Chance Nightshade, daughter of the Melbourne City Alpha, will avenge her brother's murder at any cost. Even if it means working with a charming vampire prince.
Season 1 of Witchfire
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Muted voices pulled me from the soothing reaches of my slumber. I withdrew from the noise and burrowed further into the surrounding softness. I'd somehow made it safely to my bed and entangled myself in the puffy doona. When the voices grew louder, I reached for a pillow to pull over my ears. The feather stuffing was gentle in its resistance of my blind, groping fingers.
As I tried to reclaim sleep, I slowly became aware of the faint but unmistakable scent of wild lavender. It was achingly familiar, evoking a sweet pang in my chest, but I couldn't recall why. Rather than torment myself with questions, I accepted the novelty of it and let myself drift off, luxuriating in the rare comfort those floral notes induced.
"Wake up," demanded a hard, deep voice, shattering my moment of solace. "There are things to be done."
I frowned, but still refused to open my eyes. "Jerome?" I asked, voice hoarse with disuse. "What are you doing here?"
Rather than answer, he sat on the bed. I rolled into the depression he'd created, coming to a stop against his back.
"I'm here because no one else would come," Jerome explained. "Everyone's too scared to come in here after you destroyed half the house. Now get up," he insisted, jabbing me in the waist. "You have a City Alpha to advise."
"I don't want to get up," I moaned, shrugging the blankets over my head once more and curling up into a ball. "The blankets have accepted me as one of their own. If I leave now, I might lose their trust."
"Ma cherie," he exclaimed in exasperation. Butterflies swarmed in my belly, even though he could have been insulting me for all I knew. "Why are you so stubborn? Why must you fight me so?"
The frustration in his tone struck a familiar note. Memories tumbled into the scope of my attention.
He was on top of me, I remembered with a surge of panic, a hand flying up to the back of my neck. He'd bitten me there, and I needed to know if the wounds had lasted. What if I succumbed to his dominance by fainting? My eyes flew open at another, more terrible thought: what if we'd traded blood and were mated? It was entirely possible; we'd both been bleeding during the fight.
For a heartbeat, my fingertips registered nothing. My brain was too caught up in the moment's significance to process information. Then it kicked into gear: the nape of my neck was smooth, the skin unbroken. There was no evidence that I'd ever been forced to the floor.
I exploded into motion, no longer able to stand the entanglement of the covers. I'm free! I crowed internally, seeking out the one who'd threatened that freedom. Jerome sat with his back to me, staring at the far wall, but I wasn't fooled by the act. His attention was a palpable force. I could feel the effort with which he honed each of his senses on me.
"I was born stubborn," I declared, remembering that he'd asked a question. "It runs in the Nightshade blood. As for the resistance I maintain..." This one was difficult. How could I explain all the different factors that contributed to my fear of communion? I searched for an answer that would satisfy the both of us and came up short. "I just met you."
