Velvet Cataclysm: Princes of the Underground, Book 1 Read online

  In his battle to resist, he found the impossible. His soul.

  Princes of the Underground, Book 1

  Christina Astor’s telepathic ability is an asset in her job as a psychiatric social worker. What’s driving her crazy, though, is her elusive, gorgeous landlord. She senses that Saint Sevliss wants her with an all-consuming hunger that’s somehow…different. Just how different becomes all too clear when his dangerous world collides with hers.

  For centuries, Saint’s kind have been called vampire and werewolf. Even soulless. But their true nature remains a mystery. Bound by a magical mandate to control his bloodthirsty clone, Teslar, at all costs, Saint will do anything to keep Christina away. She infuses his gray universe with life and color, but his world—and his need—would destroy her.

  When an attack reveals the true power of Christina’s gift, one thing is certain—Teslar won’t rest in his underground labyrinth until he possesses her, body and soul…

  Warning: This book contains some violence, smoking hot, explicit sex scenes and anal sex. In addition, there is brief M/M sexual interaction and a ménage a trois.

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Velvet Cataclysm

  Copyright © 2010 by Beth Kery

  ISBN: 978-1-60928-035-2

  Edited by Laurie M. Rauch

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: May 2010

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Velvet Cataclysm

  Beth Kery

  Dedication

  To all the ladies who encouraged me when I doubtfully entered the realm of vampires, unsure if I could make a unique contribution to the genre: Fi, Lea, Sabra, Robin—thank you for the encouragement and support.

  Chapter One

  Christina peered through the dense shadows cast by towering oaks, sprawling maples and trembling locusts. This was Saint’s world—the silence, the darkness, the odor of fresh earth and dewy grass filling her nose. The excitement and mystery clinging in the warm, balmy air made the blood race in her veins.

  A distant howl pierced the night. More than likely it was Scepter, the half-domesticated wolf to which her son, Aidan, had become so attached. Saint’s property attracted a surprising number of wild animals. Christina supposed it was due to Whitby being one of the few wooded urban areas. Animals made their way down the lakeshore from Wisconsin or suburban forest preserves, foraging for food and finding a haven on the wooded acreage.

  Saint’s property occupied six full city blocks, but at night it seemed to transform into an otherworldly landscape that stretched without end. Christina wondered if Saint knew she was aware of this night characteristic of his house and grounds.

  That she knew so much of his singular character, for that matter.

  Knowing Saint, he thought she rested as deeply and sweetly as Aidan had at age two, when she and her son had first moved to the coach house on Whitby’s grounds. Saint always denied it, but Christina knew he’d taken pity on them back then, offering the coach house for a ridiculously low rent after learning from her boss that she could no longer afford her rent in the Lakeview neighborhood.

  He’d been a friend and subtle protector over the years, but tonight, Christina Astor planned to force Saint to acknowledge she was a woman who desired him. She’d lived on his property for nearly a decade now and it was past time for him to acknowledge her as more than a renter and friend.

  She’d been hyperaware of him at the charity function tonight. Since Saint sat on the board for the non-profit organization that operated several therapeutic group homes in the city for runaways, emotionally disturbed teenagers, and young adults, he’d volunteered to have the party on his grounds. It wasn’t uncommon for Christina to be hyperaware of Saint—that was the norm, in fact—but tonight she sensed he was just as aware of her.

  How many times had she looked up while standing amidst the crowd to see him watching her with those exotically tilted blue eyes? Too many to count. Christina had never been able to fathom how Saint could possess such a singularly cold stare and yet make her feel so hot. Raging flame trapped in ice—that was the essence of his gaze.

  She longed to set that fire on a rampage.

  She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a woman sigh in the distance. Her bare feet wiggled in the cool grass as she hesitated. Something fluttered sickeningly in her gut, only to settle like hot, burning lead.

  Saint wasn’t alone.

  What had she expected, anyway? Just because tonight seemed so perfect for what Christina had come to consider their fated union didn’t mean Saint shared her opinion. He obviously didn’t. The painful ambivalence she’d sensed in him earlier tonight must have gotten the best of him, given the fact that he was entertaining someone from his ever-changing harem of avid female worshippers.

  She heard an ecstatic cry and a low moan.

  Correction, Christina thought bitterly. Several someones.

  Eyes narrowed in disbelief, she didn’t do an about-face like her mind screamed for her to do.

  After all of it—after all the buildup, all the heart-throbbing anticipation tonight, this was what awaited her? He’d come out to the gazebo in the silent early morning hours, just like she’d seen it happening as they’d locked gazes earlier.

  He’d come all right. But he’d brought his own lovers.

  She’d been so sure he knew precisely what she’d wanted tonight. And her intuitions were never wrong when they were this strong.

  She anxiously sifted through her memories of the night. How could she have been wrong in what she’d sensed tonight? One of their charged exchanges came to her in graphic detail.

