Hot blooded, p.1
Hot Blooded, page 1
Hot Blooded
By Kendall Ryan
Hot Blooded
Copyright © 2022 Kendall Ryan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Enchanting Romance Designs
Editing by Ann Attwood
About the Book
I've pretended to be human for a century. Surely the next month shouldn’t be a problem?
Reign Tryst is a vampire, and like most vampires who are of a certain age, ahem, give or take a century, he’s grown bored. Restless.
He’s been there, seen it all, and little excites him anymore.
Except… the very off-limits, very human young assistant he hires to curate his personal library, Tressa Porter. Long-dormant feelings he hasn’t felt in ages spring to life. How very curious.
He’s never needed anything like the sudden and demanding need he has to taste her.
Reign has a life-or-death decision to make—deny his instincts and send her away, or satisfy his cravings, and hope he doesn’t destroy the one thing he holds most precious of all.
Chapter 1
Reign
“You’re pouting…” My brother, Alastair, studies me over the rim of a glass of whiskey. “…Again.”
I suppress the urge to end him, but only barely. “I say this with all due love and respect, but kindly screw off, would you?”
Alastair rolls his eyes at my attempt at mockery. “I know what will cheer you up,” he says, fighting off a wolfish grin.
Instinctually, I know that whatever is on his mind will not, in fact, cheer me up, but I humor him nonetheless, because Alastair is my younger brother, and I love him. The jackass.
“What’s that?”
“A visit to the local establishment.” His mouth curls into full-fledged smile, and his blue eyes sparkle with amusement.
“I’m not going to that whorehouse again.” With an annoyed sigh, I rub at my temples. A headache is forming, which is weird, because I’m not even sure that vampires can get headaches. Yet here we are.
“The term whorehouse is so… 1850.” Alastair hesitates, swirling the liquid around his glass. “And you need to get out more. Partake in some female company. Slake your thirst once in a while. This isn’t healthy, you know.”
Bored, restless, and all kinds of annoyed, I rise to my feet and cross the room to gaze out the second-story window which looks down on rows and rows of tidy hedges that are beginning to wilt a little around the edges in the hot summer sun.
I like being home. I value privacy and silence, and I’m not nearly as destitute as my brother likes to think. I have any number of friends who will come over if I only call. At least, I think I do. It has been a while since I’ve been in contact with any of them. I wonder where my cell phone is. Probably in a drawer somewhere. Surely dead again. I can’t seem to get the hang of charging it. Or using it. Hundred-year-old habits die hard, it seems.
Ever since my hundred and fiftieth birthday last year I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about my life, and what I am doing with it. All of my talents are of the bloodsucking and bedroom variety. What knowledge or virtue I’ve contributed to society, I can’t tell you.
“Come on, Reign. Don’t you ever want to get out of this dusty old mansion and go out hunting for something lively?”
Hunting? I consider for a moment that maybe he’s right. That maybe some recessed part of me misses it. But instead of longing, I find only indifference.
Releasing a long sigh, I run my fingertips along the spines of the stack of books that have yet to be reshelved in my library.
“Is there a point to this conversation, Alastair?”
Knocking back the final sip of whiskey in his glass, he meets my eyes. “My point is, a man cannot survive on solitude alone. Where is your passion? Your fire? Your lust for life? You can’t keep yourself locked up in your dungeon all the time like a big, bad monster.”
My mountaintop estate is hardly a dungeon. I’ve tried it all, living in the city. All the lights, all the people coming and going. The energy of it. It is nice, until it isn’t.
Then, I retreat to the country, the solitude and peace... now I regularly alternate between the two, which is a necessity moving every few years, so the people around me don’t become suspicious that I never age, though now that vampirism is out in the mainstream, the need for that has diminished.
“I’m going to take a nap,” I announce on my way out of the library. Basically, I expend an excessive amount of energy babysitting my brother, making sure he doesn’t kill anyone. It’s not exactly a walk in the park.
Mrs. Potts is supposed to have hired an assistant to curate my personal library. I wonder what happened to that plan, or if she’s having trouble finding qualified applicants. I make a mental note to ask her about this later as Alastair follows me down the hall.
At the door to my private master wing, I pause, and turn to face Alastair. The fluffy duvet and inviting linens of my dark bedroom are calling my name, and I’m done with his inquisition for today.
“I appreciate your concern, but I promise I’m okay.”
His bright, blue eyes meet my own, and he slowly shakes his head. “You might think you’re okay, but I know you better than you know yourself. You’re bored. You need something new. Fresh meat,” he emphasizes with a jaunty wink.
“Goodbye, Alastair,” I say in a bored tone. Mrs. Potts appears in the hallway as I watch Alastair descend the stairs. “Have fun at the whorehouse,” I call out.
Alastair’s retreating form stiffens before haltingly continuing, even though Mrs. Potts won’t bat an eyelash. She’s heard much worse leave my lips during the past eight years she’s worked for me. But I know my brother, and he likes to maintain the presence of a gentlemanly façade, so I take satisfaction in knowing I’ve just blown that façade to shit. Call me cynical.
