This chapter is written by my writing soulmate @caffeineismymuse who has been collaborating with me on Blood Match.  I hope you are enjoying her Australian siblings which definitely put the Vamp in Vampire!  

This chapter deals with death and mature sexual themes.

The Gulfstream G650ER crouched like a predator under the floodlights, its sleek lines gleaming against the balmy Sydney night. The air was heavy with salt and lingering summer heat, the tarmac radiating warmth as the Pierce siblings boarded, their tension simmering beneath the humid haze.

Marlowe ascended the jet's stairs with the elegance of a queen returning to her throne. The crimson of her lips cut sharply against the pale of her skin, her heels clicking in time with her disdain for what awaited them in Spain. She'd rather burn the peninsula to ash than pay homage to Leonidas' insufferable Yule traditions, but defying him wasn't an option — yet.

Behind her, a gaunt man of twenty-two years stumbled as he climbed, his pallid skin catching the harsh floodlights like a bad omen. His hands clutched the rail with white-knuckled desperation, his haunted eyes flicking between the towering jet and the ground below, as though weighing which offered the kinder end.

Marlowe paused mid-ascent, turning to level him with an icy gaze that froze him in his tracks. Her smile, sharp and humorless, sliced through his hesitation. "First time flying?" she asked, the sweetness of her tone mocking. Before he could stammer out a reply, she added, "Let's hope you don't lose what little composure you have. I'm not in the mood to carry dead weight."

The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, his body trembling, but he forced himself forward under her withering glare.

At the base of the stairs, Gideon lingered, his gaze glinting with amusement as he adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit. He turned to Emma, who walked beside him with an easy grace that contrasted sharply with the man ahead. She was as composed as ever, her petite frame poised in a way that suggested she was far more comfortable than a Pierce's blood match should be.

"Another one from the farms, I assume?" Emma asked lightly, her brown eyes drifting toward the gaunt figure ahead.

Gideon smirked. "Barely understands daylight, let alone freedom. But he's valuable. Marlowe will mold him into something... useful."

Emma tilted her head, her lips curving faintly. "Useful?" she asked, her voice feigning curiosity. "To her or to you?"

Gideon chuckled, a low, velvet sound. "Does it matter?"

Together, they ascended into the jet, its cabin an opulent haven of polished wood and leather that glowed warmly under recessed lighting.

Marlowe was already reclined in her seat, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, as she gestured impatiently for the man to sit across from her. He obeyed instantly, collapsing into the chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Gideon slid into the seat across the aisle, his movements deliberate and languid. Emma joined him, her slender form sinking into the plush leather with an ease that contrasted with the stiff tension across from her.

She gazed out the oval window at the airfield, the faint smile on her lips almost wistful. "Strange," she murmured. "Missing Christmas dinner with my family for the first time in twenty-eight years."

"Having regrets, Emma?" Gideon asked, his tone laced with amusement and warning.

She turned to him, her smile unfaltering. "Not a single one. But you can punish me if it makes you feel better."

Across the aisle, Marlowe raised a single brow, her interest in the exchange fleeting as she turned her attention back to the gaunt man.

Her lips curved into a cruel smile as she leaned forward, her fingers tapping against the armrest. "By the time we land for refueling, I expect you to string together something resembling a coherent sentence," she said icily.

The man's hands twisted in his lap, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Marlowe leaned back with a sigh, muttering, "This will be tedious."

The engines roared to life as the cabin sealed, and the plane began its ascent. Gideon uncorked a crystal decanter filled with thick, crimson liquid and poured a glass for himself before handing another to Marlowe. Raising his glass lazily, he offered a toast.

"To our coven," he drawled, his voice rich with menace, "and enduring Leonidas' insufferable Yule in Spain."

Marlowe tilted her glass, the sharp gleam of her blue eyes shifting to brilliant crimson as her lips curled into a wicked smile. "To ensuring Spain regrets having us at all," she replied, her voice a silken promise of chaos.

Emma, seated nearby, lifted her glass of sparkling water. She sipped delicately, her gaze lingering on the trembling man seated across from Marlowe. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his knuckles pale from the force of his grip.

Marlowe clicked her tongue, her disdain cutting through the moment like a blade. "Perhaps the first toast should've been to patience," she said dryly, her gaze flicking over the man with open derision before dismissing him with a lazy wave.

The Gulfstream hummed with steady power, slicing through the dark expanse of the night sky as it made its way toward the first destination, Dubai.

Marlowe leaned back in her seat, the faint glow from her phone casting sharp shadows across her porcelain face. She scrolled through an endless feed of financial data and encrypted messages from her network of informants for the first seven hours of the flight.

Meanwhile, the scent of freshly prepared meals began to waft through the cabin as the attendants moved with practiced grace, silver trays laden with elaborate dishes. The humans were served Australian delicacies: lamb with wattleseed glaze, barramundi fillets, and bush tomato risotto.

