Forever Broken

He even denies his attraction to other men, let alone one of my kind. What am I to do? Can I go through life knowing he is out there without contacting him? No, he decided at once. If the were—if Paul—didn’t come to see him soon, then Laurent would seek him out. He didn’t care if he had to spend every minute of every night haunting Bicentennial Park, he was determined to meet up with the other man and prove to him that they belonged together.

But how could he prove it? If the electrical feelings of want and need when they touched didn’t convince him, what would? I must find a way—I cannot give up! In all the legends his blood nurse had told him as a child, the fortunate few who found their Coeur de Sang had to go through many trials and hardships in order to be with them forever. But in the end it was worth it, always worth it and they lived for eternity in the bliss of true love.

I am a hopeless romantic, Laurent acknowledged as he let himself into the carriage house and settled onto the hand-tooled leather sofa. One taste of love and I am made as foolish and weak as a human. And yet, he couldn’t seem to help himself. He could still feel Paul’s arms around him, could still taste the warmth of his mouth and smell the fur and spice scent of his skin. He couldn’t stop wanting him and he didn’t give a damn about their differences—he just wanted to feel the other man’s hard, muscular body against his, to hear Paul whisper his name as they were joined as one. As they fucked…

A brisk rapping at the door shattered his fantasy. Laurent sat up straight and pulled his hand out of the waistband of his Prada pants where it had somehow crept, possibly to ease the ache in his cock. “Come—” he called but before he could finish the word, his father appeared in the doorway.

Despite his advanced age of well over six hundred, Rousard Montcrieve looked like a vigorous man in his forties. Laurent had gotten his eyes from his mother but his dark, almost-curly hair was straight from his father and they looked very much alike. The senior Montcrieve had a slightly more bulky build than his son, but he was still svelte and graceful as only a vampire can be and he moved with the silent ease of a being who has been on the Earth for nearly half a millennium.

“Father.” Laurent sat up straighter still. “To what do I owe this honor?” “Your mother and I have been talking, Laurent.” His father stood in the middle of the small but richly decorated living room with his hands behind his back like a general reviewing soldiers in parade formation.

“Yes?” It suddenly occurred to Laurent that he must still smell of werewolf. He rose and moved as unobtrusively as possible to put the couch between himself and his father.

“And we’ve come to a decision. Son, it is time the title passed to you.”

“What?” Laurent looked at him blankly.

“You’ve been doing very well since we moved here, admirably dealing with the changes thrust upon you.”

Meaning I haven’t been pining away after Jean Pierre too obviously. Laurent nodded neutrally. “Yes.”

“And we’re glad you’ve finally gotten a hobby. I had someone in to appraise your little art collection just the other night and I’m given to understand you have quite an eye.”

Laurent was surprised. “Er, thank you, Father. But I still don’t see what this had to do with you passing the title to me.”

“Everything and nothing.” His father waved expansively. “It is simply time. But with the title of viscount comes many responsibilities. For instance, you must take a consort—specifically a wife.”

“I do not wish to take a wife. I prefer those of my own gender.” Laurent tried to keep his voice firm but his father waved his objection away.

“As do I. But you can make a suitable marriage and only visit your consort once or twice until an heir is conceived. Then you can both take separate lovers and live as friends—that is how your mother and I managed it.”

“I suspected as much,” Laurent said dryly. “But I do not wish to live in a loveless marriage.”

“That is simply too bad. As a Viscount of the Blood you have an obligation to produce a legitimate heir. Marriage is the only way to do so.”

“I’m not the viscount yet,” Laurent reminded him. “And to be honest, Father, I don’t feel ready for such responsibility. I’ve only just turned one hundred, you know.”

His father glowered. “Which is the age my own father passed the title on to me.

You will take the title and you will be married, Laurent, and there’s an end to it.”