But I’m tired. Exhausted, really. Living a lie for the past century and a half will do that to a man, I suppose. Well, I’m not a man. Yes, I have all the man parts in all the atomically correct man-places, but technically, I’m a lot more than a mere man. Superhuman strength, speed, and power, along with an insatiable lust for human blood….
Yes, I’m a vampire, but in the last dozen years the v-word has lost its luster. Ever since one boisterous and vocal group of teenagers start protesting against the mistreatment of vampires, a frenzy seems to have caught on. In cities all around the country, people are joining in on the movement.
The sentiment has spread to Canada, Australia, Germany, and others. Turn on the news on any given evening, and the humane treatment of vampires is sure to be a segment.
Accepting vampires into society and out of the dark shadows in which we previously have lurked is becoming a thing.
I’m still not sure how I feel about that.
I like shadows.
I like darkness.
I like my drafty mansion and the privacy it affords me.
And despite what my brother thinks, I like sinking my fangs into the occasional consenting human to satisfy my dark cravings. I just don’t need to visit a whorehouse to do it.
Finally, I turn to Mrs. Potts who’s been waiting patiently for me to finish with my brother. “Whatever it is, it’s going to have to wait. I’m tired.” I pull the cotton sweater off over my head and drop it into the laundry basket in her arms. “I’m going to nap.”
She gives her head a shake, and her neatly trimmed gray hair swings back and forth. “Not right now you’re not. Miss Porter is here.”
It’s in that moment I realize there’s a human standing in my alcove.
Even from across the hall, I can smell her. Her hair smells like perfume, and her pulse thumps wetly like a sweet rhythm in my ears.
Fuck!
Startled gray eyes track hotly over my bare chest and come to rest at the waistband hanging low on my hips before darting back up with uncertainty as she meets my gaze again. She may not know what I am, but her senses are heightened around me. She’s unsure if it’s danger or arousal she’s feeling. Most likely it’s a mix of both.
My afternoon has just taken a turn for the interesting.
Chapter 2
Reign
With an annoyed sigh, I direct Mrs. Potts into my bedroom by the elbow and close the door behind us. “Pardon me, but what in the fresh hell is this?” I gesture wildly toward the girl standing in my alcove.
Mrs. Potts stammers once and then efficiently crosses the room to retrieve me a fresh white button-up shirt.
I can hear the heartbeat of the deliciously scented human on the other side of the closed door. No, this is definitely not good.
I shove my arms into the shirt while she explains that this is the candidate she’s hired to manage my library project. Apparently, she showed me her resumé two weeks ago and I uttered my approval. Now the human girl has uprooted herself and moved to live here with us for the next six months to complete the work.
My eyebrows knit together in frustration. I don’t like surprises, which should go without saying. “She looks young, she…”
“She’s twenty-four. Recently out of university. Worked for a library in the city prior to this. She’s very qua lified.”
And very beautiful, which shouldn’t annoy me, but it does.
Greatly.
“Breathe, Reign,” Mrs. Potts reminds me, which is silly. I don’t need oxygen, though breathing is an instinct, or at least a habit that I never quite kicked.
I draw a breath, and Mrs. Potts grins and pats my arm. “This is going to be a good thing. You’ll see. She’s quite qualified.”
“She’s female.”
Mrs. Potts nods and there’s a warm look in her eyes. “Lovely, isn’t she?”
That’s beside the point. “She’s human,” I say with disdain.
A mocking look is all I get in return. “So am I, in case you have failed to notice. And that’s never given you an ounce of trouble.”
Exactly! Which is another reason I’m feeling so unsettled. Like, what the actual fuck?
I draw another breath as Mrs. Potts pats my arm yet again. “I am sorry about your nap. I know how tired you’ve been lately.”
I give her a dismissive wave. “I’ll manage.”
Even as I say these words, I wonder if they’re true. I don’t recall a time in the last fifty years of feeling this thrown off, but the last thing I need is her fussing over me as much as Alastair has been lately.
What’s so wrong about a vampire who enjoys a little peace and quiet? Maybe a nice mug of tea. Is that too much to ask? I’ve earned it haven’t I, enduring the last lonely millennium.
Mrs. Potts crosses the room to pull open the heavy drapes casting shadows in the bedroom. I don’t protest, because I don’t need the darkness now that I won’t be sleeping.
“Show her around. Give her a tour. Walk her through the library. I’m sure she’ll be eager to see it.”
“Okay,” I grumble, still angry and bitter.
“And tell her that dinner will be served promptly at seven.” And with that last bit of instruction, Mrs. Potts exits my bedroom, leaving the door ajar as I do up the final button on my shirt. I’m quite aware that she is waiting for me, so after another grimace, I make my way into the hall.
Let’s get this over with.
As I approach, the young woman fidgets uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one side to the other.
She’s of average height and has a slender waist, but the rest of her is overtly feminine. From her full, rounded breasts that push and strain uncomfortably against the front of her sweater, to the curve of her hips which any man alive—or undead, as it were—will be lucky to grip onto as he ruts and thrusts into her perfect body.
