Itai's Hunt

By Jory Strong

Itai Coronado is on a hunt that doesn’t include finding his two mates. So when he encounters Anissa, he resists the scorching desire that urges him to claim her. Mates are a weakness, a vulnerability he can’t afford—not given the secret his family holds.

But the Angelini magic won’t be denied. And after a heated encounter with Dex, Itai soon finds himself bound to a human and a vampire. He might need them, he might crave them, he might be addicted to the hot, fast burn of pleasure when he’s with them, but to protect his family’s secret, he fights against allowing them fully into his life— even as hidden enemies close in, threatening a future with his mates.

Warning: This is a ménage story that includes graphic male/male sexual interaction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jory Strong
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463415399

Jory Strong

Jory Strong has been writing since childhood and has never outgrown being a daydreamer. When she's not hunched over her computer, lost in the muse and conjuring up new heroes and heroines, she can usually be found reading, riding horses, or walking dogs. Her stories have won numerous awards, as well as been national best sellers. She lives in California with her husband and a menagerie of pets. She loves hearing from readers. Visit her website at jorystrong.com or contact her at [e-mail].

Book preview

Itai’s Hunt

The Angelini #4

Jory Strong

Copyright 2020 by Jory Strong

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Syneca Featherstone

Thanks to Jennifer Kiziah, Proofreader Extraordinaire

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Table of 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

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Chapter 1

Anissa Licata reluctantly left her bedroom in the sleeping vault. She traveled down a hallway, the gleaming black of the tiles shot through with Licata gold.

Like the rest of the mansion, the walls were graced with the works of masters, the existence of many of the paintings unknown to human art historians. She reached the stairway and climbed upward toward the first floor, her destination, the opulent family gathering room.

She was the last to rise from the sun's enforced sleep. The servants wouldn't mention it in her hearing, but they'd gossip, having timed the difference between her and whoever had risen before her down to the second.

Those who acted as spies for others in the Licata family would forward the information. And though this rising was no different than any of the others, it would fuel continued speculation. What was so special about her? Why had the patriarch brought her to Las Vegas? Would his reason for personally turning her, a bastard from a remote line, a nobody who'd barely survived her human infancy, finally become evident?

Stepping onto the first floor, her thoughts went inevitably to the Las Vegas Strip. It was a glittery oasis that came alive at night, its casinos and shows packed with prey, drawing supernaturals to its frantic energy and lush possibility as surely as it drew humans to its roller-coaster ride of hope and despair.

Anissa kept herself from climbing a second set of stairs and stopping in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. From that vantage point, she could see a certain landmark casino, and from there, her imagination could too easily travel to Dex's shop.

He'd be with clients. Reading tarot cards. Or maybe runes. Or, for a select few, bones.

In the before, he'd be anticipating her arrival, his cock hardened, his heart beating strong and sure, her name a caress when it left his lips.

In the after, if he allowed himself to think of her at all, it'd be his heart that was hardened instead of his cock, and her name, a curse, not a caress.

Forgive me, she silently pleaded, a familiar burn traveling up her throat.

She fought that harsh, aching heat with a swift inhale. Refused to allow the burning sorrow to reach her eyes and become the sting of tears. She couldn't afford to shed them, not in the company of her half-sister, Venetia, and not in the company of Mauro, one of the patriarch's inner circle.

Taking another deep breath, Anissa forced her thoughts away from Dex, though she wrapped the confidence she'd always felt in his presence around her. Willing herself to hold on to that strength, she entered the estate's private family room.

Her half-sister sat on a short sofa, face flushed with the satisfaction of a vampire who'd toyed with her food before finally feeding. A crumpled human lay on the floor at Venetia's feet.

He was naked except for gold slave bands at his wrists. Dried semen was smeared on his chest and abdomen. And though his face was slack with pleasure, it was impossible for Anissa to suppress a shudder of revulsion.

