Bound: Alpha Claim, #3

By Marata Eros and Tamara Rose Blodgett

" LOVE this whole series" ~ Sugar B

Two New York Times bestsellers bring dark paranormal romance + dystopian grit.
"...Love this whole series..."
"... Suspenseful and Sexy and Delicious..."
"...Love all the fast paced action..."

Murphy's been turned by his hybrid human vampire co-worker. Together, they fight brutal criminals as bounty hunters of the near future. Unfortunately, turning this British dude into a vampire is not all that fellow bounty enforcer Narah Adrienne did.

While Narah remains on maternity leave, Murphy picks up the slack in her wake, and finds himself sensing human women who need turning. Especially one. Can Murphy find Grace before the Mutables do; can he resist the call of his blood?

Grace has been taken by a yet-unheard-of shifter group: the First Species. When Grace discovers she possesses rare ancient genetics that are a match for these shifters, she wants to escape - except it might not be possible with her awakening feelings for Conrick, the alpha.

Murphy is determined to acquire #1231, Grace Cline, and hand her over to the proper Turner assigned by the vampire Nobles. As Murphy fights his unique connection to Grace, he hides behind his badge of duty while ignoring his growing feelings of possession and desire for one female. Can Murphy find Grace before she's claimed by one group, as two more draw nearer?

Will the Mutables find her, or has another ancient shifter group's covert reconnaissance to find the perfect female finally caught up to her. The First Species has captured Grace and Toby, and their Alpha leader, Conrick, seems utterly unrepentant.

Unwilling to let them go, he attempts to integrate Grace in a way she never expected, and isn't sure she wants. Her connection to the first human turned by a hybrid vampire is strong, and Murphy is coming for her. Grace can feel it.

Bounty enforcer Murphy will find Grace, regardless the cost. Her blood calls to him, and he is helpless to ignore its sweet summons. Unfortunately, Grace's ancient DNA entices many groups whose primary design is to perpetuate their species, through any method that works. Will Doric, the leader of the prehistorics make a bid for Grace as well? Are the Mutables closing in around her to anoint her as the sacrificial lamb?

Can Grace survive long enough before her transition kills her? Or will those who seek to claim her save Grace from a certain death.

Bound is 300+ pages/69,000 word book in the ALPHA CLAIM world serial.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Rose Press LLC
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781370067145

Book preview

Chapter 1

Murphy

––––––––

"Wider—yes, that's it." My breathless voice purrs into the woman's ear as her high-heeled boots pierce my lovely shag carpeting in a satisfyingly secure way.

Still, I brace myself with my hands flat-palmed on the wall on either side of her head.

Can't harm her by using vampire speed with my prick. Don't want to accidentally drill the filly.

A tight smile stretches across my face as I roll my hips, pumping deeply inside her. Enjoying the greedy pulls from her tight wetness.

Please, she says, tipping her head back, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep the sigh encased.

They're all alike. Fangbangers.

Human bitches in heat. But males do have needs. And those of the vampiric persuasion—more than human.

Bite me, she says with the same desperation all the human women seem to possess..

I aim to please. My mouth opens wide and a whisper-hiss slides from between my lips, fangs painfully lengthening in preparation for feeding, balls tightening toward blissful release....

A pounding fist reverberates against my wood door.

Bollocks!

My scalp tingles, a numbing thrill of adrenaline drilling my nuts right where it counts.

What? the human woman asks in a limp daze.

Her name—Trixie? Bunny?

Fuck it.

With a piercing thrust, I climax against her womb while tilting her head to the side. I palm her neck with my hand and hiss low in the back of my throat. I strike deep—hard.

Murphy! Narah.

My eyelids sink to half-mast.

The woman groans with pleasure as her pussy rhythmically milks my cock. A pleasant female reaction to being pierced with fang and prick.

My eyes close in equal parts bliss and frustration, taking hard pulls while delicious and perfect, fresh female blood pools inside my mouth.

Gorging quickly, I take my fill, hiking my pants up one-handed as I do.

The female's head lulls to the side and I capture her skull, carefully licking the punctures closed.

There ya go, love, I say softly, giving her cheek a stroke with my finger. Hiking her skirt down I slowly spin her around and prop her up against the wall. Fragile lace panties float to her ankles and I sigh. Her eyes fly open as she tries to fight out of my hold.