  She’d been networking and offering information on Altgeld House to various contributors, board members, and other sympathetic community leaders. She instinctively found Saint in the crowd—not difficult to do since his head towered over everyone who surrounded him. His tousled light brown hair, streaked with strands of incandescent gold, looked glossy in the flickering lanterns and the glow cast by the tiny white lights hanging in the canopy of trees. He’d continued to meet her stare as he conversed with a bald-headed man and a woman wearing a large hat.

  A shiver of excitement had danced down Christina’s spine.

  “Is it true what they say?” Melinda Marquette, another psychiatric social worker who managed a sister home to Altgeld House, asked as she leaned closer to her. Christina flushed, knowing the older woman had noticed where she’d been staring. “Did he really get the nickname Saint from all of his charitable acts and altruism? Or is it just an affectation to fascinate the ladies?”

  “Come on, Melinda. Look at him. Do you really think he needs to use Hollywood devices to lure women into bed?”

  Melinda chuckled softly. “No, I see your point. The man looks like a combination of a rock star and Jesus on steroids.”

  Christina pulled her gaze away from Saint’s steady stare. “If
it weren’t for Saint Sevliss, you and I would be out of a job and all of our kids would be on the street. He’s LifeLine’s biggest contributor.”

  Melinda nodded wryly at the affluent crowd surrounding them. “The hype about this sicko who’s been murdering young people, especially the lost ones like our kids, is certainly doing its fair share of bringing in donations to LifeLine, in addition to Sevliss.”

  Christina nodded, her mouth pressed into a hard line. It was a grim fact of life that the sociopath the media had dubbed the Youngblood Thief was bringing in tons of money to LifeLine from concerned philanthropists. The media had sensationalized the grisly murders to nauseating levels, but in doing so, had inadvertently highlighted the plight of a subpopulation of mentally ill and homeless young adults in Chicago.

  Christina hated the fact that the sad end to four homeless, lonely kids by the horrific method of exsanguination—complete drainage of the blood from the body—was the cause of LifeLine’s swelling coffers.

  “They say Sevliss is the true leader of the city, you know, the shadow behind every union leader, neighborhood alderman, and councilman. They also say he doesn’t need to avoid press because the media is in his pocket as well. But you must have juicy goods on him, living right here on his property?” Melinda prodded.

  Christina just smiled and changed the topic. As much as she liked Melinda, she didn’t gossip about Saint. She didn’t because she knew instinctively how uncomfortable that would make him.

  A few minutes later she’d spun around to snag a glass of champagne and an appetizer from a passing waiter. When she glanced up, Saint was standing directly beside her. He’d come without observable movement, without sound, and in typical Saint-fashion, without a shred of respect for the time it should have taken everyone else on the planet to cross the distance between them.

  She quirked up one eyebrow as she looked at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  Christina laughed softly. She’d known him for eight years now and he still managed to pull off a poker face every time he exhibited yet another bizarre behavior. Did he really think she didn’t notice?

  She smiled up at him before she took a sip of champagne, never letting her gaze falter. “It’s going very well, don’t you think? We couldn’t have had a better night for it.”

  He’d merely nodded as he stared down at her from his height of six-foot five-inches. He looked thin. Beautiful as an angel fallen from heaven, but too thin. She held up the pastry appetizer to his lips. It was a common thing for her to push food on him. He glanced down at her hand. His nostrils flared as he inhaled slowly but he shook his head in refusal.

  Funny…he looked hungry.

  “Go on, eat it. You’re throwing this party, and I haven’t seen you touch a morsel of all this fantastic food.”

  “I can’t eat anyone’s food but yours, Stina.”

  She smiled. Saint was the only person she knew who shortened her name to Stina. Given his typical laconism, she’d always prized the sound of the pet name uttered in his deep, husky voice. Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but it always sounded like an endearment on Saint’s tongue.

  “Right. If that were the case, you’d be capable of surviving on what—three meals a week, tops? Why don’t you just say you’re not hungry?” She chewed and swallowed while he watched her.

  “Aren’t you at least going to cut the silent act to tell me I look beautiful tonight?” she asked him brashly, not concerned in the slightest by his refusal to chitchat with her. Saint wasn’t one for small talk. Never had been. How many times had he walked across the grounds and sat on the front porch with her, or with her and Aidan, said a total of a dozen words the entire time, before uncoiling his long frame from an Adirondack chair and sauntering silently back to the big house?

  She couldn’t imagine how he thrived in a social gathering such as this. He always managed to get exponentially more money donated to LifeLine’s shelters and group homes than any board member, so he must not be entirely backward. But if he possessed an ounce of social acumen, Christina had yet to see it.

  Saint was just…Saint.

  He’d shrugged and blessed her with a rare smile. “Do you really need to hear that you’re beautiful? Why state the obvious? Might as well say the sun is bright.”

  She paused abruptly in the act of lifting her champagne glass to her lips, her eyes flashing up to meet his. Had he really just said that? Saint never complimented her. At least not with words. With her special ability to read people’s minds, however, Christina had always known he admired her…wanted her.