She abhorred the practice of making blood slaves. But it would never be banned by the vampire's ruling council, not as long as there were humans willing to trade their lives for some perceived gain without understanding that they would become chattel.

Venetia's lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. Except in looks, Anissa and her half-sister couldn't be more opposite.

Like her, Venetia was clearly marked by their Italian heritage, though the Licata patriarch hadn't walked beneath the sun since well before Italy existed as a nation.

Mauro, sitting at the Grand piano, was also black-haired and dark-eyed. He glanced up only momentarily, then returned his attention to the piano's black and white keys.

At the other end of the piano bench, a liveried blood-servant stood motionless, holding a tray with decanter, crystal glass and sharp-edged silver knife. He was one of many, blood-bound by a Licata who'd long since lost interest, if that interest had ever existed in the first place.

Anissa felt a pang, more sadness than revulsion at his fate. What the man had once hoped to gain, she didn't know.

There were reasons, beyond servitude, to bind humans, making their continued existence dependent on a vampire's blood. Her gaze flicked to Mauro's personal servant, a man changed in his late fifties. He sat at a writing desk, clad in a black tailored suit, an appointment book before him, a phone in hand.

Anissa crossed the room and stopped in front of a tapestried bell pull that hung along the wall several feet away from a grouping of furniture. Above the golden tassels that marked the bell pull's end, the tapestry depicted scenes of battle. The vanquished lay pale and bloodless on the dirt, or knelt cowed, moments away from being drained by their captors—or spared and turned into blood servants and blood slaves.

She shuddered for a second time, repulsed by the images, by the history they represented. And yet, despite her revulsion, she grasped the pull and tugged, causing a bell in some distant part of the patriarch's estate to ring.

Weakling, Venetia hissed, and the word was like an asp's deadly bite, piercing skin with lethal fangs and pumping toxin into Anissa's bloodstream.

It didn't matter that she'd heard the word a thousand times, a million times, had no doubt been labeled it by the midwife who'd attended her birth. The word still burned its way to her heart and created a chasm of ache.

Weakling.

There was truth in the hissed curse—and it was a curse among all vampires, even more so among the Licatas. It was a word that begged a challenge, if not to the death, then to a debt that'd be as reviled by the loser as the curse itself was in their world.

Weakling.

She didn't belong here, on this estate or any of them. She had never belonged among the Licatas, as a human or a vampire.

Given the choice, she wouldn't have lived among them or been turned—but that choice had never been hers. The Licata patriarch ensured that all his human descendants, legitimate or illegitimate, were made vampire—or died in the attempt to transform.

Anissa moved away from the bell pull and chose the chair closest to the piano. She refused to give her father's legitimately born daughter the satisfaction of a reaction. Not that Venetia needed a reaction to continue her assault, not with Mauro in the room.

The powerful vampire seamlessly transitioned from a tune that'd been popular in the Seventies to one she and Venetia, only two human years apart, had danced to as teens in the Fifties.

Venetia laughed and clapped her hands, abandoning her verbal assault. Anissa smiled gratefully at Mauro.

If not for him, her party girl of a mother would have rid herself of an unwanted pregnancy with a back-alley abortion in 1940. But the patriarch had long before decreed that every child carrying Licata blood would be carried to term and claimed.

It had been Mauro's responsibility to monitor the far-removed family lines. And while she wouldn't have chosen to be Licata or vampire, she didn't wish herself never born. What she did wish for was a love that she could be certain was real, for a love she could return and surrender to without it leading to another's destruction.

Anissa's heart spasmed with ache. Visions of Dex, the two of them lying on his disheveled bed, their long black hair entangled, their limbs entangled, their lives entangled, returned on a surge of longing. Time and time again she'd gazed into blue eyes that held heat and hunger, her heart tripping, stumbling, a confession on her lips. But that confession had remained unspoken, held back by the fear that his love came from vampire enthrallment, from the effect of her bite, from the taking of his blood that led to orgasms he claimed blew the top of his head off.