I frown. That simply won't do. Sometimes the ladies get a little knackered after a bite.

The sound of splintering wood reaches us.

No time.

Pipe down, gorgeous.

My nearly black eyes level on her round brown ones. Arms that had been clawing and flailing slow to spinning windshield wipers then stop.

A vacant stare gazes back at me.

Carefully arranging her against the wall I say, Now stay right there, beauty.

She nods absently.

I take in the half-tousled hair. My essence makes a snail trail down her inner thigh.

I grin, looking at the bright side: Fang punctures are disappearing. I give a little half-nod of approval.

Murphy, a low voice calls from behind me.

I revolve slowly to meet the stare of my sire.

Narah Adrienne stands before me, hard bounty enforcer weaponry hanging like a deadly belt around her swollen midsection. A tiny woman—lethal—throws daggers at me with her silvered gaze. Platinum hair reaches the small of her back, in slim, braid-like ropes of colored white gold. They whisper over her shoulder as her fist flies and she nails the only soft spot on my chin.

I stagger backward, taking the assault, stars bursting in the periphery of my vision as I go down on one knee.

There is not another option. I can't defend myself against Narah, my fellow bounty enforcer in the year of our Lord, twenty and twenty-four.

She made me what and who I am. Not a man. Not a bounty hunter.

But a vampire.

And lately—I'm a bit more.

––––––––

I move my jaw back and forth. That fucking hurt, Narah.

She glares.

I snicker at her new gracelessness. Ready to pop—that's our Narah. Reduced to desk duty at our mutual place of business, Final Enforcement. The last resort after the bobbies can't apprehend the worst of the criminals. We're the midwest branch, with each region having a sister unit.

Final Enforcement is the last defense against criminals the police won't even touch. And since the paranormals have come out of the closet, or dens... lairs—whatever the case may be—we're fighting them as well, and assisting some.

Narah folds her arms, whipping her many tiny braids over her shoulder. You deserve it. She flings a palm toward the hapless fangbanger holding up the wall behind me.

I don't turn around, feeling a pang of guilt. "Buffy came to me, I thumb my chest, feeling the chill of sweat cooling against my skin from our tryst against the wall. She wanted to sex a vampire. I lift a shoulder, glowering right back. I'm not a brute with the ladies, Narah. Full disclosure, love."

Her light eyebrows hike in disdain. No, she paces away from me awkwardly, you just hang a sign out that says ʻcome fuck the vampire bounty hunter and get fangedʼ. Her tone is disgusted.

If you were not mated to tweedle dee and tweedle dumber, you could be having as much fun as I. I spread my palms, oh so reasonably.

"They are not tweedle dee and dumb," Narah seethes.

I shrug. I don't mind the role of man-whore, and you shouldn't mind for me. Folding my arms, I hike my eyebrows to my hairline.

You're using them. Casper is incensed—unprofessional conduct doesn't begin to cover your actions.

I put my thumb and index finger almost together. It's a wee Craig's List pulse ad.

Narah whips out her pulse and I am just new enough with getting my own that the device still strikes me as slightly bizarre. Gone are the smart cells, which now seem utterly dumb in comparison to the credit-card sized, integral thumbprint activated Brain Impulse Technology communication devices.

Touch to brain. Your thought becomes ideas, interaction—everything is now linked.

Narah depresses her thumb for a few seconds then her smirk comes up triumphant.

"Little ad?" Her silvery eyes squint at me and all I can think is: Pregger hormones shall Kill the World.

I wince, dropping my incriminating finger measurement. I might have been slightly understating things.

I will quote your ʻweeʼ ad, Narah begins with protracted sarcasm.

I drag a palm over my face.

A sort of gurgling behind us has Narah and I turning.

Buffy is drooling.

My brows knot. Ah... might have used too much vampire juice. I take my chin in hand.

Oh my God! Narah's eyes swing to me. Did you OD her on thrall? Her toned arms whip out at her sides.

My hand drops. Absolutely not. Perhaps.

