Larissa Ione - Sin Undone

“Conall.” Bran’s rough voice vibrated deep into Con’s chest. “We need to talk.”

Con crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think you came all the way to Moscow because the vodka is so good.” Probably not the smartest way to talk to a senior Dhampire Councilmember, but Con hadn’t bowed and scraped to anyone in a long time.

“Aisling has gone to the night.”

A chill shivered over Con’s skin. What happened to dhampires when they died was a strongly held secret among his people—the biggest secret, in fact. Speaking about it was forbidden, even within their own species. Outside their own kind, they were compelled to silence.

Compelled, in the mystical sense of the word. Every dhampire possessed an inborn inability to speak in specifics about “going to the night.” The words simply would not come, and no amount of torture could force a dhampire to discuss it.

“Aisling was so young,” Con murmured. He’d been fond of his three-century-old second cousin, a strong voice in the shrinking dhampire community who had borne two babes and was carrying a third. “The baby—”

“Dead.”

“How did it happen?”

“Human road rage.” The vicious curl of Bran’s upper lip said that the driver had gotten a taste of dhampire justice. “We were fortunate to have retrieved her body—her car went over a cliff and into the ocean.”

“I’m sorry about Aisling, but why deliver the news in person?”

“Because I wanted to be the one to tell you that you’re taking her seat on the Council, and that you will participate in the upcoming breeding season.”

Con’s curse dragged out on a long breath, and damn, he wished he still smoked. But smoking had gotten boring, no matter what he’d put in the pipe or rolled in the papers.

How long had he wanted this very thing? To take on the duties of his father, to lead the clan to prosperity and good hunts? But not this way. Not because they had a seat to fill and he was the last adult in his father’s royal line. They were supposed to ask him to come back because they wanted his input, his experience. Not because they needed his genes.

His stomach did a few somersaults as he leveled his gaze at Bran. “No.”

Bran’s fist snapped out, catching Con in the jaw. It was a light blow, a punishing nip by wolf standards, but it stung. “Whelp! You do not tell your alpha no .”

Very slowly, so as not to provoke Bran, Con dropped his arms to his sides and widened his stance. “I have a seat on the Warg Council, a job at Underworld General—”

“You’ll give them up,” Bran barked. “Yordan will take your seat on the Warg Council, and I doubt the demon hospital will miss you.” The big male crowded close, so close that if Con breathed deeply, their chests would touch. “You will come home and take your place in dhampire society. We have been patient with you, letting slide your absences during the breeding seasons, letting you run loose outside our range, but it’s time for you to settle down and fulfill your duties as dhampire royalty.”

Letting him run loose? Settle down? “I think, old man, you mistake me for a youngling pup. You expelled me from the clan. It was only Aisling’s pleading that convinced the Council to allow me back during the full moon tides. Now you suddenly want me to return and never leave again, except to conduct business and feed?”

And since male dhampires were prone to blood addiction if they fed off the same individual too many times, they definitely had to leave the dhampire sanctuary to find their meals. Not that a male couldn’t get addicted outside the sanctuary, as well.

Con had more than enough experience with that to know.

Bran snarled, and Con braced himself. A verbal battle was something he could win. But if Bran lashed out—

Con found himself on the ground, laid flat by a meaty fist. Pain spiderwebbed across this face, bells rang, and honest-to-God stars swirled in his vision. Bran stomped Con in the ribs, and son of a bitch, that hurt.

Rolling to avoid another strike, he kicked out, catching Bran in the back of the knees and knocking him to the ground. As the other dhampire hit the grass, Con threw a punch that sent Bran skidding on his ass for several feet. Con dove, landing another punch, the crack ringing out in the crisp evening air.

Ultimately, Con would lose this fight. Oh, he could take the three-thousand-year-old dhampire, but winning would be interpreted as an overthrow of an alpha, and Con would find himself not only back in the clan but in charge of it.

Fury lit his fuse at the lose-lose of the situation, and after he got in a few more well-placed punches, he rolled onto his back and allowed Bran, whose mouth filled with his own blood, to pin him. Bran clamped his hand around Con’s throat and squeezed, cutting off his breath.

“You insolent cur,” he hissed. “You are a spoiled wretch who should have been brought to heel centuries ago. We took pity on you after your mother’s death, but you didn’t learn from that, did you?”

Fuck you , Con mouthed, even as his lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen.

“Does it bother you at all?” Bran’s voice was a gravelly purr, as though he both enjoyed and hated taunting Con. “Do you regret sinking into blood addiction? Do you ever think about the female who died because of your lack of control? Do you ever think on how Eleanor died?”

Go. To. Hell .

Slowly, Bran peeled his fingers away, and Con took a grateful gulp of air. “You will return, and you will take your place on the Council. You are coming with me now .”

“Can’t.” Con started to thrash, straining against Bran’s heavy body and the hand that clamped down on his neck again.

“I will take you by force, Conall.” His knee came up to nail Con in the groin, effectively putting an end to the struggle. And maybe to future kids, as well. “What will it be?”

“The disease that is killing wargs is a threat to us all,” Con bit out. “You can have me when the crisis is over.”

“Show me your throat.”

Damn him. It wasn’t enough that Con had willingly lost the fight; Bran was going to make him endure complete surrender. Grinding his molars so hard they hurt, Con cranked his head to the side, leaving his jugular exposed. For a long moment, Bran did nothing. Con’s pulse ticked off the seconds, and the longer Bran kept Con in the submissive, humiliating position, the more Con began to sweat.

“You’ve made your point,” Con growled.

“No,” Bran said, with a sadistic laugh. “I don’t think I have.” He dropped his mouth to Con’s throat, and Con’s heart leaped up there to join the party.

“Don’t. The virus is in my blood.”

Bran’s hot breath whispered across Con’s skin. “How convenient.”

Very. Being fed on in a show of dominance was never pleasant.

The scrape of teeth along Con’s jugular made him tense because, like Con, Bran had never been cautious with his own life, and Con wouldn’t put it past the crazy bastard to bite despite the viral infection swimming in Con’s veins.

Finally, Bran leaped fluidly to his feet. “You have until the epidemic is contained or the breeding season starts. Whichever comes first.” He stepped into the Harrowgate, and the shimmering curtain solidified, leaving Con alone in the courtyard.

Alone with the knowledge that his days of freedom were numbered, and with the words “Be careful what you wish for” running through his head.

“Let the bodies hit the floor.”

“Bodies,” by Drowning Pool, blared from Sin’s iPod Shuffle, and she sang at the top of her lungs as she walked with Wraith to the ER. After Con had taken off—without so much as a “Thanks for the meal”—Wraith had made her stop by the cafeteria for a quick snack to replenish her blood sugar or some crap. Apparently, Eidolon the Great had insisted. Something about passing out again.