If only she'd been strong enough to confess, to claim him before…

The piano went silent as another servant wearing the Licata livery of gold jacket and black trousers entered carrying a tray with a single, jeweled cup.

He crossed the room. Stopped in front of her, his expression neutral.

Your requested nourishment, he said, his announcement arriving well behind the scent of blood.

She didn't want this. Had never wanted this. But even so, her mouth watered and her pulse quickened, demanding she reach for the goblet the patriarch had decreed she'd use if she refused to feed, upon waking, directly from the blood servants assigned to the Las Vegas estate.

The blood slave at her half-sister's feet stirred and moaned softly. See that he's returned to Wyldfyres, Venetia told the servant standing in front of Anissa. And deliver the message that he displeased me and should be given at least five lashes with the whip.

Very good, my lady, the servant said, his voice, like his face, remaining neutral.

Mauro swiveled on the piano bench. "That's a bit harsh, Venetia, not that I care one way or another about your plaything's fate. But there's a certain etiquette, even in Sin City. I'd hate to see you labeled provincial. First, for having failed to make your expectations clear to a borrowed slave and, second, by the gaffe of shifting the burden of perceived failure and punishment back to his owner."

Venetia pouted, true anger flashing in her eyes. I didn't give him permission to come.

But you didn't specifically forbid it either. Mauro lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug. Decide for yourself. I can only do my best to educate and advise.

Anissa took the jeweled goblet from the tray, freeing the servant to deal with the slave. The goblet was warm against her cupped palms. Thanks to magic, it was the temperature of the blood as it'd left a faceless donor's body.

Except the donors weren't faceless. She'd been at this estate long enough to know the humans by name.

One of them had been cut and healed because she couldn't bear the intimacy of piercing their skin with her fangs and drinking directly from a vein. Not after Dex.

She needed to get over him. She needed to feed herself.

Tonight, she decided. Tonight she'd begin feeding again.

Her preference would have been to go to Fangs, where the humans were said to line up, many sporting cosmetically created fangs, and all of them hoping to be bitten, to gain proof vampires existed and to become a vampire's chosen meal. But that was Altaer's haunt.

For some reason, the patriarch had his scion, his most important still-human relative, hanging out at a nightclub co-owned by several of Brann O'Ciardha's children, though those children were centuries-old vampires, powerful in their own right.

Thoughts of the vampire council's executioner were enough to send cold dread down any vampire's spine, whether guilty or innocent. When it came to Brann, news spread like a contagion, transmitting an infection-like fear.

Anissa shivered. Despite the abundance of willing prey, she didn't want to risk an encounter with Brann, his vampire child Gian, or their Angelini mates. She was not adept at vampire politics and Altaer's presence at the club suggested an agenda by the patriarch.

Her attention returned to the goblet in her hand and she swallowed a mouthful of saliva, then swallowed again. Resentment toward the patriarch flared, for forcing this ritual on her, and she hated that if she continued resisting the contents of the cup, she might well begin drooling.

It was getting harder to delay the inevitable lift of the goblet to her lips. Why she bothered at all, she couldn't fully explain.

But tonight this would end. Tonight she'd go to Wolfsbane, which catered primarily to supernaturals. Tonight, she would feed.

Her stomach tensed, but looking down into the goblet of warm blood, she firmed her resolve. Tonight, she'd stop fighting. She'd do what she hadn't done since Dex—she'd take blood directly from a vein.

She'd take a werewolf's blood. She'd gain power from it, and tomorrow she'd rise earlier.

Word of it would reach the patriarch. And tomorrow, she would steel herself and feed from one of the servants, putting an end to this hated ritual.

The servant who'd delivered the goblet bent and gripped the naked slave's forearm. Venetia prodded the slave with the red, pointed tip of a designer shoe.

