Dressed in an oversized sweatshirt with a cluster of pumpkins on the front that hung past her thighs and fuzzy cat socks, she peeked out of her door. The coast was clear, her guard obviously relieved of duty, and she crept down the stairs to the kitchen. Not a single vampire crossed her path, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled herbs out of the pantry. She didn’t want to deal with anyone in this state, especially her husband.
“That’s definitely not a pumpkin-spiced latte,” a sexy voice said behind her, and Belladonna flinched at Vlad's sudden appearance. She hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen, yet he hovered over her shoulders, trying to see what she was stewing. So much for avoiding the man she’d drunkenly tried to kiss, and she clenched her eyes shut. Things were already strained between them. This would only make it worse.
“It’s a hangover brew,” she answered, stirring the brown liquid.
“You’re going to drink that?” Vlad leaned against the counter beside her, folding his arms over his muscled chest, and Belladonna ground her teeth at the sight of him. She looked—and felt—like something dragged out of a dumpster. But dressed in his black jeans and thin sweater, Vlad looked delicious enough to devour. Every day she spent with him, he grew more handsome, and it made her want to slap him.
“It smells awful now,” she answered. “Once it stews, it’ll smell and taste sweet. Plus, it works wonders.”
“Hmmm,” Vlad grunted, and she noticed him staring at her fingers.
“What?”
“This isn’t a tea, is it?” he asked. “It’s a witch’s brew.”
She nodded.
“And it’s working inside the wards?”
“Seems to be.” Belladonna froze, realizing why he was suddenly quiet. This potion was technically natural magic, and the brewing process shouldn’t work within the vampire’s home. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just want to feel better.”
“No, no, by all means,” Vlad said. “I hate that you’re ill and want you to recover. I’m just surprised you got it to work.”
“I am the coven’s heir.” She nudged his arm with her shoulder, and he smiled. The flash of his teeth reminded her of how violently he’d drained that vampire of blood, and she realized he wasn’t acting awkward. His smile was inviting, as if he didn’t remember her humiliating attempt to kiss him. His behavior was normal, and a wave of relief crashed over her. She hadn’t realized how much she’d dreaded this moment until nothing happened.
“Listen, about last night,” she started.
“You were drugged,” Vlad cut her off before she could apologize, and his expression told her his timing was deliberate. He didn’t want her apology. He didn’t care that she’dacting oddly. He never cared about how she acted, and safety flickered in her chest. This was a man she didn’t have to hide around.
“Drugged?” she asked, her mind finally registering what he’d said.
“Yes. Bartholomew interrogated the witnesses and the bartender. Best guess is those vampires were extremists who refused to live by the treaty. They won’t venture into witch territory, but if one wanders into ours, they take it upon themselves to purge our district. We think they flicked something into your drink while you danced.”
“That’s why my magic wouldn’t work.” Belladonna stirred the brew as her mind put the puzzle pieces into place. “I’ve been drunk before, but never useless. I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention. You were in a meeting, and I acted carelessly. It’s just last night was the first time I’ve left the house in weeks, and then with… well, I was upset.”
“I shouldn’t have kept you locked up in here,” Vlad said, and Belladonna stared at him, shocked that the angel of death was admitting he was at fault. “I don’t regret marrying you, but my actions were brutish. I shouldn’t have brought you last night. I put you at risk.”
“But I wanted to go,” Belladonna said, nervous he planned to lock her away in his expensive prison. “I just wasn’t expecting the evening to end so horribly.”
“Well, there’s always next time.” Vlad shrugged, and relief washed over her. This home was lavish and entertaining, but being confined to these walls would wither her spirit. She liked the idea of repeating their outing without the bloodshed.
“Oh wow, that does smell good.” He leaned over the pot and inhaled deeply.
“Told you.” She smiled and gestured at the cabinet behind him where the mugs sat, but Vlad refused to budge. His eyeschallenged her, as if to ask what she planned to do about his presence, and she understood. He didn’t want things between them to be uncomfortable. He wanted them to go back to normal, and that realization shocked her with electric excitement. She’d stopped ignoring him, and while she could resume that punishment, she no longer wanted to pretend this god in the flesh didn’t exist. She knew he didn’t want her to return to avoiding him either, which left only one explanation for his challenge. He wanted her to tease him, to drive him crazy, to taunt him at every turn.
With a small shrug, Belladonna leaned across his body, brushing her chest against his to open the cabinet. She pushed the mugs at the front out of the way and brushed her breasts against him with torturing slowness as she captured the cup at the back, and to her surprise, Vlad’s palm slid against her leg. He moved slowly, his hand memorizing the curve of her thigh and the swell of her hip, and he applied the slightest hint of pressure as she pulled the mug down. She couldn’t bring herself to part from him, so for an endless moment, they stood chest to chest, hip to hip, breath to breath. His palm burned her hip with an unholy desire, and suddenly she didn’t need a hangover brew. She needed him. She wanted to taste his mouth, to feel his tattooed hands slip under her sweatshirt and grip her skin. She longed to know how he kissed, how he fucked, how he sounded when he came inside her, and the hunger became all-consuming, a forest fire reducing everything in its path. What was happening between them? What was this unquenchable longing that made her chest ache and breath quicken?
“Little witch,” Vlad moaned, and Belladonna rose onto her toes, dragging her breasts over his solid chest as she angled her head, readying to take her husband’s mouth in a kiss she knew would change her life. His breath washed overher as she closed the distance, and a gasp fell from her lips at the intoxicating presence that was the angel of death.
“Sir?” Bartholomew charged into the kitchen, all concern and urgency, and Belladonna jerked back, the moment and their almost kiss vanishing into nothing.
“What?” Vlad growled, murder in his tone.
“There’s a call for you.”
“Take a message,” Vlad said.
“Sir.” Bartholomew glanced at Belladonna with an apology, and she understood. She’d lost her husband to this call, and she flipped off the stove, spooning the brew into her cup.
