Page 142 of Fratelli: Eternal Bloodlines

His jaw tightened.

“I must hide it from myself.” Tristan sat on the edge of the bed, touched her leg. “I’m a vampire. Before that, I was a man of faith. You heard Aries say it. When I took you as my mate, that vow meant as much to me as the one I took before God. It’s the only true vow I’ve ever made since becoming what I am. Whatever I feel for Sonya, whatever darkness tries to tempt me away, it’s not going to win.”

Tristan’s eyes softened. “Because what I feel for you is the realest love I’ve ever known.”

Charmaine smiled through her lingering sadness. “I trust you, priest. Trust me, okay? I won’t break. If you ever need?—”

Before she could finish, Tristan dissolved into smoke, his physical form vanishing. Charmaine’s eyes fluttered shut as his essence wrapped around her, warm and intoxicating. It was as though his hands were everywhere—his mouth on her breasts, his lips between her thighs, while his phantom fingers caressed her face, deepening their connection with every touch.The sensation was overwhelming, electrifying, a spiritual and physical merging that left her breathless.

His body returned above her, and Tristan thrust into her with deliberate precision. Each movement sent them into a deep spiral toward pleasure, his love a tangible force she could feel in every pulsating grind of his body against hers. Charmaine clung to him, whimpering softly. Her lips brushed his as they shared whispered confessions of love.

Together, they reached the peak, their bodies collapsed into one another as the aftershocks of their passion rippled through them. Tristan kissed her brow, tender and possessive, his voice a hushed promise. “I love you, goddess. Only you. Nothing and no one will ever change that.”

Charmaine’s chest rose and fell beneath him as she traced his face with trembling fingers. “I love you too, Tristan. With all my heart.”

Sonya tracedher fingers across Shakespeare’s chest. She absorbed the roughness of his scars and the stories of his savagery and bravery beneath her touch. They had healed, blending into his skin alongside his tattoos. She studied them. Each one told a story of pain and suffering over the loss of his mortal life.

“You need to eat,” Shakespeare murmured, his hand rubbed down her thigh, thrown over him her position allowed her warm sex to press into his hip.

“Not hungry,” she mumbled, and rested her head against his chest.

“You’ve given me too much blood to heal me. You need to eat. You’re still part mortal. Sebastiano’s not exactly going to cater to us here. I’ll get you what you need?—”

He tried to sit up, but she pressed him back down with her hand and power. She craved the connection to his pain, a feeling that tethered her to him. It kept the wanderlust at bay. That same restlessness threatened to stir something darker—urges for lustful acts with Tristan she didn’t want to understand.

“What is it?” Shakespeare asked.

“I just want to stay here,” she whispered. “You can drink more from me until I pass out. We can make love, if you want.”

“You’re absorbing too much,” Shakespeare said, concern in his eyes. He rolled her over and pinned her to the bed. Sonya closed her eyes. She sank into the pleasure of the pain. Her body writhed beneath him, lost in the wild thrill of his dominance. But Shakespeare denied her sex. Even the denial left her breathless and trembling. He found a robe on the dresser and slipped it on with a pair of gloves.

Sonya opened her eyes, surprised. “Where did you find those?”

“Vampires who walk in daylight always keep them nearby,” he said with a wink.

Her voice was soft, almost accusing. “So, you don’t want to touch me?”

“I want to touch you,” he said. “But we need control. You need to be stronger, put up some defenses. I’ve drained you, goddess. Let me heal you.”

She turned away from him, burying her face in the pillow. But as she closed her eyes, Tristan’s image flashed in her mind, unbidden and unwelcome. She shut the thought away, forcing herself not to dwell on it.

Shakespeare’s voice broke through the silence. “Why do you think of Tristan?”

Sonya sat up, startled. “What?”

“You pulled me into your thoughts, Sonya. I’ve seen them,” Shakespeare said.

She shook her head. Panic crept in. “No, I?—”

“Don’t panic,” Shakespeare said. “I’m not angry. I just want to understand.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze steady. “Help me understand.”

Sonya drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She pressed her forehead to her knees, trying to find the words.

“Help me understand,” Shakespeare repeated, softer this time.

“They found us. We were near dead, or dead,” Sonya said quietly, her voice distant. “Charmaine, Tristan, and Dolly. Some dark magic had tried to drag us into the underworld. I’m the Defender of Pain—Kaida. Charmaine couldn’t heal me, and neither could Dolly. Only Darlene has the dark energy to do that, but she and Dolly were separated.”

Shakespeare frowned; his tone cautious. “And Tristan?”

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