The blond-haired slave moaned and rolled from his side to his back, his flaccid cock lying on his thigh. He was well-endowed, but then Anissa had heard that was a requirement of the slaves owned by Wyldfyres, her half-sister's favorite haunt.

Venetia prodded the slave, this time with a harder kick to his ribs. His lashes fluttered, then lifted to reveal brown eyes.

Mistress, he said, voice slurred from residual pleasure, his cock filling in anticipation.

The servant's hand tightened on the slave's arm. Up you go, he said. Time to get you back to the club.

The slave's gaze sought Venetia's, silently pleading with her to allow him to remain, or at least to return him to Wyldfyres with a message that would lead to his being rewarded by the slave master.

Venetia pouted. She huffed and cast a glance in Mauro's direction then amended her previous order, telling the servant, When you return him, convey that I got my money's worth.

Very good, my lady. A more forceful tug drew the naked slave to his feet and he allowed himself to be escorted toward the doorway, sending several longing glances at Venetia before he left the room.

Mauro lifted a hand in summons, animating the servant who'd remained motionless at his post next to the piano bench. Using one hand, the dark-haired servant uncorked the decanter, then poured vodka into a crystal glass.

No one should drink alone, Mauro said, meeting Anissa's gaze and lifting the glass from the silver tray.

Shall I add the finishing touches to your drink? Venetia asked, giddy anticipation in her voice at the prospect of being useful to one of the patriarch's favorites.

Mauro's free hand ceased moving on the piano keys. He tilted the mouth of the glass toward Venetia. Certainly.

Venetia hurried forward, stopping next to Mauro. The servant lifted the silver knife from the tray and offered it to her, handle first.

She took the knife, lips parting as the servant then held his wrist above Mauro's glass.

The sleeves of the gold livery jacket and the black shirt beneath it were short, allowing access to his wrists.

A snake-quick strike and blood welled on his skin. He turned his wrist over and that blood dripped into the glass, turning the clear liquid pinkish, then darker, and darker as his expression remained carefully blank.

Servant or slave, the only true difference lay in the value of their lives to their masters.

Venetia watched, mesmerized, and it was easy for Anissa to imagine her half-sister slicing a thick vein and watching blood geyser in heartbeat surges of red.

That'll do, Mauro murmured, and the servant immediately turned his wrist over. Rather than risk staining Mauro's clothing by thrusting his hand eagerly toward Mauro's mouth, the servant held steady, waiting for the tongue swipe that would close and heal the wound.

Mauro rewarded the servant with the press of mouth to wound and the draw of blood before sealing the cut. The front of the servant's black pants tented but he remained soundless and motionless until dismissed from the room.

Venetia returned to the couch. Mauro tipped the glass toward Anissa in a silent salute. Shall we?

A nod was all she could manage. All she dared manage for the saliva flooding her mouth.

She touched her mouth to the cup, the first swallow bringing traitorous thoughts of Dex's bed and the memory of his blood sliding down her throat, rich and sustaining, as they made love.

Pathetic, Venetia said, the icy epitaph bringing Anissa back to the present and the already emptied goblet.

A heartbeat of protest from her soul threatened rejection of the blood, but vampire reality quickly overrode it, warming her with the rapid spread of heat as her cells were fed.

I assume you're heading to Wyldfyres for tonight's entertainment, Mauro said, diverting Venetia, his glass only down by a few sips.

Yes.

He turned toward Anissa. And you? Another night locked in your studio and given over to your art?

She wavered. Except for those times when the sun enforced the dreamless sleep of the dead, her paintings were her escape from the pain of Dex's loss.

She gripped the detested goblet hard enough to feel the imprint of the scenes carved into its surface. I'm going to Wolfsbane.

Elegant eyebrows lifted. Truly?

She only just prevented her chin from jutting out. Yes.

I wouldn't have considered it your type of place.

She shrugged. I'm tired of rising last.

Instant regret necessitated the quick suppression of a grimace. This was why she avoided any place where politics might come into play. She hadn't meant to share her intention to feed on a Were.

