It's Teaser Tuesday, and you guys didn't let me down with the requests yesterday on Instagram. I had requests for Nik/Sasha, Trina, Alexei or Jamie, and Vlad, and I've got two chunks of raw text for you. The first has all our New York crew in it, and the second is Val and Vlad. I can't wait for you guys to read this book! It's been such a fun one.
Text from:
Golden Eagle, Sons of Rome Book Four
Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Gilley
“How charming,” Trina said, looking up at the
façade of the building Jamie had led them to.
He made a face. “Yeah, I know. Come on.” He led
them through a rank ground-floor apartment full of milling people carrying red
plastic cups. There was a line for what was apparently a bathroom, though she
dreaded the thought of going in it. Through an open rear down, down some steps,
into a moldy old courtyard lit up with construction lights.
There was a crowd, cheering.
And a ring, full of two fighters.
One of them was Lanny.
Cage matches, Jamie had told them, gaze downcast from
guilt, face red with shame. Against humans. It was one thing for Lanny
to use his new strength and speed against violent criminals they were chasing
down; using his abilities to tackle or restrain an uncooperative suspect. Quite
another to cheat his way into winning matches against humans who thought they
actually had a chance to win.
But.
She’d never watched him fight before.
Stripped to the waist, already sheened with
sweat, he circled his opponent, toying with him, grinning savagely.
She knew the way his sweat tasted. The way those
bunched muscles on his back felt beneath her hands, when she dug her nails in. But
she didn’t know him like this, drunk on his own strength and electric with
violence.
He was magnificent.
His opponent feinted, but he didn’t fall for it.
Moved in close, and struck like a snake. His opponent’s blow glanced off his
ribs, but he ignored it, shook it off, struck again. It was over in a blink,
and a rat-faced little man came out to lift Lanny’s hand and declare him the
winner, extolling the audience to get out their wallets and make their way
toward the table.
Sweat running down his face, hair plastered to
his head, Lanny was beaming…until his nostrils flared, and he turned toward
them, and the smile froze.
Trina gave herself a firm mental shake. She would
not be swayed by her libido.
“What a stupid fuck,” Nikita observed, mildly,
and they moved toward the cage.
Alexei intercepted them. Popped up like a
jack-in-the-box. “Wait.”
“Don’t feel like waiting.” Trina stepped around
him.
He was faster than her, already in her face
again. He made the mistake of putting his hands on her shoulders. “Trina, I can
explain.”
She gave him a look that had him lifting his
hands and taking a step back. “I want Lanny to explain. Explain why he’s beating
up people for money.”
“He’s just been having some fun,” Alexei
defended. “Letting off steam. You know he has” – he dropped his voice,
conspiratorial – “aggression issues.”
“He’s about to have kicked-ass issues,” she
growled. And her own words pulled her up short. “Wait.” Alexei’s eyes widened
to oh shit levels. “His face. There’s no way one of these clowns did
that to him.” She gestured over his shoulder toward the ring, where Lanny’s
next opponent looked truly miserable at the prospect of fighting him. “What
happened?”
“He got–”
“Don’t say mugged.”
“He fought a vampire,” Nikita said. “In the
ring.”
She whirled to face him. “What? How do you know
that?”
“There’s one over there.” He nodded, and she
followed his gaze toward…a truly huge guy, the kind whose muscles had totally
overtaken his neck. His nose had been broken more times than Lanny’s, and his
face hadn’t been pretty to start with. Rugged would have been too great
a compliment.
“You know him?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Feel like making yourself useful?”
“Nope.”
She glared at the side of his head. “Thanks a
lot.”
“Let’s go watch the fight.”
“Are you serious?”
He finally turned to regard her, eyes the color
of frost, expression calm. “Lanny’s gotten himself in trouble because he’s an
idiot. I’m not going to wade in and pull him out just yet.” When she didn’t
respond, he leaned in and said, “Tell me you don’t want to watch him get his
nose smashed in. He deserves it right now.”
He did have a point there. “Fine,” she huffed.
They found places near the chain link fence that
enclosed the ring. Nikita flicked his fingertips at a few people, and Sasha
growled, and Alexei did some staring, and they had prime spots in the front. Trina
wasn’t in the mood to chastise them about compelling anyone. All her anger was
reserved for Lanny right now.
He seemed to know it, too. He gave his new
opponent – shoved into the ring by the emcee – only a cursory glance, and his
gaze kept darting toward her, wild-eyed in a way he hadn’t been before. He and
the other fighter squared off, and Lanny wasn’t even paying proper attention,
his wrapped fists at half-mast.
“Who wrapped his hands?” Trina asked.
Ashamed, Alexei said, “Me.”
A stranger sat on the other side of him, a tall,
lean guy with sunglasses and a shiny jacket.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Oh.” He was blushing. “This is Dante.”
The guy – Dante – leaned around the tsarevich and
waved at her, smiling. “Hello!”
Nikita elbowed her in the side, and she refocused
on the fight.
What was left of it.
Lanny didn’t bother to play around with his
opponent this time, no longer worried about putting on a show for the crowd. He
felled the poor man with a swing that bunched up every muscle in his torso,
turned them to sculpted bronze. The impact hit with the terrible sound of bone
breaking. Trina swore a shock wave moved through the cracked pavement
underneath.
There were some cheers, and a few boos.
“C’mon, that’s gotta be cheating,” one guy called
through cupped hands.
“He’s terribly strong,” she heard Dante say,
suddenly with a British accent for some reason.
“He’s a beast,” Alexei agreed, happily.
