Page 37 of Blood Bond

Flashes, fragments of images:

Donova n.

"No, no... get away," I urge, seeing his hand reaching out to me. I scream, pushing with all my might to repel him. "No."

My eyes snap open, disoriented. I can't discern my location, my actions. Seth stands before me, but the embrace we shared is gone.

My breathing is ragged, each breath shallow and strained.

The door swings open. Killian stands there, his hair in disarray, his usual armour absent, replaced by loose-fitting pants, a blade in his hand. "I heard a scream. Is everything okay?" Sleep still weighs on his eyes, but his expression is alert.

Seth raises a hand, signalling Killian to keep his distance, then turns to me. "What happened?"

Looking at them both, I struggle to comprehend. Taking a deep breath, I manage, "Donovan." The word hangs in the air. "I saw Donovan."

Killian's posture relaxes slightly, his blade lowering to rest beside his leg. "It was just a dream?"

Seth's intense gaze pierces me, as if he's delving into my soul. "No, that was no dream. He connected with you," he asserts, focusing on me, not Killian. "I felt his presence, too."

I nod. "He wanted to know where I was."

Seth inhales sharply, a mix of concern and urgency in his breath. "He's searching for her."

Killian steps into the room. “Maybe he’s already found her?”

ChapterTwenty-Eight

“Damn, fucking bitch.” Donovan erupts from his chair with such force that it goes sailing across the room, propelled by the fury of his temper. He rubs at his temples, feeling a pressure akin to a headache, an unfamiliar sensation he hasn't experienced in centuries.

Marcus lounges on a sofa, legs spread wide, arm stretched along the back, the very picture of a spoilt, rich kid. His curly dark hair cascades to his shoulders, his shirt casually unbuttoned. He watches Donovan's outburst with a mix of amusement and interest. “No joy?” he asks, almost tauntingly.

“No joy? She’s locked down fucking tighter than a virgin on her wedding night,” Donovan snaps, his hands slamming down onto the table. “I almost had her, almost saw into the room she's hidden in, but damn, he's got her stashed away securely.”

Pacing the room, Donovan’s mind races with strategies to reach her. They had this inkling, a faint hope, that since he’d once connected to her remotely at Seth’s place, he might be able to do so again. He had tried, and by some stroke of luck, established a fragile link. However, penetrating her thoughts felt like wading through thick weeds in water—arduous and sluggish. Maybe it was the distance.

“Did you get anything out of the kid?” That’s Amelia, posed on her own sofa. Unlike Marcus, she doesn’t slouch. Amelia never slouches. She sits with elegance, legs together, her body poised in a picture of perfection. Her hands rest on her knees, her long, painted nails rhythmically drumming.

“Do you have to do that in here?” Donovan's voice cuts through the room, his irritation directed at Marcus. In his relaxed state, Marcus has company—a slim, small woman draped across the sofa beside him. Her legs rest on him, one drawn up to his chest, where his fingers trace her inner thigh. Blood, evidence of his recent feeding, pools around the bite mark, and she lies there, her head tilted back in ecstasy, seemingly oblivious to her near-nakedness, clad only in a flimsy string barely covering her.

Her small breasts occasionally draw Marcus's attention as he feeds, enhancing the pleasure for both. The woman's expression is one of bliss, lost in another world entirely.

“You wanted me here for this, and I’m in the middle of dinner,” Marcus responds nonchalantly, unbothered by Donovan’s disapproval.

Amelia, witnessing the scene, rolls her eyes and stands up. “The boy doesn’t know anything, or he’s refusing to tell us,” she reports, her attention shifting away from the spectacle. Examining her fingers, she notices blood on the underside of her arm—Nico’s blood. He’s become her toy, a plaything in her dangerous games.

Donovan drums his fingers, glaring at his two vampire companions with a mix of tolerance and suspicion. They are allies, yet the trust between them is as tenuous as it is mutual. He taps his finger impatiently on the desk. "I'm going to interrogate him myself again. Let's see what the little shit knows."

"I doubt you'll extract much from him," Amelia retorts, a grin spreading across her lips. Her lips are a vivid red, not from lipstick but from something far more visceral. Her eyes, too, seem to mirror this crimson hue, as if infused with blood.

Shaking his head in disdain, Donovan remarks, "You'd think you'd both be beyond playing with your food by now." His gaze shifts to the woman with Marcus, noticing her own hand wandering beneath her scant garment. "Does she really have to do that here?"

Not waiting for a response, nor expecting one, Donovan exits the room, a fiery rage coursing through his veins, fuelling him like lava. He strides toward the basement door, his presence causing humans to step aside. Jonathan's people, pathetic as they are, still part for him. One gets too close, earning a snarl from Donovan, but even this doesn't deter a woman at the reception desk from smiling at him flirtatiously. Perhaps one day he'll show her exactly what she's flirting with.

The security team, a mix of humans and vampires, stands guard at the door. Donovan yanks it open with such force it nearly rips from its hinges and storms down the steps.

The basement is dark and damp, the stench overpowering even to his heightened senses. Though his vampiric nature sometimes dulls certain perceptions, smells like these remain acutely unpleasant.

“Open the damn gate,” Donovan commands. The human seated at the desk, watching, scrambles to comply. He pulls the keys from his pocket, mumbling a hasty "Yes, sir," while fumbling, nearly dropping them. However, he manages to fit the key into the lock and opens it.

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