Accidentally Married to…a Vampire?(Accidentally Yours #2)(34)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

He ignored her, continuing to zip up his bag.

She tugged at his arm, forcing him to drop it. “What the hell is going on? Who are you, Andrus?”

“You…” He turned and gripped her shoulders, his eyes silently warned not to push him any further. “All you need to know is that you’re not safe with him…” He stalled for words. “They are violent creatures. We need to leave.”

She nodded stiffly. She had no idea what was happening, but she now knew she didn’t want to be a part Niccolo’s world. Or Andrus’. Too violent. But…Andrus was her only chance at an out from the stickier of the two situations—that much was clear.

But was she safe with Andrus? She wasn’t sure at all, though she felt strangely unafraid. The darkness he projected was some sort of armor he wore to hide his true nature.

“Okay. But you’re explaining everything in the car.”

***

The gentle glow of the dashboard illuminated Helena’s delicate face. He wanted to concentrate on the road, but it was impossible not to steal a glance or two of those pink plump lips or those sky blue eyes. They were mesmerizing. No wonder the vampire was crazy for her. Andrus didn’t even have a bloody bond, yet he found himself feeling drawn.

Maybe that’s why he’d blurted out what he had about taking her along with Niccolo’s soul. Something about her felt calming, and right now, he needed it. His mind was like a f**king Ferris wheel—thoughts, emotions going round and round. Anger, that was a big one. Fear of failure was another. And now there was a new one: guilt.

Helena didn’t deserve her hand in life, just as Andrus didn’t deserve his. They’d both been misled into believing they were getting something worth fighting for, but instead found themselves fighting to get their lives back.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Andrus.” Her hand shifted to the armrest between the seats, lightly covering his. “But I promise you can trust me. I’ll help you anyway I can.”

She wanted to help him? She felt sorry for him? Figured. The guilt factor just turned up ten notches. “Why? Why do you care?”

She shrugged. “I see it in your eyes. They didn’t just take something from you, they hurt you. Didn’t they? No one hates as much as you do without a reason, and I saw the look in your eyes. You really wanted to kill him.”

Smart human. Andrus would have to do a better job of keeping his emotions hidden.

“The only thing I’m asking, Andrus, is for the truth. I can’t take any more of this—these secrets. My heart’s been broken, my life—the one I wanted, anyway—is gone. Now I feel trapped. All because I made one reckless choice to love someone I shouldn’t. It was one stupid mistake, and I want my old life back. I just want out.”

Andrus nodded as he contemplated what he should share. Too much information and the human might put the pieces together on her own. She was extremely bright. Not enough information, she might not trust him. Then she might try to escape or derail his plans some other way. But, if he could win her sympathy, that could come in extremely handy later on. A tiny twinge of guilt spiraled through his gut.

Helena squeezed his hand gently, “Please, tell me.”

The simple gesture and sweet tone of her voice made him feel worse than a vampire for what he’d planned to do to her, but there was no turning back now. Life was full of injustices. The way of the world. His story was no different.

“Fine. I will tell you what’s going on, but don’t blame me if you don’t like what you hear…”

Chapter 11

The Story of Andrus:

When she came to him on their very last night together, three hundred years ago, it had been a night like many he’d spent with her—filled with sweat-slicked skin, words of raw passion, and endless f**king. There was never any shame or hesitation with her. She gave herself willingly, in every possible way a woman could physically give herself to a man. And he took. And took.

It began when Andrus saw her standing in the dark corner of the lavish crowded ballroom at his uncle’s estate during another stuffy formal ball in Paris. Their eyes met and an instant, smoldering connection formed.

When he took her to bed that evening, he knew he’d never want to stop gazing into her large mahogany eyes, running his hands through her vibrant red hair, tasting her smooth skin and every part of her body in between. She tasted like wild flowers and sweet vanilla mixed with the forbidden. He found it simply addictive. He didn’t know why. Didn’t really care. He wanted her so badly it scorched his soul.

Months of passion filled nights flew by, yet his craving for her would not abate. He came to realize that it wasn’t her full red lips, nor her generous round br**sts that he burned for. It was that hidden corner of her soul she refused to open to him.

Each night, with his sweet words and passionate bed play, he tried to coax from her that which she kept locked away. Her heart, perhaps. But no matter how hard he tried, there was no emotion when she said she loved him. Nothing he did truly made her vulnerable to him as he was to her.

But he was determined. He would not relent until she was fully his. Being the son of a powerful family from Eastern Russian—a country plagued with war and corruption—taught him all about persistence and pain; especially how to endure it, which was ultimately his downfall.

Their nights of passion turned into demented one-sided quarrels filled with his irrational accusations. “You love another!” he would scream. “You are using me for my money!”

She would demurely sit on the edge of the bed while he hurled the delusional insults. Her dark eyes would remain sterile and untouched until she’d finally say, “Are you going to calm yourself and take me to bed, or not?” Eventually, he would. He had no choice but to give into his lust, to feel her velvety skin writhing beneath him as he pumped his hard flesh into her.

On the last night, he went to her lavish apartment in Paris. He was broken, beyond repair from the torment of being unable to conquer her heart. She was the one woman he loved and held above all others. He would do anything for her. Anything.

“Anything?” she asked. Her red silk dress hugged her tempting curves and full br**sts as she strolled across the polished marble floor of the Rococo style bedroom. Red velvet cushions topped the ornately carved couches and chairs. Exotic floral arrangements and expensive cognac topped the side tables. She’d never told him how she came into her money, but he didn’t ask—what if she’d once been married or had lovers? He couldn’t bear the thought.