Blood Rush: A Vampire Fae Paranormal Romance (Highland Blood Fae Book 2) Read online

  BLOOD RUSH

  HIGHLAND BLOOD FAE

  A.S. GREEN

  TORTOISE HOUSE PRESS

  Copyright © 2021 A.S. Green

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Sanja

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Blood Lessons Sneak Peek

  Also By A.S. Green

  About A.S. Green

  1

  February

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  The worst part about drinking blood from a low-quality woman was the sour taste it left behind.

  It filled Knox Boyd with a cold, hard feeling in his gut—as cold and as hard as the icy frost on the kitchen window.

  He took another swig of strong black coffee and swished it around like mouthwash before spitting it into the sink. It didn’t make much difference. The sour taste still lingered. He supposed it was as much as he deserved. A quality woman was beyond his grasp. He’d come to terms with that more than a century ago. And speaking of quality women…

  Knox jerked his head toward the soft, feminine laugh coming from the hallway. Then he turned his back to the sink and braced his hands against the edge of the counter, ready to greet his queen. They’d only just found her nine months ago. Nearly lost her, too.

  Ainsley Morris. Or, he supposed, it was Ainsley Campbell now.

  She entered the kitchen along with Alex Campbell—the McKee—their chieftain, and her bondmate.

  Knox’s welcoming smile slid off his face. He still couldn’t wrap his head around a chieftain who’d refused for so long to bond his queen. Alex’s hesitation had almost cost them everything.

  Knox knew if he were the one sitting in the chieftain’s chair, he wouldn’t have been so reckless. He would have claimed their queen—marked her with his scent and made it known she was his. Then he wouldn’t have wasted any time bonding her with an exchange of blood.

  Of course, it wouldn’t have been a love match between him and Ainsley, like it was between her and Alex. But that would’ve been okay. As far as he was concerned, there was weakness in love. Weakness, and far too much pain.

  This was not to say Knox hadn’t dreamt of having a bloodwife of his own; he was still a red-blooded male, wasn’t he? But dreams were where she’d have to stay.

  At first, neither Alex nor Ainsley noticed Knox standing there on the other side of the kitchen island. They were too wrapped up in each other. Their lack of attention only served to remind Knox how inconsequential he’d become.

  Of the six surviving ba’vonn-shee—a rare race of blood-drinking fae from the Scottish highlands—Knox was the last of Clan Boyd. Besides him, there were three Campbells, one Collins, and one MacBain—all in all, six mismatched fae now living together in one house as a cobbled-together clan, as if they were brothers by blood and true bràithrean.

  Alex finally looked up from Ainsley’s face, his expression registering surprise when he saw Knox standing there. “I didn’t realize anyone else had come down yet.”

  For a second, the two ba’vonn-shee males squared off. Externally, they couldn’t have been more different. Alex Campbell was all suave, designer coolness. Knox was menace personified. He preferred jeans and a T-shirt, and the sides of his head were shaved and tattooed.

  Internally, the two males were too much alike—powerfully built, territorial to the extreme, and born to lead. Both were the sons of great chieftains.

  Unlike Knox, Alex had never wanted to lead. So the fact that it was Alex who now sat in the chieftain’s chair, bringing them all under the Campbell banner, was purely a matter of Knox’s long history of bad luck, bad timing, and numbers. Though the hows and whys didn’t really matter anymore.

  Knox’s eyes slid off Alex and his business suit, and settled on Ainsley in her ripped jeans and St. Andrews College sweatshirt. She had her winter coat draped over her arm. Soon she’d be off for school and her Friday morning botany lab. “Good morning, my queen.”

  “You’re upset about something,” she said, her eyes going from soft and sated to focused and concerned. “Let me help.”

  Knox grunted. Not only could a ba’vonn-shee queen heal physical injuries, her pheromones stabilized the male ba’vonn-shees’ minds, allowing them to blood-feed without killing their hosts. But just as Knox and his so-called brothers absorbed Ainsley’s emotional output, their emotions were just as readable to her. In short, nothing got past his queen.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Did you feed last night?” Alex asked, his tone that of a concerned parent.

  The question resurrected the sour taste on Knox’s tongue. He slid his eyes back to his chieftain. “Yes. And it went fine. She’s fine. Now excuse me. I gotta get to work.”

  In truth, Knox would have been eager to go, even without having run into Alex. He’d nearly finished a custom paint job on a 1967 Ford Mustang, and he liked to deliver his final products before the projected completion dates. Besides, there were fewer people at the garage this early in the morning, and he preferred to be left alone.