For Marlowe and Gideon, the offerings were far more decadent: delicate carpaccio paired with goblets of deep crimson that reeked faintly of life and indulgence.

Marlowe's eyes sparkled with malice as she glanced over at Emma, who was quietly sipping a chilled drink that paired elegantly with her meal.

"So," Marlowe drawled, setting her phone down. She tilted her head, studying the woman with curiosity. "You've been quiet. Surely you've been up to something wickedly clever, haven't you?"

Emma looked up from her drink, her composure unshaken despite Marlowe's probing gaze.

"I have," she admitted smoothly. "There's a woman — Charlotte Deveraux. Starred in La Bohème and The Marriage of Figaro at the Opera House last season. Brilliant voice, sharp wit, and connections with all the right people. A perfect candidate."

Marlowe's lips curved into a slow, delighted smile. "Go on."

Emma set her glass down on the polished wood table between them, leaning forward slightly. "I happened to 'bump into her' at a restaurant last week. She was celebrating another opening night, too distracted by her success to notice the poison I slipped into her champagne. A mild dose, of course — enough to cause distress, not death."

Marlowe chuckled darkly, her fangs just visible as her smile widened. "Clever girl. And then?"

"And then I swooped in," Emma said, her tone dripping with feigned humility. "Just happened to be there, out of uniform but with my paramedic bag in tow. Stabilized her until our 'ambulance' arrived. She's been in Gideon's blood farm ever since."

Marlowe's laugh was soft but wicked, a sound that sent a shiver through the trembling man seated across from her. She didn't spare him a glance, her attention fully on Emma. "I see why you keep her around, Gideon," she purred, the edges of her voice cruel. "Resourceful. Ruthless. Quite the little pet."

Gideon, sprawled across his seat like a lounging predator, tipped his glass lazily, his smirk stretching wider as his gaze slid to Emma. "Speaking of resourcefulness," he murmured, his tone a razor wrapped in silk, "I find myself feeling... peckish."

Emma's lips curved into a practiced smile as she smoothed her skirt. "Let me freshen up first," she murmured, her voice light, but her heels clicked sharply against the polished floor as she rose and made her way to the washroom.

Gideon's gaze followed her until the door clicked shut. His smirk twisted into something darker, his voice a low growl. "If she keeps me waiting much longer—" He didn't finish the sentence, but the promise of violence lingered in the cabin like a shadow.

Marlowe lounged back, swirling her drink as she regarded her brother with an arched brow and a disdainful smirk. "Honestly, Gideon," she drawled, her voice a venomous tease, "you'd think the blood farm and our little party would've kept you sated. But no, not you. You're always pushing, always taking more." Her tone was airy, but her words carried a barbed edge.

Gideon chuckled, unbothered. "Emma told me she's always dreamed of joining the mile-high club," he said, his grin sharp enough to wound.

Marlowe rolled her eyes with exaggerated flair. "Oh, typical. Humans and their bloody bucket lists. Meaningless lists for a meaningless existence," she scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Go on, then. Have heaps of fun for me while I sit here wondering if my blood match is a mute or just too bloody useless to scream."

The man flinched but said nothing, and Marlowe's laughter rose, cruel and cutting. "That's what I thought," she said, taking another sip of her drink.

When Emma returned, she looked more composed. She approached Gideon with a practiced smile. "Sorry to keep you waiting."

"Finally," Gideon drawled, setting his empty glass aside. His eyes roamed her figure. "I was beginning to think you were trying to tease me. Not wise."

Emma hesitated before speaking, her tone light but her nerves evident. "I've been experimenting," she said, her smile tilting toward flirtation. "A little cocktail of pills. Makes my blood flow faster. Sweeter." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Just for you."

Gideon raised a brow, his interest piqued. "Is that so?" he murmured, standing smoothly. Without waiting for a response, he gestured for her to follow, leading her toward the private lounge at the back of the plane.

The door clicked shut behind them, sealing Emma into the dimly lit room with him. Gideon turned, his expression one of indulgent cruelty. "So," he said, his voice dangerously soft, "you've been tampering with what belongs to me."

Emma's breath hitched, her bravado faltering under his gaze. "I thought—thought you'd like it," she stammered.

Gideon's smirk widened, his teeth glinting in the low light. "And here I am, trying to decide whether to reward you for your audacity... or punish you for your presumption."

"Punish," Emma whispered, her voice trembling. "Always punish."

Gideon's hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat and pinning her against the wall. His grip was firm, just shy of cutting off her air. "You've made it so easy, haven't you?" he hissed, leaning in close. His other hand slid up her thigh, dragging her skirt higher with deliberate slowness. "Wearing this? You've been begging for it all night."

Emma gasped softly as his fingers slid further, brushing over the damp fabric of her panties. Gideon chuckled darkly, his touch firm as he began to toy with her, slipping beneath the thin barrier to stroke her. "Already wet for me. You really are pathetic, aren't you?"

"Yes," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of shame and arousal. "For you, always."

