[Jethro's P.O.V ]
Chapter Three
“All I know is that at the end of Scarlett season, I won't be staying in this realm much longer,” Jethro stated, a guttural growl echoing through the chipped wood of his shack.
“You can alert Atlanta that my presence will me made after the blood bath is over.”
“But sire,” Jethro's slave pressed on.
“This is our generation at war. Atlanta is the only surviving female left to the throne of independence. Do you not expect the hunter to travel in thousands, conquer and destroy our land? Destroy our livelihood? They would no sooner kill Atlanta than seek you out. These are our people.”
“Where are our people,” Jethro stung. His usual sensual, sweet toned voice heated and aggressive in the light of Betook's pressure. His eyes burning molten red with frustration.
“ We are the only remaining of our race. There are no people. Our race is long gone and we must move on into the mortal world to find our soul beings to live on. You are living in the past Betook, you must live in the present to survive in our world,”Jethro continued a deep burrowed frown rising underneath his smooth, onyx locks.
“You need not worry, for once your life is over, your soul will pass on. As for Atlanta, she is the sole, remaining, female yes. But she is safe and sheltered. Her child is safe as long as its blood runs through my veins and if I feel danger arising in her. I will come forth and rise to battle.”Jethro sighed, pressing his back against the nails that dug temptingly into his back.
The feeling sensational, overwhelming. He needed the pain coursing through his body. He hungered the pain.
“I must remain in the mortal realm. I must stay in hiding. It is the only safe option for Atlanta, for my nephew and for my families future.”
Silence retreated at the other end. Betook soaked up his masters every word, locking them inside his mind. In a place he could not forget. He was certain his master meant well. Though the looming feeling of danger was wide spread amongst the servant realm and Jethro was having none of it.
How to convince the last know male Vampire that he was alone, was proving to be more than a hassle, or a chore. It was becoming increasingly dangerous and sooner or later the darkness would unfold. Leaving the vampire race to the ashes of the hunters.
“Do I make myself utterly clear?” Jethro questioned. Immediately knowing Betook's answer, pressing the question: regardless.
Surely the being would understand? Surely he would not doubt his master? For doubt could loose one in an alliance with the enemy; the hunter.
And where safety was concerned. His being knew to much. It would be slaughter to Jethro to have to rid himself of his companion. One he had grown to love and trust with his very life.
Though when and if the darkness came to shine down on Betook. Jethro would do everything in his right to ensure the safety of his sibling and nephew.
“Yes master,” Betook spoke dully. His voice trailing uncertainty for his master's request.
“Good. I wish for you not to worry Atlanta and their will be consequences for your actions if you choose to disobey my requests. If I wish to confine in her. I shall do it in my own time,” Jethro stated. His heels digging into the cold, concrete, flooring. His body warming to the soft chill that surrounded his body.
He needed to mark... he needed to feed. Scarlett season was fast approaching. The dry season long behind him, leaving him parched. Now was the time to feed, build strength, train. For the battle would be crucial faced alone and he needed all the power he embedded to defeat the hunters.
“Am I free to leave now master?” Betook questioned: remaining uneasy. His breathing rising in awareness of his master's frustration.
“Please do,” Jethro allowed, snapping his cell shut to cease their conversation.
Jethro's body burned. His pearls elongated, dripping with the thick moisture that hung in the air.
“How long?” he questioned himself, peering through the termite, infested cracks of the shack. The sunlights glaring its haunting, revengeful, raze of his skin.
“Dorian,” he whispered, completely forgetting their arrangements in the midst of the dawning attacks.
What was he thinking?
Another broken promise. Another day he had pushed Dorian aside as something less important than he truly was.
Jethro flipped open his cell phone, flicking to his inbox to see one unanswered call. A call from Dorian.
“Shit,” he said, stabbing Dorian's number into the phone, holding his breath while watching the sun hide behind a thick, layer of Grey clouds.
He would need a miracle.
It was his luck, the charm of his being, that today the sun had chosen to hide behind the shadow of an approaching storm: Atlanta. She had done this. She knew that he was in trouble.
Jethro's cell rang out. His patience dry.
“Pick up the phone Dorian,” he hissed. Tapping his foot against the rough skirting. His eyes darting between the sun and the heavy wind that pounded fierce against the shake walls. Warning him of his approaching freedom.
It was of no use. Dorian was pissed and he had every right to be.
Jethro was certain Dorian would have been “Her”. The beauty he had fallen in love with and he deeply regretted what he had missed.
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