Table of Contents
Title Page
MIDNIGHT UNBOUND
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
The Hunters are coming!
Next up in the Midnight Breed Series
Available now in the Midnight Breed Series
Other books by Lara Adrian
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About the Author
COPYRIGHT
MIDNIGHT UNBOUND
A Midnight Breed Novella
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
LARA ADRIAN
© 2017 Lara Adrian, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)
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Coming next from Lara Adrian in 2017
FOR 100 REASONS
100 Series ~ Book 3
Click here to get notified!
MIDNIGHT UNBOUND
A lethal Breed warrior is called upon by his brethren in the Order to bodyguard a beautiful young widow he’s craved from afar in this new novella in the "steamy and intense" (Publishers Weekly) Midnight Breed vampire romance series from New York Times and #1 international bestselling author Lara Adrian.
As a former Hunter bred to be a killing machine in the hell of Dragos's lab, Scythe is a dangerous loner whose heart has been steeled by decades of torment and violence. He has no room in his world for love or desire--especially when it comes in the form of a vulnerable, yet courageous, Breedmate in need of protection. Scythe has loved--and lost--once before, and paid a hefty price for the weakness of his emotions. He's not about to put himself in those chains again, no matter how deeply he hungers for lovely Chiara.
For Chiara Genova, a widow and mother with a young Breed son, the last thing she needs is to put her fate and that of her child in the hands of a lethal male like Scythe. But when she's targeted by a hidden enemy, the obsidian-eyed assassin is her best hope for survival . . . even at the risk of her heart.
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“There are twists that I want to say that I expect from a Lara Adrian book, and I say that because with any Adrian book you read, you know there's going to be a complex storyline. Adrian simply does billionaires better.”
—Under the Covers (on FOR 100 DAYS)
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Midnight Unbound is the newest story in the Midnight Breed vampire romance series from New York Times and #1 international bestselling author Lara Adrian.
Previous Release: Midnight Untamed
Coming soon: Claimed in Shadows
Chapter 1
Scythe had been in the dance club for nearly an hour and he still hadn’t decided which of the herd of intoxicated, gyrating humans would be the one to slake his thirst tonight. Music blared all around him, the beat throbbing and pulsing, compounding the headache that had been building in his temples for days.
His stomach ached, too, sharp with the reminder that it had been almost a week since he’d fed. Too long for most of his kind. For him—a Breed male whose Gen One blood put him at the very top of the food chain—a week without nourishment was not only dangerous for his own wellbeing, but for that of everyone near him as well.
From within the cloak of shadows that clung around the end of the bar, he watched the throng of young men and women illuminated by colored strobe lights that flashed and spun over the dance floor as the DJ rolled seamlessly from the track of one sugary pop hit to another.
This tourist dive in Bari, a seaside resort town located at the top of Italy’s boot heel, wasn’t his usual hunting ground. He preferred the larger cities where blood Hosts could be hired for their services and dismissed immediately afterward, but his need to feed was too urgent for a long trek to Naples. And besides, that journey would take him past the vineyard region of Potenza—an area he made a habit of avoiding for the past few weeks for reasons he refused to consider, even now.
Hell, especially now, when blood thirst wrenched his gut and his fangs pulsed with the urge to sink into warm, tender flesh.
A snarl slid off his tongue as he let his gaze drift over the crowd again. Against his will, he locked on to a petite brunette swaying to the music on the far side of the packed club. She had her back to him, silky dark brown hair cascading over her shoulders, her small body poured into skinny jeans and cropped top that bared a wedge of pale skin at her midsection. She laughed at something her companions said, and the shrill giggle scraped over Scythe’s heightened sense of hearing.
He glanced away, instantly disinterested, but the sight of her had called to mind another waifish female—one he’d been trying his damnedest to forget.
He knew he’d never find Chiara Genova in a place like this, yet there was a twisted part of him that ran with the idea, teasing him with a fantasy he had no right to entertain. Sweet, lovely Chiara, naked in his arms. Her mouth fevered on his, hungered. Her slender throat bared for his bite—
“Fuck.”
The growl erupted out of him, harsh with fury. It drew the attention of a tall blonde who had parked her skinny ass on the barstool next to him fifteen minutes ago and had been trying, unsuccessfully, to make him notice her.
Now she leaned toward him, reeking of too much wine and perfume as she licked her lips and offered him a friendly grin. “You don’t look like you’re having much fun tonight.”
He grunted and glanced her way, taking stock of her in an instant.
Human. Probably closer to forty than the short leather skirt and lacy bustier she wore seemed to suggest. And definitely not a local. Her accent was pure American. Midwest, if he had to guess.
“Wanna hear a confession?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, not that he planned to. “I’m not having much fun tonight, either.” She heaved a sigh and traced one red-lacquered fingernail around the rim of her empty glass. “You thirsty, big guy? Why don’t you let me buy you a drink—”
“I don’t drink.”