Anyway, Narah's eyes are razors of mercury hate as they  swing back to me, you say, her eyes find mine and I feel my neck flush with dull heat, and I quote: British bounty enforcer turned vampire, at your sexual service. Her eyes sweep back to me and I fight the cringe as she continues, Free encounters in exchange for blood and a bit of fun.

She cocks her platinum eyebrow again, shaking the slim all-black pulse back and forth like brandishing a weapon. "As if! You're doing them a big favor."

Why yes, the ladies are guaranteed an orgasm upon being bitten. Just one of the many services vamps offer.

Narah bares her fangs as she watches my mental wheels turn.

My shoulders slump at her expression. Damn female. Why, Narah? My eyes search her face. I want to engage in something with the mess I now find myself in. Let a bloke have a bit of fun.

Guilt flashes across her face like well-timed lightning and is gone. Instantly, I regret my words. Narah has never fancied that she turned me—but she couldn't stand my true death worse.

Another garbled groan sounds from behind me.

She's falling, Narah reports dryly.

I whirl in my typical blur of speed—catching Buffy before she plants her nose on the ground and place her on the mattress I've tossed on the floor. There you are, Buffy.

I sit down beside my dazed paramour.

Her eyelids flutter open. It's Bunny.

Damn. Sharper than I gave her credit for. "I knew it began with a B, love." I pat her head.

She sighs, her eyes softly closing.

That's pathetic. You should be ashamed of yourself. Narah stomps over next to me.

Bunny's lips sort of softly part as a snore escapes.

She was a might sexier in the heat of the moment, I muse.

How many does that make now? Narah asks in a low voice beside me.

There's been a few hundred who answered the ad. Electing not to respond to the question directly, I answer, I've only said yes to the pretty ones.

Narah hits me on the head with the hilt of her knife.

Ow! I howl, clutching my scalp.

I scowl up at her.

And the fine print says, Narah pauses as she depresses her thumb on the security and transference dock of her pulse, only those with these dimensions and attributes shall be considered.

Back to glaring, Narah recites, Large breasts, hips, small waist—type AB negative blood preferred! Narah shrieks, stalking around my small apartment in perfect rant mode.

Is this a hormonal fluctuation? I ask quietly, taking a stab at reason.

My partner is completely unreasonable.

I'm going to kill you again, she says in a menacing voice. And Narah, being a level ten proficient in the deadliest profession of the 21st century, is no bald threat.

You're this angry over me dipping my wick? I sit up on my elbows and Buffy—I mean, Bunny—begins to snore in earnest.

We give her our attention.

Narah's facade breaks, and a stealthy grin cracks the grim set of her face. Don't you dare make fun of my condition.

Gazing at her swollen belly I give a small shake of my head. Never. I cross my heart with my fingers.

Narah bursts into tears.

Damn female. Oh love, come here to Murphy. You hormonal rag fest.

Narah comes toward me and I heave myself off my arse, wrapping my arms around her, wincing at my head wound. Lucky that I've always had a hard head.

Bunny makes a sucking inhale and turns over, one of her wonderfully shaped breasts sort of falling out of her brassiere.

Brilliant.

Narah explores my expression with knowing eyes. Lech.

I nod. Yes.

I hate you.

I nod again. That much is obvious.

I love you.

That too. I do understand the rationale of a pregnant woman is a logic known only onto them.

Asshole, Narah mutters.

Too true, I say, stroking the back of her head.

We pull apart and grin at each other.

She tilts her chin back, gazing up into my face. Stop screwing everything that has a vagina.

I tilt my head, a smirk creeping across my face. How about only some who do?

I'm serious, Murphy. What Aeslin says holds true. There's never been a vampire turned by a human hybrid before. The true nature of what you are isn't known.

I roll my eyes. Cripes, love—you're beginning to sound like Aeslin. All pompous and full of himself.

Her lips lift. And is he wrong?

I give a sharp grunt. Well no, but I'd not admit that to him. He's already got a bike pump shoved up his arse.

Narah covers her mouth, laughter crinkling the sides of her eyes.

I duck down, looking into my sire's silvered gaze, only a vague rim of goldish-amber surround the new iris color. A holdover from her pure human days.

Tell me I'm wrong?

You're wrong, she tries for stoic and bursts out laughing instead.