The opponent didn’t get up, and two guys went in
to take him under the arms and drag him out. The rat-faced emcee went in to
gloat and proclaim Lanny the winner. “…trying to clean out all your pockets,
folks…”
“Now the real show,” Nik said, low and near, and
she followed his gaze toward the towering, shirtless vampire waiting his turn
to fight.
His turn had come, apparently.
“He doesn’t have anyone with him,” she observed,
scanning the area around him for a trainer or a friend or an idiot
Alexei-equivalent who could wrap hands and bullshit your confidence a little. No
one trailed along after him as he strode toward the cage; no last-minute advice
or a water bottle. A quick look at the benches where the other fighters prepped
revealed buddies and wannabe trainers holding bags, and Gatorade. One fighter
was getting a shoulder massage; a grizzled man with a flashlight was doing a
pupil check on Lanny’s last opponent.
“You guys smell any other vamps?” she asked.
“No,” Nikita and Sasha said in unison.
Sasha added, “And he doesn’t smell like
immortals, either.”
“Just a loner who likes to fight,” she surmised.
“Maybe.” Nik didn’t sound convinced.
“Not everything’s a conspiracy,” she said, biting
back a sigh.
“You can take the Chekist out of the Soviet
Union,” Sasha started, and his laugh was muffled when Nik pressed a hand over
his mouth.
She glanced away from them, feeling suddenly like
she was intruding on a moment, even if she loved seeing them be relaxed enough
to be easy with each other in front of the whole pack like this.
The whole pack.
Her pack, even if that still sounded strange.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ramirez blew out a breath and bent to pick up her
knife, wiping a sweat-glazed forehead with the back of a hand as she stood.
“Pretty bold showing up here again,” she said to Val.
He felt his fangs elongate as he shifted his
smile toward her. “Says the woman who wanted to practice hand-to-hand with my
brother.”
She looked like she wanted to retort – and like
it was a retort she’d toned down from the kneejerk reaction that sent a spike
of anger across her face – but Vlad said, “Leave us.” She and Treadwell left
without any grumbling; without even a questioning glance.
“They’re afraid of you,” Val said. He didn’t try
to sound delighted, but it happened anyway.
Vlad nodded and shrugged, moving toward the
table. His hands were wrapped – a nod to sparring propriety, but not a
necessity – and he picked the bandages loose as he walked, unwinding them. “Their
efforts are genuine but they’re a poor army.” He set one bandage down and
loosened the other, cutting a glance up at Val through his lashes. “Your
friends–”
“Are not looking to be recruited,” Val said,
loftily, though he felt a squirming of uncertainty in his belly.
“Fine.” Vlad reached for a water bottle and
didn’t press the issue. “You’re still well?”
“Wonderfully so. Mia sends her regards.” He
leaned forward, voice lowering conspiratorially. “She thinks you’re noble, by
the way.”
Vlad’s brows lifted momentarily in surprise,
which smoothed his forehead, and softened the lines around his mouth. He looked
handsome like that, Val didn’t tell him, like even if he wasn’t happy, he at
least wasn’t on the cusp of impaling someone.
He couldn’t repress a smile, though.
Vlad’s brows went back down. “She’s surprisingly
sensible, your mate.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Val said, and meant it.
Vlad snorted and moved down the table, gaze
tracking over the astounding array of knives laid out, gleaming under the
lights. He selected one, tested the edge on his thumb, then sealed the cut it
left with a flick of his tongue. “Are you sleeping, now?”
“No. This is a purposeful visit this time.”
Vlad set the knife down, and reached for another
to repeat the exercise. Val half-wondered if it was some exercise in sharpening
oneself through pain, or some such rot. “Because I’m such good company?” The
edge of bitterness in his voice, like all of Vlad’s more tender emotions, would
have been near impossible for a stranger to detect, but to Val it glittered as
sharp as the knife in Vlad’s hand.
“I think you’re excellent company,” Val said.
Vlad stilled, and his gaze snapped over, dark and
pointed. “Don’t lie to me.”
Val gazed back, and felt the nakedness of his own
expression. “I’m not. We agreed, didn’t we? No more secrets. No more facades. I
think you’re excellent company,” he repeated.
Vlad’s brow smoothed again, surprised again,
handsome again.
He looks like Father, Val thought, struck
suddenly by the idea.
Vlad said, “Why would you possibly think that?”
Voice faint, almost – almost frightened.
Vlad Tepes, fighter of sultans, impaler of
enemies, shaken by genuine fraternal affection. It would have been adorable if
it wasn’t so sad.
“Vlad,” Val said, “you might not be the most –
vigorous of conversationalists. Not exactly the optimistic sort – though I will
tell you that you should smile more, brother, because it does wonders for your
face.”
The brows went down again.
“But you’re also intelligent, learned, and
stubbornly honest. I’ve always enjoyed your company.”
“Always,” Vlad said flatly, and Val remembered a
moonlit bedroom slatted with the shadows of the silver bars on the window, and
the stubborn set of Vlad’s small shoulders, and a gulf beginning to form
between them. He remembered whore; the rejection and contempt. Remembered
a room in a tower, and Vlad saying he would never trust him.
“When–” His voice cracked. “When we were boys,
you were the one I wanted to spend all my time with.”
Vlad stared at him.
And Val remembered sturdy arms around him,
helping him steady and aim his bow. Remembered a hand clasping his, and the
smell of street vendors, and the oohs and ahhs of the crowd as acrobats defied
gravity. Remembered the warmth of the bed they’d shared when they were so
small, soft furs tickling their chins, and the scent of Vlad on the pillows,
familiar and comforting.
“You were a good big brother. And I think you
were always trying to be, even when things were awful. And I think you’re being
one again, now.”
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