Venetia's laugh held ridicule. I'm tempted to give up my own plans and go to Wolfsbane instead.

Suit yourself, Anissa said, setting the empty blood cup down on an end table coaster.

She stood and headed toward the doorway. Be careful, Mauro called after her. You'll be in neutral territory. Harm that occurs at Wolfsbane is rarely viewed as a matter that can be brought before the governing councils.

Anissa nodded an acknowledgement and escaped the room, then escaped the estate.

Being in the blue-gray Karmann Ghia sports coup brought a sense of optimism. She'd been twenty-two, and human, when she'd bought the car.

She'd still been ignorant about what it meant to be Licata, though two years later that would change. But on that spring day, blissfully unaware of what the future held, she'd walked from the rooming house to the dealership. And decades later, whenever she was in the Karmann Ghia, the windows down and the air blowing across her cheek, she was reminded of the breeze that had lifted her hair as she'd made that walk, anticipating the freedom of having her own car, though the scent of Las Vegas bore no resemblance to the smell of that small town in Maine.

Until Dex, that time had been the best in her life. She'd studied with an elderly man whose life work had been authenticating works of art. And during her free time, she'd spent every waking moment sketching and painting.

She'd thought back then that her interest in art history and her eye for technique were what had gained her the attention of the patriarch. He'd seemed part legend and part boogie-man back then, because despite being a Licata, she'd met him for the first time only days before the unexpected offer to apprentice with Hans Gutenberg had arrived.

She'd believed that the patriarch had arranged for her to go to Maine because he'd viewed her as talented, as someone whose ability might one day be applied to his own extensive art collection. She hadn't known then that the majority of his paintings had come directly from the hands of the old masters and so their authenticity wasn't in question. She hadn't known then that her value to him would always be measured by what power he might gain because of their shared blood, or that for him, blood and power would always trump love.

Wolfsbane came into view. The club was exactly what she'd expected—a dive with darkened parking areas meant to keep humans who drove by at the wrong moment from noticing a Were whose emotions threatened a form shift or a vampire seconds away from feeding, fangs unsheathed and glistening in the moonlight.

It was a place that catered to young supernaturals coming to Vegas with the idea that word of what they did in this glittering town would never get back to their leaders.

The urge to keep driving swept in and she clenched the steering wheel. Even the thought of what she was about to do was enough to congeal what blood remained in her stomach.

I can do this, she told herself. I need to do this.

She parked the Karmann Ghia at the furthest open parking spot, not that the added distance would delay entering the club.

Bumps rose on her skin with each step toward a doorway guarded by a human bouncer. He stood with utter confidence, a dark-skinned man with arms crossed over a broad chest.

Perhaps he was a shifter's mate, or a warlock hired to pass judgement on which humans should be allowed to enter. Or maybe he was a part owner, someone who meant to ensure that the injury or death of an innocent did not draw the attention of human authorities, and because of it, one or more of the supernatural governing councils.

A certain amount of lawlessness was allowed, but there were limits in a world where the majority of humans were ignorant of the existence of supernatural beings. Maybe one day that would change. A part of her wished it would—

No, that wasn't true. Change would be bloody, devastating, and most of the carnage would be human.

What she wished was that Dex had known. That she'd had the courage to trust him with the truth, though knowing it would have meant he'd be pulled completely into the supernatural world.

The bouncer's gaze locked onto her, judged, the seconds crawling past, long enough for Venetia's hissed word to vibrate through Anissa and weigh down her heart. Weakling.

She continued forward, reached the dark-skinned human, half-expecting him to block the door and turn her away or ask if she was sure she wanted to go inside. But he let her pass with a slight nod.

Anissa entered the club and the raw, hot energy of the gathered Weres slammed into her. Their scent filled her nostrils, reminding her of paintings capturing dark, lush woods, places where there was an endless cycle of life and death.