Ah, I see, I tap my chin, walking a few paces away then whip back to face her, pointing, you come to chastise your youngling's slutty ways only to succumb to my reasoning.

That sobers her. "No-I, I want you to not exploit the natural attraction we have to humanity. Of course beautiful human women will want to sleep with you. Feed you. Narah's hands fall against her thighs in frustration. You are vampire. Her expression goes sulky. And while I don't find you attractive..."

I smile. Tall, dark and handsome—that's me. I blow air on my fist and polish it on my chest. Yes, mate? Tell me how it really is.

God you're insufferable. Narah crosses her arms. What if there's a female out there, someone like I was. Her eyes hold me prisoner and I'm compelled to maintain eye contact. Some hybrid suffering, getting ready to die if she's not turned?

I lift my palms in a warding-off gesture. I'm afraid that's the Turnersʼ job, Narah. My voice is low, soothing. They are the vampire warriors whose blood turns a hybrid female to full vampire. They're the ones the Nobles use like puppets. Not I.

That's what I've been trying to tell you, Murphy. You might be able.

I shrug. I'm not interested in Aeslin's theories. They're just smoke in the wind. Just because my birth as a vampire is unprecedented, doesn't mean I have some grand role in the scheme of this new paranormal world.

But what if it does mean exactly that?

My eyebrows rocket down like a brick above my eyes. It won't.

Bunny sits up, looks around in a semi-fugue with her lovely tit still bare and asks, Where am I?

Narah groans.

I hold out my hand. You're with me. I snap my fingers. Let me pulse for a cab.

This is—ick. Narah folds her arms, looking away through the filthy glass of my apartment window.

Bunny looks at Narah with a wilting gaze and disdainfully points at my sire. Who's she?

Narah spreads her fingers over her chest. I'm Enforcer Adrienne.

Right, Bunny replies, unsuccessfully fluffing her hair. You banging Murphy too?

Narah swivels her head back to Bunny. Blinks once.

I snort. Brilliant.

Shut. Up. Murph.

No, Bunny, Narah speaks slowly, her mouth appears slightly crooked from trying not to laugh, I am Murphy's colleague.

Ah-huh, she says, standing.

Bunny sways and like the chivalrous chap I am, I take her arm. About that cab?

I dose her between the eyes with my will—to leave, and her head sort of wobbles on the fragile stem of her neck.

Cab, she says like a robot.

Gross, Narah mutters.

Gross, Bunny repeats.

Narah puts her head in her hands. Just, god, get her out of here. It's like having a zombie as an audience.

Oh, I don't know, I wouldn't go that far, Narah. She was a might lively just—

Shut. Up.

Yes, but would you be a dear and grab an orange juice from the fridge? Bunny will need a bit of sustenance after her generosity.

I stop short of fluttering my eyelashes like a woman but the urge is almost overpowering.

Narah stomps off to the fridge as my eyes drift to my ruined door.

I spend a lot of money on repairing my shabby accommodations.

Plucking my pulse device out of the front pocket of my denims, I depress my thumb on the dock and think a cab to my address.

I am sure they know the way to my flat by heart.

Chapter 2

Grace

––––––––

Rubbing my temples is becoming a part time job. I'm surprised I have any skin left.

Ava's scream pierces my eardrum at the exact time a wayward swath of sunlight strikes the glass window pane, spearing me right in the eye. Nausea rolls over me in a wave and I suck in a breath, smelling and tasting the last dirty diaper I changed.

Air.

I need air. Arm outstretched in front of my body like a reanimated corpse, I focus on the doorknob to the playard. The large, beaten rectangle of 1960s décor is just a few more steps.

Grace?

Move, Grace. One foot, then the next.

Vomit rises and my hand lands on my roiling stomach.

I cover my mouth and grab the brushed antique brass doorknob. Twist. Jettison myself right out the door where I nearly sprawl on my hands and knees. I hunker down, forearms resting on my thighs, hands dangling between my legs and chin tucked low. I take swooping inhales to stave off the rising gorge.

Miss Grace, the guileless voice of a four-year old says from beside me.

Breathing deeply, I center myself. Yoga taught me that. The last year of my life has taught me more. I should go to the doctor and see what the hell is really wrong with me. But I'm afraid I already know.