Her smile widened and she shrugged, undeterred. “Okay, then let’s dance.”
She slid off her stool and grabbed for his hand.
When she didn’t find it—when her fingers brushed against the blunt stump where his right hand used to be, a long time ago—she recoiled.
“Oh, my God. I, um... Shit.” Then her intoxicated gaze softened with pity. “You poor thing! What happened to you? Are you a combat vet or something?”
“Or something.” Irritation made his deep voice crackle with menace, but she was too drunk to notice.
She stepped in close and his predator’s senses lit up, his nostrils tingling at the trace coppery scent of human red cells rushing beneath her skin. The rawness in his stomach spread to his veins, which now began to throb with the rising intensity of his blood thirst. His body felt heavy and slow. The stump at the end of his wrist ached with phantom pain. His normally razor-sharp vision was blurred and unfocused.
Usually, in some dark, bizarre way, he relished the sensation of physical discomfort. It reminded him that as dead inside as he might feel—as disconnected as he had been ruthlessly trained to be as a Hunter in the hell of Dragos’s laboratory—there were some things that
could still penetrate the numbness. Make him feel like he was among the living.
This particular kind of pain, though, bordered on unbearable, and it was all he could do not to grab the woman and take her vein right there in the middle of the club.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“Sure!” She practically leaped at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He steered her away from the bar and out the club’s exit without another word. Although the Breed had been outed to their human neighbors for more than twenty years, there were few among Scythe’s kind—even a stone-cold killer like him—who made a habit of feeding in public places.
His companion wobbled a bit as they stepped out into the crisp night air. “Where do you wanna go? I’m staying at a hotel just up the street. It’s a shithole, but we can go there if you want to hang out for a while.”
“No. My vehicle will do.”
Desire lit her features as she stared up at him. “Impatient, are you?” She giggled, smacking her palm against his chest. “Don’t worry, I like it.”
She trailed after him across the small parking lot to his gleaming black SUV. In some dim corner of his conscience, he felt sorry for a woman who valued herself so little that she would traipse off with a stranger who offered her nothing in return for the use of her body.
Or, in this case, her blood.
Scythe had been born nothing better than a slave. Had nearly died one. The concept of taking from someone simply because he had the physical prowess to do it pricked him with self-loathing. The least he could do was make sure that when he took he left something behind as well. The woman would be weak with an unexplainable satisfaction once he was finished with her. Since he was feeling an uncustomary twinge of pity for her, she’d also walk away with a purse fat enough to rent a room for a month in the best hotel in Bari.
“This way,” he muttered, his voice nothing more than a rasp.
She took his proffered arm and grinned, but it wasn't the coy smile that had his blood heating. It was the pulse fluttering wildly in her neck beneath that creamy flesh that had his fangs elongating. They punched through his gums and he went lightheaded with the need to feed, denied for too long.
They got into his vehicle and he wasted no time. Pivoting in the seat, he reached for her with his left hand, his fingers curling around her forearm. She uttered a small, confused noise as he drew her toward him and brought her wrist to his mouth.
Her confusion faded away the second he sank his fangs into her delicate flesh.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped, her cheeks flushing as her whole body listed forward.
She speared the fingers of her free hand into his long black hair, and he had to resist the urge to jerk away as blood filled his mouth. He didn't like to be touched. All he wanted to do was fill the gaping hole in his gut until the next time he was forced to feed.
She moaned, her breath coming in quick pants as he drank. He took his fill, drawing on her wrist until he could feel the energy coursing through his body, replenishing his strength, fortifying his cells.
When he was done, he closed the tiny bite marks on her skin with a dispassionate swipe of his tongue as she twitched against him breathlessly.
“Good Lord, what is this magic and where do I sign up for more?” she murmured, her chest still heaving.
He leaned back against the cushioned leather, feeling the calm begin to move over him as his body absorbed the temporary nourishment. When the woman started to shift toward him with drugged need in her eyes, Scythe reached out and placed his palm against her forehead.
The trance took hold of her immediately. He erased her memory of his bite and the desire it stirred in her. When she slumped back against her seat, he dug into the pocket of his black jeans for his money and peeled off several large bills. He tossed them in her lap, then opened the passenger door with a silent, mental command.
“Go,” he instructed her through her trance. “Take the money and go back to your hotel. Stay away from this club. Find something better to do with your time.”
She obeyed at once. Stuffing the bills into her purse, she climbed out of the SUV and headed across the parking lot.
Scythe tipped his head back against the seat and released a heavy sigh as his fangs began to recede. Already, the human’s blood was smoothing the edge from his whole-body pain. The malaise that had been worsening for the past twenty-four hours was finally gone and this feeding would hold him for another week if he was lucky.