Doubt assailed her. She nearly stepped backward when heads turned and appreciative masculine eyes gleamed in the darkened room, predators marking her as prey.

Her mouth went dry. Her heart tripled its beat so her pulse pounded wildly beneath her jaw.

Along with the Weres, there were vampires, not many, but enough. None of them were Licata.

Their gazes locked on her pulse. Without being bound, they wouldn't gain nourishment or power by sinking their fangs into her throat, but they'd gain bragging rights. And word would soon reach the patriarch.

Imagining an audience with him freed her feet. She headed toward the bar, instinctively wanting to escape the feeling of being surrounded by predators.

Were energy brushed against her like hot fur. Male bodies didn't yield, but forced her to navigate between them. Each inhalation brought the scent of lush forests and spent seed.

Glares were directed her way from the women, almost all of them human. The ones with clear eyes were probably witches, while the adventurous party girls had been granted entry because the drugs and alcohol in their systems would allow them to explain away as a hallucination anything they witnessed.

Anissa reached the bar and some of the tension eased at having less space to defend. The bartenders were cougars, a brother and sister by their coloring. The male said, Don't keep your beverage of choice on tap.

You've got red wine?

A good merlot?

That'd be fine.

Temperature?

Chilled is fine.

A minute later he set it on the bar.

She paid, and considered that the purchase entitled her to remain at the bar though the stools were all claimed. Back facing the bartenders, she leaned against the smooth wood, careful not to extend an invitation by meeting any of the heated Were gazes trained on her.

That would come later.

It made sense to observe, she told herself. Even when she'd been human, she hadn't been someone to frequent bars and nightclubs.

Her attention was drawn to the party girls. Her mother had been one. She'd claimed to be an aspiring actress, but most of her ambition was directed at having fun, at catching and keeping the attention of gentlemen who knew how to have fun.

As Anissa watched, a young werewolf approached a blonde with impressive breasts. The blonde flicked her hair over her shoulder with long fingers tipped with pointed red nails. Next to her, a dark-haired friend with pouted lips zeroed in on the Were's auburn-haired companion and licked her lips.

It had the desired effect. The second Were prowled forward and minutes later, both couples had disappeared, going through a doorway at one end of the bar after paying a man sitting next to it, his chair tipped back and touching the wall.

Given the door's location, Anissa could only conclude that it opened into a stairwell leading to a second floor of self-serve bedrooms.

She shuddered as she tried to imagine herself taking a Were through that doorway and up those stairs. Images of being tangled in the sheets with Dex assailed her. She couldn't trade sex for blood.

Her stomach clenched and she forced herself to pick up the wine glass. Despite its chill, she was reminded of the cup filled with a servant's blood, and with it, her resolve to feed on someone now that she no longer had Dex.

Her attention flicked from male face to male face to male face. Surely at least one of the Weres here was a thrill-seeker who wanted to be bitten by a vampire, something forbidden by most packs.

Sex with a vampire didn't necessarily have to be on the menu. She swallowed the wine—gulped half of it if she labeled her actions honestly.

Her gaze roved as she forcefully suppressed Dex's image. They were over. He was better off without having her in his life. He was safer far removed from her world, a world controlled by a patriarch who reviled weakness.

And yet the patriarch had allowed her to live.

And yet, the patriarch had changed her himself, to give her the best chance of surviving, when he hadn't bothered to do the same for her father.

She could summon no grief for the man who'd resented her presence in his home. Who had readily supported her mother's intention to abort.

She'd been ten when he died. He'd left on a business trip and perished in a fire—or so she'd been told. It wasn't until years later, at twenty-four, when she'd been summoned to the patriarch's estate in Venice, that she'd learned the truth about the Licata line.

Others learned that truth earlier. Altaer, the scion, had known from infancy. But those far removed from the inner circle, those of the lesser lines and those viewed as weak, didn't have the truth revealed until the eve of their transformation.

Her attention settled for an instant on