Wolf Undaunted. Shannon Curtis
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attractive? She slammed the door shut on him, hearing him growl in frustration before he floated through the timber.
The fact that she was having these reactions to him was what freaked her out the most. She could see something that wasn’t there. She could hear his deep, smooth voice in her head, but if he really was a lycan, she would never, ever find him attractive. And she did.
Which meant she really was going crazy.
“You’re not here,” she muttered, as she crossed to her bed and picked up the nightgown that one of her staff had placed at the end of the bed before they’d left for the day. Unlike her father, she didn’t like to be surrounded by servants, and wanted them gone by the time she came home. This was her space, the only place she could be by herself. She didn’t want to worry about who was watching her for whom, and as a Prime, that happened.
“Oh, I’m here,” Zane told her.
She wasn’t going to argue with him—because that would make him, or the hallucination that was him, all the more real.
She kicked off her shoes and didn’t bother to put them away. Instead, she marched into her en suite and closed the door. She looked into the mirror over the vanity for a moment. She looked...spooked.
Her shoulders sagged. It was a good thing she hadn’t invited Mike in. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see her like this, or guess at what was going on with her—whatever that turned out to be. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked, tilting her head back. Marchettas didn’t cry. That’s what her father had said, the night he’d turned her.
Marchettas were the strongest of their kind, he’d said. It was why they’d become so successful, so powerful. Tears were a weakness. Feelings were a weakness. If someone in the Nightwing colony guessed that she was losing her mind, that she was mentally deteriorating, it would be a bloodbath within the colony until a new Prime was selected. And that was the internal strife.
If the other vampire colonies scented blood, a scandal or a weakness, they would pounce. If a shifter breed, like the lycans or the bears, suspected the Nightwing colony was weakening, there would be territory wars. Whichever way she looked at it, if she gave in to these hallucinations, if she let herself indulge in an annoying, frustrating, rude companion that nobody else could see, feel or hear, she was leading her people down a path to bloodshed and death. Despite what everyone thought, she really did care for Nightwing, for her colony. They were as close to a family she was ever going to get. She needed to protect them, if only from herself.
Tomorrow, she’d visit Ryder Galen. His family were shadow breed healers, and maybe he could figure out what was wrong with her. She just hoped she could trust him.
She got ready for bed, removing her makeup and brushing her hair. For once, Zane didn’t make an appearance.
Maybe she could control him, after all? Maybe he only appeared when she was tired? Or distracted?
She opened the drawer under the counter to put her brush away and paused when she saw the small bottle rolling around inside. The pills the doctor had prescribed for her recuperation postcoma. She’d had nightmares, horrendous nightmares about the attack, and these pills were supposed to help her sleep. They had worked—sometimes. If they’d blocked her nightmares, they might be able to block these auditory hallucinations...
She shook two out of the bottle and took them with a glass of water, then brushed her teeth. By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, she was already feeling relaxed.
“Now can we talk?” Zane muttered.
She kept her eyes resolutely forward as she crossed to her bed and pulled back the bed covers. Ignore him.
“You can’t ignore me forever, princess,” Zane said as he stood at the end of her bed, frowning. Her eyelids flickered. Could he read her thoughts now?
She climbed into bed, her lips firmly pressed together to prevent any response to him.
“We need to figure out what’s going on here,” he stated.
She brushed her hair off her forehead and lay back. Just ignore him. Her eyelids began to droop, and he stalked around the bed to stand by her hip. He really was a gorgeous man, all beautiful muscles, tanned skin, and she thought the close-cropped beard was growing on her. It gave him a rough, dangerous look that was very attractive.
Her eyes widened, but only briefly. Wow, these tranqs were good. They had to be if she thought Zane Wilder was kind of sexy.
“Speak to me, damn it,” he demanded.
She smiled. He was cute when he was angry. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to look closely at her eyes, his gaze shifting from one to the other and back again.
“Damn it, you took a tranq, didn’t you?” His lips tightened, and although it took a great deal of effort, she raised her fingers to his lips to smooth them out again.
“Shh,” she said soothingly.
He swore under his breath, his hands momentarily clenching, and then that smoky, inky fog swirled around him, and he was gone.
Her eyelids drooped shut, and her mouth dipped at the corners, and she could barely retain her last thought.
Don’t go...
Zane sat in the wingback chair next to Vivianne’s bed, his feet on the covers, and he watched her sleep. He didn’t have anything else to do. Her chest rose rhythmically, her breathing deep and even. She looked like a dark angel, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her features so relaxed, so damn composed.
She’d donned a white nightgown, the satin and lace concoction contrasted against her olive complexion, making her skin look warm and silken in the dim light that filtered through a crack in her curtains. He swallowed. He always gave her privacy when she was in the bathroom, despite the impression he’d given her earlier, but he hadn’t expected her to take sleeping pills to avoid talking with him. That didn’t seem like Vivianne’s normal style. He’d seen her in action. She was direct, decisive, and hadn’t shied away from anything, whether it was chairing a meeting with a bunch of seasoned vampire guardians, or negotiating with a strategic business partner.
If he was going to be honest—and in the middle of the night, in a darkened room, with the only other occupant knocked out by sleeping tablets, he could afford to be honest—the Marchetta Vampire Prime had surprised him. She’d faced every decision she’d had to make with a calm confidence. She had a reputation for being ruthless, especially with her enemies, but he’d also seen her be fair. She was a hard taskmistress, but she never demanded of her staff anything she wasn’t prepared to do herself. And he’d been with her since the moment she’d awoken in that nutty little clinic under her father’s home, and she’d been hurt. She’d been tired, and yet she’d never let anyone see it, not even her brother, and most especially not the senator.
She’d swung into action immediately, taking control of everything in a seamless, effortless maneuver that had been almost genius. In a pack, if the alpha prime became ill, there was usually a leadership challenge. Only the strong could lead, and Vivianne had given that impression immediately—only he knew how much it had cost her.
Those moments she’d hidden behind closed doors, trying to catch her breath, or those long nights where she was plagued by nightmares.
Her hand twitched on the cover, drawing his gaze. There it was again, a flinch. He looked at her face.
Her brows were pulled in a faint V, and her head moved slightly in denial, her lips forming soundless words. He sat up. She was dreaming again. No, not dreaming... She flinched, and this time the movement was sharp, almost violent, and her hand rose as though to ward off something.
Her head rolled from side to side. “No,” she whimpered.
Zane frowned as