He started up his vehicle, eager to be back on the road to his lair in Matera. He hadn’t even pulled out of the lot when his cell phone chirped from inside his coat pocket. He yanked it out with a frown and scowled down at the screen. Only three people had his number and he wanted to hear from exactly none of them right now.
The restricted call message glowed up at him and he grimaced.
Shit. No need to guess who it might be.
And as much as he might want to shut out the rest of the world, Scythe would never refuse the call of one of his former Hunter brethren.
On a curse, he jabbed the answer button. “Yeah.”
“We need to talk.” Trygg’s voice was always a shade away from a growl, but right now the Breed warrior’s tone held a note of urgency too. Scythe had heard that same note in his half-brother’s voice the last time he called from the Order’s command center in Rome, and he could only imagine what it meant now.
“So, talk,” he prompted, certain he didn’t want the answer. “What’s going on?”
“The Order’s got a problem that could use your specialized skills, brother.”
“Fuck.” Scythe’s breath rushed out of him on a groan. “Where have I heard that before?”
Six weeks ago, he’d allowed Trygg to drag him into the Order’s troubles and Scythe was still trying to put the whole thing behind him. As a former assassin, he didn’t exactly play well with others. He damned sure wasn’t interested in getting tangled up in Order business again.
But there were only a handful of people in the world who knew exactly what Scythe had endured in the hell of Dragos’s Hunter program, and Trygg was one of them. They had suffered it together for years as boys, and had dealt with the aftermath as men.
Even if they and the dozens of other escaped Hunters didn’t share half their DNA, their experience in the labs couldn’t make for truer brothers than that. If Trygg needed something, Scythe would be there. Hell, he’d give up his other hand for any one of his Hunter brethren if they asked it of him.
Scythe’s preternatural ability to sniff out trouble told him that Trygg was about to ask for something far more painful than that.
“Tell me what you need,” he muttered, steeling himself for the request.
“You remember Chiara Genova?”
Scythe had to bite back a harsh laugh.
Did he remember her? Fuck, yeah, he remembered. The beautiful, widowed Breedmate with the soulful, sad eyes and broken angel’s face had been the star of too many of his overheated dreams since the night he first saw her. Even now, the mere mention of her name fired a longing in his blood that he had no right to feel.
He remembered her three-year-old son Pietro, too. The kid’s laugh had made Scythe’s temples throb with memories he'd thought he left dead and buried behind him more than a decade ago.
“Are she and the boy all right?” There was dread in his throat as he asked it, but his flat tone gave none of it away.
“Yes. For now.” Trygg paused. “She’s in danger. It’s serious as hell this time.”
Scythe’s grip on his phone tightened. The woman had been through enough troubles already, starting with the unfit Breed male she’d taken as her mate several years ago. Chiara’s bastard of a mate, Sal, had turned out to be a gambler and a first-class asshole.
Unable to pay his debts, he’d wound up on the bad side of a criminal kingpin named Vito Massioni. To square up when Massioni came to collect, Sal traded his own sister, Arabella, in exchange fo
r his life. If not for the Order in Rome—more specifically, one of their warriors, Ettore “Savage” Selvaggio—Bella might still be imprisoned as Massioni’s personal pet.
As for Chiara, she was essentially made a captive of Massioni’s as well. Sal’s treachery hadn’t saved him in the end. After his death, Chiara and her son lived at the family vineyard under the constant threat of Massioni’s danger.
Six weeks ago, it had all come to a head. The Order had moved in on Massioni, taking out him and his operation... or so they’d thought. Massioni had survived the explosion that obliterated his mansion and all of his lieutenants, and he was out for blood.
Chiara and her son had ended up in the crosshairs along with Bella and Savage, putting all of them on the run. Trygg sent them to Scythe for shelter, knowing damned well that Scythe wasn’t in the habit of playing protector to anyone. Least of all a woman and child.
And he still wasn’t in that habit now.
Nevertheless, the question rolled off his tongue too easily. “Tell me what happened.”
“According to Bella, Chiara’s had the sensation she was being watched for the past week or so. Stalked from afar. Last night, things took a turn for the worst. A Breed male broke into the villa. If she hadn't heard him outside her window and had time to prepare, she'd likely have been raped, murdered, or both.”
“Motherfu—” Scythe bit off the curse and took a steadying breath. His rage was on full boil, but he rallied his thoughts around gathering facts. “Did the son of a bitch touch her? How did she manage to get away?”
“Sal kept a sword hidden beneath the bed in case Massioni ever sent some muscle there to work him over for the money he owed. After he died, Chiara left the weapon in place. By some miracle of adrenaline or determination, she was able to fight the bastard off, but barely.”
Holy hell. As he thought of the tiny slip of a woman trying to fight off a healthy Breed male he shook his head slowly in disbelief. The fact that she survived was beyond lucky or even miraculous, but Trygg was right. The odds of her doing it again were slim to none.