And O'Lamacare is for other people. Not a twenty-four year old woman who works at Sioux Falls Little People and makes ten dollars an hour. Sans benefits. Can't afford that two hundred dollar doctor visit.

I can't make rent, forget finding out why I can't keep lunch down. Keep a clear head.

Keep it together.

I look up into Toby's pinched face and large chocolate brown eyes that hold too much knowledge

I manage a smile. Probably isn't really convincing from my position on the ground. With a deep breath, I stare at the pea gravel, the smooth gray is bumpy underneath my beat up ballet flats and plant my hand on my knee, hauling myself to standing.

Grace!

Gah. I hang my head. Shelley. Again. I'm going to hear those words.

Just two.

You're fired.

I turn. Shelley's face is a mask of concern. My shoulders bow forward in relief.

For now.

How many more days can I be late? Call in sick? Before my boss begins to think that I can't be counted on or trusted.

Soon, I bet.

My eyes dart away from the compassion I see in her steely gaze. You know, you should see a doctor.

I give a vigorous head nod.

Shelley's like a second mom to me. A more real version than my bio-mom. Her strawberry hair looks more red in the broken late summer sunlight, ruddy complexion to match the hair, only her dark grayish-blue eyes cool her.

Toby, a little boy that is with me all day, every day, clutches on to my long bohemian-style skirt. Miss Grace is sick, he says, with the innate wisdom every kid has. Growing up wrecks their intuition.

Of course, Toby has more than most, I think sadly.

Yes, Shelley looks kindly at him, she is.

Toby takes my hand.

Her stare returns to me. You can't show up to work like this. Sick.

It's nothing contagious, I mumble, thinking of the waste baskets I've filled with a breakfast I can't stomach. I'm so thin now my belly is concave.

It's not that, Shelley insists, lightly touching my arm.

My gaze rises to meet hers. Shame makes my ears burn.

It's that you're unwell, Grace. And, though you can perform your duties, you seem as though you're surviving them. Her ginger eyebrows slowly rise.

I hear: you can't do your job. I swallow all the replies I could make. All the excuses. 

I need this job.

Glancing at Toby, I think about what he is to me and hold his small hand tighter. His golden brown hair is longish, beginning to curl around the tops of his ears. Big saucer eyes regard me—the infallible daycare worker.

Yeah, right.

I'll get an appointment this week, I lie through my teeth.

Shelley lets out a breath. Good. She ruffles Toby's hair then frowns. You know, Toby always reminds me of you. He could be your little mini-me. She grins, and turns to swiftly walk across the yard. Checking on the other little kids, she swings Baby Ava, who promptly gnaws at her fingers, up onto her hip.

Teeth coming in, I think absently.

A trembling smile affixes on my face as I watch the two.

He ought to look like me. Toby Cline is my half-brother.

Are you seeing the doctor, Miss Grace? Toby asks in a whisper.

I shake my head. Him—I'll never lie to. No. He gets only the truth from me.

Why? he pops his thumb into his mouth and my heart swells with the action. Toby comforts himself because he knows what waits him at home.

Our wasted mother and whatever abusive asshole she's drug home like a stray cat.

Her men always have claws.

There's no doctor that can help me, I say quietly.

Because I know.

The signs are all there. The nausea, the headaches—light sensitivity.

I know what I am. What I'm becoming.

And I can't let that happen. If I do, then who will take care of Toby?

One of mom's men, that's who.

I shudder. Even if I had the cash to see a doctor, he or she would file a report and I'd get noticed. No. I have to stop this process, take Toby away. Save him.

Save me.

––––––––

My hands fist, crescent moons imprinting on my palms as I watch the latest guy come pick up Toby. The car sounds like its exploding.

His car's muffler isn't working. I'd like to play that off on him just being down on his luck. But the truth is it's not. He's just one of those guys that thinks the noisier his ride is, the cooler it makes him seem.

Only to him.

Ten other little kids run around the play yard, demanding mine and my co-worker, Sondra's, attention. A few hurl shredded mulch at each other from the square of railroad ties used as a border that houses the wooden play set.

Dick, Sondra says as she watches the scrubby, tatted, ex-con hop out of the car, tear open the back door and chin flick to Toby, indicating wordlessly he should get in.

Toby drags over