Bloody hell, Reign. She’s not here to ride your cock.
“Reign Tryst,” I introduce myself, extending my palm in her direction. “Welcome to my home.”
She places her hand in mine, and a bolt of warmth shoots through me at her touch. We both pull back suddenly. What—and I can’t stress this enough—the fuck?
“What are you?” I utter, flexing my hand—my filter has worn off a long time ago.
“I’m—” She inspects her palm, turning her hand over. “What was that?” Her pulse jumps, skittering wildly and her eyes widen.
I clench my jaw and shove my hand into my pocket. If she notices the cool chill of my skin against her warm palm, she doesn’t say, but that electricity thing between us is really odd. Static buildup or something, I’m sure.
“I’m Tressa… Tressa Porter,” she says, recovering. “It’s very nice to meet you. Thank you for the opportunity.” Her voice has a slightly girlish quality to it. It’s sweet and pleasant-sounding.
Now that I’m closer, her scent is even more maddening, and the soft, steady rhythm of her pulse even more distracting.
Let’s just say, if I had a beating heart, it would be pumping double-time. If I’m not careful, all my control is bound to snap. And where will I be then? I’ll have let Mrs. Potts down again, a scenario I really don’t want to relive.
I’ve overcome obstacles more difficult than this. I once convinced an entire coven of ancient vampires to let me live, after inadvertently stumbling into their turf in New Orleans.
“I’ll show you around if you like,” I say after a pause.
“Yes, that would be wonderful.”
The tone of her voice causes a zip of pleasure shoot up my spine. Well, that’s rather inconvenient.
I begin with a tour of the first floor, which houses the living room, formal sitting room, kitchen, breakfast nook, dining room and an office that I use occasionally.
Tressa is mostly quiet as I show her around, but she does make an effort toward small talk.
“You live here all alone?” she asks.
I nod. “Well, me and the staff.”
“Why do you need a house this big?” she asks, and then slaps a hand to her mouth, suddenly a bit embarrassed.
Lucky for her, I find her brazen question humorous. Actually, I find a lot about her engaging. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it before, but I suppose it’s because I like my space and my privacy.”
When we get to the kitchen she audibly gasps, showing a clear admiration.
“You like to cook I take it?” I question her, enjoying the way her eyes light up.
She nods. “This is like a chef’s dream. May I?” She gestures to a cabinet door.
“Be my guest. You may use anything in here you like, so long as Mrs. Potts approves.”
Tressa tugs at a few cabinet drawers, giving more little giggles of delight when various doors lead to surprises, like a mixer that slowly raises itself from a lower cabinet.
“This is so cool,” she concludes.
“Mrs. Potts designed it all. So, the compliment is entirely hers,” I inform her.
As we move on in the tour, she continues her questioning, clearly getting more comfortable as we go along.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Nine years, give or take. Sometimes I travel to my other homes, for a change of scenery, or when Mrs. Potts tells me I need a change.”
“More houses, huh?”
I swear there is a tone of judgement in there somewhere, but I don’t take it personally.
“Now the library is on the second floor, east wing, but the west wing of the second floor is an area that is off-limits.” My words make me sound like some kind of super villain with dark secrets to hide, which I suppose I do have. But honestly, I hadn’t even thought about the west wing in many years. It’s locked securely with a key, so it’s not like she could just stumble in there. Locked away like my haunted memories. Locked, but not forgotten.
Tressa thankfully doesn’t question my words, nodding along like it is perfectly normal for people to have secret locked wings of their homes.
When we reach the library, Tressa lets out another audible gasp and her hand flutters to her ample chest.
Her reaction is a welcome one, because this is without question my favorite spot in the entire house. It’s something we have in common, I suppose.
The ceilings rise to an astonishing thirty feet and bookcases line every wall. A series of ladders are situated to accommodate the higher shelves. Beneath the large picture windows rest several leather club chairs, meant for curling up and reading, and in the middle of the library are half a dozen long study tables. A grand chandelier hangs above us, and Tressa tilts her chin all the way up, obviously appreciating the way it glimmers in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the large windows.
Her fascination at the stacks of books is practically palpable. I wander further inside, and she follows.
“Wow. This is beyond anything…” She lovingly runs her finger along the spine of a first-edition copy of Theo Bryant’s Abyss. It’s always been a favorite of mine, and there’s something irritating about watching her touch it.
“Brown University?” I take a glance at the resumé she handed me downstairs. I hadn’t intended to bother with it, but now find myself needing a distraction. Something to do with my hands. Some mundane conversation to break up the silence. “Impressive.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says, voice shaky and a little unsure. “And what about you? University educated, I presume?” She tips her chin toward the library and its rather impressive collection of classical literature. Texts in Greek and Latin and covering such varying subjects as world religions and political geosystems. I either have a predilection for expensive and rare texts, or a vast hunger for knowledge. These are the options she’s weighing in her mind as she waits for me to respond. Truth be told, I suppose it’s a bit of both.
