Page 35 of Midnight Conquest

Another dream, though Broderick wished it was more like the first one he had of Davina. That one had left him panting, spearing her with his cock as they tumbled over the edge together in a fever of flesh and heat. But tonight, Davina haunted him in a different way—pacing, plotting, too far to reach. No matter how he strained toward her, she slipped further from his grasp. He awoke with a raging hard-on and more frustration than a stallion locked from its mare.

Needing release of a different kind, Broderick prowled the village. He drained a would-be thief—some lowlife who’d been poised to rob a woman just steps from her door. Broderick left the bastard unconscious in a heap of filth and delirium, the Hunger sated, justice served in shadow.

He returned to the Romani camp just as music swelled through the trees—wild and pulsing with life. Drums, clapping, the chant of celebration echoing through the fire-lit circle of wagons. A crowd had gathered, villagers mingling with the tribe,joy catching like wildfire.

At the center, Veronique spun.

The firelight kissed her skin as she swayed to the rhythm, hips rolling in a dance older than memory. She tossed her golden curls, bare arms lifted to the stars, her well-shaped breasts thrust toward the heavens with unrepentant abandon. Cheers rose from the crowd. Coins showered the earth around her like rain.

Young Anthony—the guard from the castle—stood slack-jawed at the edge of the circle, elbowing his companion with a grin.

Broderick folded his arms and narrowed his eyes.

She was being too bold. Again.

His scolding glare met her mischievous one the moment she turned toward him, crimson skirts swirling, bare legs flashing in the firelight. She knewexactlywhat she was doing.

Veronique sauntered over, the beat slowing as if it, too, watched her every move. She placed both hands on his chest and rose on her toes, her voice playful and low. “Dance with me, Rick.”

Before he could answer, she spun away with a laugh, hips swaying, hair catching the light like a silken whip. Her skirt flared wide, coins jingling with every step. She was using the crowd to her advantage—knowing full well Broderick wouldn’t cause a scene while coin flowed, and villagers lingered.

Little minx.

His jaw tightened.

Broderick remained where he stood, his eyes barbed with warning. The crowd roared with approval, Romani men clapping him on the back, urging him into the circle. He scowled, but Veronique returned with a wicked smile, unfolding his crossed arms and slipping her fingers into his.

Damn her.

Despite himself, he allowed her to tug him forward, feet dragging with reluctant weight. The tempo surged again as he stepped into the firelight. He clapped once, twice, a half-hearted attempt to play along while Veronique spun around him in teasing arcs. Her hands grazed his back, his chest, his hips—each touch bold, calculated.

She pressed her back to his, grinding in a way that drew hollers from the crowd, then twisted away to twirl before him. Broderick’s jaw clenched. His face burned—not with desire, but frustration. Veronique was beautiful, aye, but to him, she’d always been like a little sister. Her closeness, in the wake of dreams still thick with Davina’s scent, only aggravated his tightly coiled lust.

The music climbed, untamed and unrelenting. Veronique matched it beat for beat, her body trembling with every thrum of the drum, her gaze locked to his.

And then it stopped.

She dropped to her knees before him, spine arched, arms outstretched in theatrical offering. The crowd erupted in whistles and applause. Coins scattered like autumn leaves. The Romani children rushed forward to scoop up the treasure.

Broderick helped her to her feet without a word and turned on his heel, stalking toward their caravan with long, irate strides.

Seconds later, her hot palm found his. Her chest rose and fell with exhilarated gasps, but he sensed more than excitement—he felt the sting of embarrassment she masked with pride. Still, it wasn’t remorse that burned brightest in her—it was defiance.

He patted the back of her hand and let go. “Behave, little sister,” he muttered.

She froze, fists landing on her hips. “Petitesœur?” she hissed.

Broderick turned. Before he could issue a proper warning, she lunged forward and kissed him hard, her mouth possessive and sure.

He pushed her back with ease, hands firm on her shoulders. “Veronique. Amice will blister your backside. Behave.”

She giggled, licking her lips with deliberate provocation.

Broderick spun her around and smacked her backside, drawing a yelp.

“Je vais te donner une fessée,” he growled, making the same threat.

As he approached the tent, Veronique still pouting behind him, Amice stepped out. Broderick winced. He couldn’t shut out their rapid-fire exchange in French, no matter how much he wished he could.

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