Niccolo (Blood Brothers) by Eve Vaughn Read Free Book Online Page A

you. My feelings for you are probably stronger than the ones I feel for Niccolo and Romeo but I suspect it’s because of how strongly you’re connected to GianMarco. I’m in love with him. He’s my bloodmate. Do you understand?”
    Dante nodded, not trusting himself to speak. It was the old “I love you but I’m not in love with you” speech. He’d chuckled when he’d seen it played over and over again between the humans he sometimes observed. He never thought he’d be on the receiving end of this speech, or that it would hurt so goddamn much.
    “And I don’t believe you’re in love with me either, Dante. You might think you are but after a little introspection I’m sure you’ll come to that realization as well.” She stood on the tips of her toes to plant a light peck on his lips. That little kiss, though it meant nothing more than a gesture of comfort to her, it meant the world to him.
    She pulled away from him then and dropped her arms to her sides. “In the meantime, don’t stay away too long. GianMarco needs you. We both do. And don’t even think about depriving your niece of her uncle.”
    For the first time, Dante smiled. “Niece? You seem so sure.”
    Maggie touched her stomach protectively. “Of course I am. A mother knows these things.”
    “You couldn’t keep me away if you tried.”
    “Glad to hear it.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave him a quick embrace. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
    “I always do.” Unable to help himself he grazed her cheek with his knuckles. “Goodbye, Maggie.”
    “Bye,” she whispered.
    As Dante walked out of the house, he didn’t dare turn back because he didn’t think he could bare the sight of Maggie right now. The worst part wasn’t that she didn’t return his feelings, he’d known all along she never would. It was her pity.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

 
     
     
    Chapter Three
    Sasha walked up to the door of the imposing manor with a sense of impending doom. Even though she was ninety-nine, the thought of having a conversation with her father gave her a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. The door opened before she knocked. Dmitri Bolshoy, the family butler, stood at the door, his face dour and his demeanor stiff.
    “Miss Romanova, your father is expecting you.” He opened the door, allowing her entry. She barely felt the tingle of her father’s protective wards as she walked over the threshold. The old conquered warlock’s lip curled slightly. It was enough to demonstrate his resentfulness without being blatantly disrespectful. All of the servants at the Romanov compound held the same gleam of defiance and anger in their eyes. Sasha suspected that if she had been conquered she, too, would resent being forced into servitude by the one who was responsible for that fate.
    Long before Sasha had been born, witches and warlocks would challenge one another to a battle of power in order to become more powerful and to establish supremacy. When a witch or warlock was killed by another of their kind, some of their power was absorbed by the killer. In the case of challenges, the victor agreed to spare the defeated party’s life in order to absorb enough power to render their opponent powerless. However, there was often a gross mismatch—despite the fact that witches and warlocks possessed the same basic skills and all received similar training, each also possessed their own special talents. A warlock whose main power was levitation for instance was no match for another witch or warlock who was a conjurer. The losers became “conquered” and had to serve the victors for three centuries; they were no better than slaves and Sasha felt sorry for them.
    The practice was not so common now as it had been, but her father had won so many challenges over the years that he still had many servants. Sasha was glad this barbaric practice was practically nonexistent now.
    Being born a witch or a warlock guaranteed immortality to the extent