First scene from: Valentine's Curse



Blurb: 



Nora is the last ditch hard love kind of psychiatrist for the inmates at the state's most high security mental institution. If there's any sanity at all in a person, she'll find it and put it to the surface. She is completely not buying that Valentine was born in 1491 and she believes that he's destined to protect her even less. 


Ivy's going to make her doubt her world even more, though that's the last thing he intends to do. He just wants to protect her from the evil vampire. He's half elf, half werewolf, and entirely unique. The feud between Valentine and the werewolves has lasted centuries and even though both of them were there at the start, neither of them really remembers. 


Both of them want to protect Nora, but it might be Nora who can save them both and have her heart torn in two if these two men can't learn not to be at each other's throats.



This is the first scene in my new WIP.. Valentine's Curse

On June 28, 1491 there were many babies born in England. One would become king of England. One would live long enough to see England fade into the glories of history. This isn't a story about a king. It's a story about love and living forever.  

It's my story.  

"Mr. St. Grenis," the doctor began with a carefully calm voice, "It seems like you're in a good mood today." 

Dr. Nora Evans was a petite brunette with caramel skin, full lips, years of cynicism and sarcasm, a dark button up shirt, neatly tailored navy slacks, and push button alarm hanging from a lanyard around her neck.  

He was a few inches taller than she was, or would have been if they'd been standing next to each other rather than her standing by the window and him sitting a relaxed sprawl where the orderlies had fastened his restraints. Blond, green eyed, pale as northern European winter, Valentine St. Grenis smiled a little brighter, shrugged, rattling the chains that were meant to keep him seated. "Well, doctor, I suppose I am in a good mood. I hadn't been expecting you for another year. This place is getting terribly boring." 

"Oh?" She folded her arms over the back of the black leather office chair she wasn't sitting in. "You were expecting me, Mr. St. Grenis. Do you have premonitions of the future, as well as being a vampire?" 

"No, it's just that I expect you to come back into my life about thirty years after you leave it." 

"So you think you've seen me before then? Do you read a lot of glittering romance, Mr. St. Grenis?" 

"I can't abide the new stuff, really," he said. He tilted his head, watching her, green eyes narrowing slightly. "You can call me Val, if you want." 

"So you think I'm special? Your file specifically notes that you don't respond unless you're addressed by title and family name." 

"It's not really my family name. I got the name from the guy I got the ring from." 

"Yes, the ring. Aren't you afraid that if you tell people about this ring that makes you live forever, someone will try to take it from you?"  

"What makes you think people haven't tried?" Valentine purred. "The ring choses when it comes and goes. It choses the sovereign that the knight serves. It's a gift," Valentine said, mimicking a television detective, "and a curse." 

"That's some curse," she said. "You do realize that you're a prisoner in a maximum security institution for the criminally insane and when you are rendered fit for trial, you'll very likely be facing life in prison or a death penalty case for the twenty-seven people you were witnessed killing." 

"You've read my file. You know why I did it." 

She nodded. "I know that for the last ten years you've been a guest at our facility you've stuck with the story that they were werewolves bent on setting off a dirty nuclear bomb in the middle of downtown Seattle. Only your fingerprints were found on the bomb. The sole survivor, who was five at the time of the attack, swears you turned into a swarm of carnivorous insects. That boy still has nightmares - I want you to know that. That boy is also not a werewolf - just so you know that." 

"I know he's not a werewolf. That's why I didn't kill him and I can turn into a lot of things, depending on my mood." 

"That's really the biggest flaw in your argument, Val," Nora said as she sat down in her chair and opened his file. "If you are so powerful, why did you let us keep you here and force feed you medications for ten years? Why not just turn into a cloud of butterflies and drift away?" 

"This is a very secure facility," he pointed out, "And werewolves like standards a lot less than I do. They aren't always very good at dealing with them, so it's really hard for them to get in here to get me. While the crazy bastards I killed were everyone's problem, the other packs are going to have some honor obligations to gut me a few times before they get close to just sharing a mutual hatred with me. The drugs were kind of interesting, actually. Some of them I really liked. There's cable TV in my room, free food, free therapy, and pretty much all the books I can read." 

She grunted, flipped to the back of his file. Her eyes narrowed and titled her head to look at his reading list from a slightly different angel, then turned the page, another page, one more page. "You've read an average of what? Three books a day for ten years?" 

"I try to take my time," he hedged. 

"In five languages? You read Latin, Spanish, French, English, and Japanese?" 

"The Japanese is pretty new. They have very different story concepts. Do you like butterflies?" 

She slammed the pages back down and gave him one of the most disapproving looks he'd ever seen. "Who doesn't like butterflies? Val, if you're a vampire, how have you gotten by on vegetarian fare and French poetry for ten years?" 

He pressed his back into the high back chair he was restrained in, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and slowly exhaled. Long blond curls grew luminescent - tendrils moving, curling into graceful wing shapes. The last of his breath shimmered with being like the bluest of butterfly wings. She must have blinked, at least that's what she told herself as strong fingers caressed her cheek, a smooth thumb brushing over her lips. The hand tilted her head back and she stared up into the brightest green eyes. Butterflies fluttered around them, golden, blue, monarch, gray moths, a dizzying collection of impossible beauty that she could only see out of the corner of her eyes because the man standing behind her had become the center of the world. "Who says I've gone without human blood, My Queen? Now that you are here, I shall have better things to do that sit around." 

"Mr. St. Grenis," she whispered. "How?" 

"You wanted butterflies. Tell me what you want and I shall fetch it for you, m'lady." 

"Don't touch me," she rasped out, though she didn't find the will to push away, to stand up. 

"That's one command, I hope you'll come to regret," he said, from the other side of the desk, without even a hint of shimmer or butterflies. 

She rubbed her temples, forcing her breathing to be calm. "How did you do that? Oh my god, your arm is out of the restraints!" She pressed the alarm hanging around her neck that would bring not only orderlies, but armed guards. "What the hell are you?" 

"I'm not a liar." His chin lifted and when she looked at his arm again, it was safely back in the restraints that bound his entire forearm to the very sturdy chair. "You should believe me when I tell you that I live to protect you." 

"I don't need anyone to protect me, Mr. St. Grenis, least of all a psychotic mass murder who thinks he's a five hundred year old vampire."  

Guards burst in, one of them had a taser already out. They manhandled Valentine until he was bent over the desk, forced his arms behind him and one of the nurses applied sedative via a needle in his ass. He never stopped looking Nora in the eyes and and she knew... deep in the pit of her stomach that sedative that should have started putting him under in less than a minute... hadn't even begun to touch him and won't as his keepers hauled an unresisting blond anomaly away. The door to her office slammed shut, shaking the room even though it should have been made of reenforced concrete, like the rest of the facility.  Fine gold glitter  outlined the shape of a butterfly one Valentine's open paper work. As she watched it, the butterfly shivered into life, lifted up from the mundane facts in his file, barely touched down on the back of her hand as she reached for it, then flew out the window, the closed triple paned steel barred prison window.  

"Tox screen. I need a tox screen." Angrily, she closed his file. "You will not get the better of me, Valentine St. Grenis."  

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