  Not enough to ever do anything about it, she’d thought irritably. Not even after eight years of knowing her. But still, she’d known. She’d seen the expression of longing in his eyes, noticed how even the slightest snarl on his shapely mouth resulted in her boyfriends preferring to stay clear of Whitby altogether. Certainly Aidan’s deadbeat dad, Rick, had avoided Whitby like the plague, but Christina suspected that had just as much to do with Rick being a loser as it did Saint’s intimidating frowns.

  Saint was always her silent sentinel…her distant lover.

  She’d recently made it her mission to narrow that distance to nothing.

  She’d swallowed heavily as she stared into his mesmerizing eyes. She’d thought she’d understood the depth of his longing before, but she’d been wrong. It was as though he’d been blocking her from his desire and he suddenly released the barrier. Arousal flooded her awareness. A pleasurable tingling sensation buzzed just beneath her skin. Heat sunk from her belly to her sex. A mandatory need to touch him, to press her body against his long, hard length overcame her.

  She’d stepped forward as if to do precisely that—yes, even in the midst of a party related to her work. His head lowered, as though to meet her in a kiss. For an electric second that stretched impossibly long, she was lost…gone…flying around in the depths of Saint’s eyes.

  A harsh moan scraped her throat.

  For just a moment she’d existed in a different world—a place of rich, voluptuous pleasure. She could still feel the slight rasp of Saint’s teeth brushing her inner thigh, his firm tongue sliding between the swollen folds of her pussy, the sensation of his big hand opened across her ribs and his fingertips lightly skimming the soft curve of her lower breast. She stared up at the roof of the gazebo, ecstasy nearly blinding her.

  “No. Never again.”

  She’d blinked at Saint’s roughly spoken words, the trance broken. The lights around her seemed to throb against the velvety black background of the night sky. In the distance, she heard the waves of Lake Michigan striking the beach rhythmically, or was that the sound of the blood surging in her veins? She’d felt hot. She touched her fingertips to her cheek. Her face wasn’t the only thing that had grown warm and damp.

  Warm moisture pooled between her thighs.

  Had it really happened?

  Her gaze locked on Saint’s rigid features. She took a step closer to him, stunned by the magnitude of desire she saw etched on his features…hurt by the fact that he appeared to be struggling like crazy against that desire.

  “Saint?” she asked in a hushed tone.

  Her boss, Al Anderson, had stepped up to her and asked her a question about the renovations at Altgeld House, and Saint was gone.

  That hadn’t been just her fantasy that she’d seen graphically as she stared into Saint’s amazing eyes, Christina thought bitterly as she stood alone on the shadowed Whitby grounds. He’d experienced it as well.

  He’d wanted it, too.

  So why did he make love to others beneath the gazebo on this sultry, sweet-smelling night that should have been theirs to share, Christina wondered, still shocked by the unexpected blow he’d dealt her.

  Resentment swept through her when she gleaned the truth. She’d never considered herself a masochist, so she couldn’t imagine why she took one step, then two, and then was racing through the cloak of darkness.

  She briefly glimpsed the gazebo s
et in a thirty-by-thirty-foot clearing before she ducked behind the trunk of an oak tree. Candlelight reflected off the white, high-roofed gallery, making the structure seem unnaturally bright, like a giant, glowing lantern set amongst the black canopy of trees.

  Christina’s lungs burned as she tried to catch her breath. A strange, nearly unbearable combination of excitement and dread mixed in her breast, making her limbs tremble. She took a shaky inhale and peered around the trunk of the tree.

  For several moments, she stared, her muscles frozen. Nausea rose in her even as sexual arousal unlike anything she’d ever known before spread like wildfire to every nerve in her body.

  Her position put her directly in front of one of the six-foot-wide entrances to the gazebo. Two females lay naked next to one another, their thighs spread. One of them still wore a pair of strappy high-heeled sandals while the other was barefoot. Christina saw the soles of her light brown feet flex as Saint leaned over her, his head between her thighs.

  The other female had a long mane of blonde hair. She writhed against the pressure of Saint’s hand moving between her thighs. Neither woman had been at the party, Christina was sure.

  Neither was the type who would go unnoticed.

  The candlelight caught the gleaming highlights in Saint’s burnished hair as he moved his head more rapidly and the woman’s rapturous cries cut through the still, humid air. He was clothed only in the dark pants that went with the suit he’d worn earlier at the party. Lean, powerful muscle rippled beneath golden brown skin.

  The woman cried out sharply, her muscles stiffening, her bare feet flexing hard. He continued to eat her pussy hungrily while she climaxed.

  He lowered his head to a smooth thigh; his jaw opened and shut. The woman raised her head and keened louder, her eyes going wide in stunned ecstasy, her pleasure so tangible it seemed to flow through Christina like palpable waves.

  The thing that struck Christina most in that soul-wrenching moment was how natural he looked. It was as though she’d come upon a lion feeding on a fallen gazelle. There was no violence here, no sacrilege. His consumption was raw and primitive and as right as a summer downpour upon the thirsty earth.