"Damn right," he hissed, pulling her roughly into his lap as he sat on the plush couch. He maneuvered her with ease, her skirt bunching around her hips as he positioned her to his liking.

She moved quickly, hands fumbling with his belt, undoing his trousers as if her life depended on it.

The moment there was nothing between them, Gideon thrust into her with a force that made her cry out, his grip on her hips bruising as he moved her against him. Her moans spilled from her lips unbidden, each one coaxed by his merciless rhythm.

"So big," she gasped, her words breaking on a moan, "so deep—"

He smacked her hard on her ass, the sound echoing in the cabin. "That's right. Just how you like it," he snarled, his tone devoid of affection.

His hands trailed up her back, pulling her close until his lips brushed the curve of her neck. She shuddered as his fangs grazed her skin, her rhythm faltering in anticipation. "Not yet," she whimpered, trembling against him. "I'm not—"

"Now," he commanded, his voice absolute. His fangs sank into her neck with brutal precision, drawing a sharp cry from her as he began to feed.

The rush of her blood filled him, igniting a ravenous hunger as his grip on her hips grew almost bruising. He thrust upward to meet her movements, his growls muffled against her skin as he drank deeply.

Emma's head fell back, her moan caught between pleasure and pain. Each pull of his lips sent heat spiraling through her.

"I'm close," she gasped, her voice ragged. "Gideon, I'm—close—"

Gideon growled against her throat, his grip tightening as the taste of her — sweet and potent, just as she'd promised — drove him to the brink. Emma's moans wavered with each passing second as life was siphoned from her.

She trembled in his arms as her climax wracked her body, her cries breaking off into a quiet, ragged whimper.But Gideon didn't stop. He drank deeper, his hunger insatiable, the frenzy overtaking reason. Her breaths grew shallow, her pulse weakening as her body began to fail. Still, he fed, the intoxicating blend of pleasure and power driving him to take more, always more. Her hands clutched weakly at his shirt, her strength fading until her fingers slipped away entirely.

"Gideon," she murmured faintly, her voice barely more than a breath.

He didn't stop until her pulse faltered and fell silent, her body going limp in his arms. Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin slick with crimson. He exhaled slowly, savoring the lingering warmth of her blood on his tongue as he gazed down at her pale, lifeless form.

"Well, Emma," he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with an almost tender gesture. "You can finally cross the mile-high club off your bucket list."

His smirk returned, sharp and cruel, as he reclined in his seat, her limp body sprawled across his lap like a discarded doll. Overindulgence was his only vice, and Emma — like so many others — had been more than willing to let him take everything.

—- —- —- —- —-

Back in the main cabin, Marlowe swirled her drink lazily, her sharp blue eyes cutting toward the lounge door as it hissed open. Gideon strode in, adjusting his cuffs with the unhurried precision of a predator satisfied with the hunt.

He poured himself a fresh glass of crimson liquid from the decanter, the faint, metallic tang of Emma's blood still clinging to him like a ghost.

Marlowe's eyes flitted briefly to the private lounge doors. Her voice was frost and iron. "Please tell me you didn't ruin her."

Gideon didn't so much as flinch, his smirk stretching wider. "Ruin is such an ugly word, sister," he drawled, his tone smooth as silk. "She... served her purpose."

Marlowe's expression darkened. "She served two purposes," she snapped, rising from her seat. "Do you have any idea how rare it is to find a paramedic willing to go to the lengths she did? Narrowing down prey, infiltrating their lives, marking them for us. She wasn't just supposed to survive until Yule — she was critical to our operations."

Her voice dropped, sharp and venomous. "And you fucked her to death."

Gideon straightened, his full height a shadow looming over her as his smirk melted into something more menacing. His voice was soft, dangerously so. "Careful, Marlowe. Don't test me," he warned. "I indulged, nothing more. If you need another paramedic, I'll acquire one. Humans are weeds — pull one out, and another grows just as easily."

Before Marlowe could spit her retort, the overhead speaker crackled to life. The captain's deep, steady voice filled the cabin. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're beginning our descent into Dubai for refueling. Estimated touchdown is in fifteen minutes. Please secure yourselves and ensure all belongings are stowed appropriately."

The interruption broke the tension, though Marlowe's fury still radiated from her in waves. Her nostrils flared, her composure brittle as she turned sharply on her heel. Dropping back into her seat, she snatched up her glass and drained it in one searing motion. The crystal hit the table with a sharp crack, her next words a low snarl. "Don't think for a second I'm sharing my mute with you."

The gaunt man in question stirred, his voice trembling. "N-not a mute."

Marlowe let out a sharp, derisive laugh, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Oh, what a miracle. He speaks!" she jeered.

Gideon, perhaps thankful for the distraction, sank back into his chair, his smirk returning as if the exchange had merely amused him.

"I'm sure Leonidas has spare humans prepared should there be... complications," he said with a casual wave of his glass. He took a languid sip, the crimson liquid glistening on his lips. "And if not—" his voice dropped to a silken threat — "I'll simply take one for myself."