  Callum—one of the other two true Campbell brothers—wandered into the kitchen, scratching his fingers through his trimmed auburn beard. “Coffee?” he asked, addressing no one in particular. “Morning, Ainsley.”

  Knox jerked his chin in the direction of the pot.

  “Anyone else up?” Callum asked.

  “Just Alastair,” Alex said. “I passed him upstairs. I doubt we’ll see Finn and Rory for a while. They were out until nearly four this morning.”

  Knox gave one short nod. Those two had made a habit of pairing up for the nighttime escapades. This was in part because Alex had assigned Finn the job of “babysitting” their youngest brother with his history of poor control. Knox suspected there might have been more to it than that. But he tried not to think, or care, too much about any of them.

  Maybe he should’ve followed their lead though, and slept in this morning. But when Alex leaned down and kissed Ainsley’s forehead, Knox was glad to be leaving.

  It wasn’t like he had feelings for their queen—not like that anyway. But the constant reminder of his position in this makeshift clan… Well, at least his father wasn’t alive to see it. Not that a
ny of this would surprise him. Knox had never been able to satisfy his father’s expectations in life. Why should it be any better centuries after the old bastard’s death?

  Knox reached up with both hands, sliding his fingers along the shaved sides of his head. Then he tied the long center section of his hair into a top knot.

  “Heading out?” Callum asked.

  “Time’s money, Professor,” Knox replied, using his nickname for Callum, who was—in fact—a history professor at the university.

  “You’re not hurting for money,” Callum reminded him, but this was only partly true.

  They worked their various jobs because of talent, personal interest, and because they needed to do something with all of their time. Unless they were killed swiftly by an act of violence—or slowly by the lack of a queen—eternity yawned before them.

  But while they’d had centuries to build up enough wealth to support themselves comfortably, Knox was making his own side plans—he was rebuilding his own home and once it was ready, he’d be gone and would never come back.

  Campbell Manor wasn’t his home. These so-called brothers weren’t his family. He didn’t have a family. They were all gone. They couldn’t be replaced. And he was getting sick of pretending.

  “Knox,” Ainsley said. “I can feel your agitation. Are you sure I can’t help?”

  “I’m fine.” He grabbed his travel mug off the counter then—as an afterthought—gave her a smile. He hoped it didn’t look too forced. “I’ll be home this afternoon.”

  “We could all watch a movie, or something,” she suggested.

  “Sure.”

  “I get to pick it this time,” Callum added as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out the eggs and bacon.

  Alex slid his arm around Ainsley’s shoulders, but his eyes remained on Knox.

  Knox matched his stare then, after a few beats, he gave Ainsley a nod and tilted out, disappearing from their midst.

  The tilt twisted him through the fourth dimension, crushing his chest and popping his joints until a few seconds later he reappeared on the icy pavement outside the Highwayman—the garage where he worked.

  He entered through the side entrance. The calming smell of axle grease and motor oil lay heavy in the air. There were five mechanics’ bays on either side of a wide drive-through aisle that led all the way from the customer service doors at the front to the exit at the back.

  The spray booth where Knox worked was near that rear exit, tucked away in the corner and cordoned off by thick plastic curtains that hung floor-to-ceiling.

  Only one guy was working this morning. Jason. Or was it Justin?

  Before Ainsley came into the clan, their lack of a queen had made Knox and the others unstable. Knox had maintained his distance from his human co-workers for everyone’s safety. Now he was just anti-social out of habit.

  Jason-Justin had a mud-spattered SUV up on a lift. He jerked his chin in greeting as Knox passed his bay. Knox returned the gesture but kept walking to his corner, then he pulled back the plastic to enter his space and surveyed his work from the day before.

  He had to admit, he’d done a spectacular job on this one. The pink, cranberry, and metallic cherry paint he’d used on the flowers gave enough depth and shadow to make the roses look like they were actually growing out of the Mustang’s hood. And the black-and-green toned vines that tangled their way over the roof looked fucking stellar, especially over the black, stenciled lace background.

  There were just a few highlights left to do on the petals and the lettering over the fenders, then this project would be in the books. He snapped on some latex gloves and prepared the silvery sage-tinted paint.

  A few minutes later, he was just settling himself onto the short stool when he heard the sound of a woman’s voice. Knox raised his head and glanced over his shoulder but the plastic curtains blocked his view.

  It wasn’t unusual for women to hang around the garage—biker babes, and MC groupies—but that was mostly on Friday and Saturday nights when the guys made bonfires in the back parking lot and got drunk on cheap beer and Jägermeister.

  Then he heard the owner’s voice, and Knox’s eyebrows drew together. Dwayne rarely came in on Fridays, and he could tell by the sound of the woman’s footsteps that she wasn’t his wife.

