loyalty to her family and their race? Either way, his recent brush with death was related to witchcraft. Her clan no doubt put a spell on her, or perhaps laced the cherry lipstick she applied moments before they shared the lethal kiss.