  Ah, Knox thought as it sunk in. Got it. Well, if the guy wanted to get his rocks off on a Friday morning with some chick who wasn't his wife…it was nobody’s business but his own.

  Knox turned back toward the Mustang and picked up his finest airbrush. The words he’d stenciled on the fender yesterday, the ones the customer had insisted on, stared back at him. To love others, you must first love yourself.

  It was the only part of the design he couldn’t get behind, but it wasn’t like he was going to be driving around in it.

  He gave the trigger a little squeeze, testing the nozzle and spraying a burst of silver paint onto his drop cloth. Satisfied, Knox leaned in and got to work.

  2

  Blaire Darby balanced on the balls of her feet as she followed Dwayne Daniels—a wiry man with iron gray hair and the owner of the Highwayman garage—up the stairs to the administrative offices. The stairs were the metal slatted kind and probably provided good traction for someone who had motor oil on the soles of his boots. They were a death trap for her and her Jimmy Choo stilettos.

  “Thanks for coming in so early,” he said, glancing quickly over his shoulder at her.

  “My pleasure, Mr. Daniels.”

  In actuality, this was no pleasure exactly. Blaire had taken great pains to avoid places like this. Her mother had loved hanging out with motorheads and MC members, even when it meant visiting them in jail. Blaire’d decided a long time ago she wanted something different for herself. Her mother’s kind of life brought more punishments than rewards.

  Trouble was, she’d always had a weakness for the “bad boy.” She figured it was just bad genes winning out.

  The first time she’d recognized her proclivity was at Jenny Thom’s sleepover party in seventh grade. Jenny’s mom had rented The Breakfast Club for them on DVD because they’d had a “Back to the 80s” theme day at school. All the girls had gone nuts over Emilio Estevez’s character, but Blaire’d taken one look at John Bender in his long black trench, and it was hook, line and sinker.

  She’d followed that up in high school with an unhealthy infatuation with the vampire Spike in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And most recently with Ragnar Lothbrok in Vikings. The Vikings didn’t actually ride motorcycles, but she figured they would have, if they’d been available.

  It hadn’t been easy shunning the natural draw of these types of men, but if her mother’s life had taught her anything, it was to steer clear. Blaire knew she was destined for something more than her mother’s unsettled and sometimes violent life. She was destined for something different. Something bigger. Better. Something out of this world.

  She just didn’t know what it was yet.

  At first, because she knew she wasn’t going to find anything special by sitting on her ass, she’d worked two jobs and saved up enough money to intersperse her college studies with travel. She’d even climbed mountains, which was the closest she’d ever come to something extraordinary.

  These days, she was climbing a new kind of mountain. And…with a little luck…she’d soon be planting her flag as the first female partner (not to mention the youngest partner ever) at Heney-Chatsfield—the public relations firm where she worked. Hello, fat pay check!

  That is, if she didn’t blow it.

  “Please,” Mr. Daniels said. “Call me Dwayne.”

  “Of—” Damn. There went her heel between the slats. “—course, Dwayne. Thank you.” Blaire braced herself on the railing with one hand and wiggled her ankle to dislodge her shoe.

  By the time she’d pulled it free, Dwayne was several steps higher. “Can I get you coffee?” he asked without looking around.

  “No, thanks. I’m all set.” Blaire adjusted her trendy ove
rsized dark-rimmed glasses, then tugged the bottom of her suit jacket straight before continuing on.

  Dwayne waited for her at the top, then escorted her into a small office. He gestured to one of the two chairs in front of the desk, while he took a seat behind it.

  Blaire set her designer bag on the floor and hung her winter trench over the back of a chair while her client—potential client; there was still a pitch to be made—cleared a space in the piles of grease-stained papers that covered his desk.

  Behind him, there was a small credenza with peeling faux-wood laminate. It held a printer and a metal basket with more papers. A calendar with a photo of a bikini-clad woman draped over the hood of a car was thumbtacked to the wall. The only other décor was a wooden shelf with a small potted ivy, two novelty coffee mugs, several three-ring binders, and a Minnesota Twins bobblehead.

  By all appearances the Highwayman was not the high-profile, top-tier client she would normally pursue. But its gross revenues were surprisingly high, and it had a problem. A problem she could fix.

  Dwayne stared at her for a few uncomfortable seconds, his eyes assessing her glasses, her sleek chignon, her tailored black business suit.

  Blaire instantly regretted the wardrobe choice. She’d wanted to present herself as professionally as possible, but the massive disparity between her suit and the garage owner’s worn Levi’s was striking.