Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ VeNdEtTa Of ThE hEaRt ❯ Chapter 9 ( Chapter 9 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

By: Viny88

Vendetta of the Heart...

Bulma grated her teeth roughly back and forth, making a point to create as much noise as humanly possible, if only to distract her mind. Her agitation was evident within her quickened pace, the fire that leapt within her cerulean orbs testament to the anger that enflamed her thoughts. She was positively livid! The audacity the man had was atrocious, and most certainly improper. Had he learned no manners? Or simply refused to acknowledge them?

The past three hours of Bulma's life could most assuredly be labeled as some of the worst of her life. The fact that she was only 19 was no mentionable factor, nor that she had lived a relatively comfortable existence. Cursing his name, a name she refused to utter, a thousand times over, she continued her frustrated journey to `her' room.

"Dearest Angel," the same voice that echoed within her thoughts beckoned, his tone a silky caress.

She dare not stop. There was absolutely no possibility that he wouldn't see past her frayed composure; that he wouldn't notice her frankly obvious disgruntlement, just as there was absolutely no possibility that she would stop to allow him to do so.

Apparently he knew this as well.

"Whatever has you troubled, Angel," he inquired with a sensual air.

She deigned not to answer.

But those words proved haunting...

Flash Back_____________________________________________

She eyed the doorknob with apprehension, searching for any indication that Damien was turning it, attempting to collect her, as she knew he would. Though it was an extremely displeasing thought, she hardly could deny the keen anticipation that entailed the thought of her soon introduction. Perhaps this evening would bring a closing to her supposed abduction? Was Yamcha here?

Her eyes were considerably less red, the shower she had taken the liberty of using acutely soothing to her senses; the warm water a temporary comfort to her ails. The cerulean tresses piled atop her head coordinated into an upheaval held resemblance to a distorted chignon bun, several arrant curls framing her delicate face. Her chin was set in determination, her posture rigid with her defensive state of mind. She had adorned her neck with flaxen rope, the odd accessory once attached to the window curtains of her room, this one of Bulma's ingenious ideas to show the death threat that her captors hung over her head. To pronounce her duress more so, she had attached two links from the shower curtain to her wrists, exemplifying her captive situation. Conclusively, she still wore the nightgown from her abduction, despite the extravagant evening gowns that a servant had presented to her several hours before.

The severity her picture composed was defined by the fierce fire her sapphire orbs wielded. She would cause disturbance, if not uproar, she was sure. Someone was bound to end her mistreatment and rescue her. Bulma, apparently enough, was no longer satisfied with her minds constant reassurances. She knew she was in perilous danger, and now, decidedly, was the time to end the whole farce. Though she highly doubted circumstances were in their worst, her abduction, in all logical reality, was most likely a misunderstanding. But one never could be certain... If this was, on most sordid scenarios, a scheme to attain money, then Bulma was comforted to believe Yamcha would save her. But until then-

She'd create a living hell for Mr. Ouji.

Her previous misgivings of integrity within her `captor' were vanquished, ruined by her own analyzing and assumptions, she had concluded with only one thought; she had to turn things around. She was presently in a very precarious situation; the unknown always tends to be so, though she was fiercely determined to send Vegeta into the defense. It was a battle of wills, and it was her turn to conquer. She wanted to humiliate Vegeta, to make him tremble with unaffiliated emotion, an emotion that was hopefully embarrassment. She would prevail.

From the sounds of it, his `family' was of great importance, hence becoming the target of Bulma's rash display. She anticipated the horror stricken expression that would contort his face when he saw her, could almost feel the uncanny glee it would award her. She suddenly had little to no patience, resulting in her self-escorted departure from the room. Assuredly, she would find where they were congregating with little difficulty; she was after all a woman, and one with a great sense of direction, at that.

Bulma walked through the halls with a proud stride, her jaw tightened with dignity, her nose pressed into the air with superiority, and her shoulders squared with rigidity; the later a pitiful attempt to display her immunity to Vegeta's sexual lure. Her adornments were radical, yet despite her own defiance, she still wore makeup. Though sketchy, it was present; the thin tracing of her eyes in midnight blue, eyelids shadowed a hypnotic indigo, eyelashes defined with coal black mascara. Her complexion was softened with a light application of foundation, her cheeks colored by rosy blush- an addition she would discover unnecessary...

Her cheeks would turn scarlet if Vegeta so much as sent her a provocative glance.

Short moments brought her to the staircases, which she stepped down with ease, considering this time she wasn't wearing high-heels. In fact, she wasn't wearing any shoes. Unfortunate enough, Bulma could see no sign of Vegeta, or any one for that fact, but she would not let that hinder her.

Perhaps just a little, for she really had no idea as to where she was going, or where she was, to begin with, as a matter of fact.

"Patience isn't one of your virtues, eh?"

Bulma turned hastily at the sound of Damien's voice.

Present_____________________________________________

"I fear your silence has cut me to the quick," he spoke in a mock sigh, his voice curling about the her senses like sweetened honey, "I'm not immune to temptation, and quite frankly, Angel, when you're angry you look deliciously ravished. I dare say that I'm inclined to maintain the flush in your cheeks by- other means," he finished, pausing shortly as he caressed his lower lip with his heated tongue.

That speech apparently deserved an answer.

Stopping abruptly, Bulma turned to face him, her face colored with passionate anger. Her eyes pierced him with their sharp intent, the desire to hurt him evident within the raging oceans. She clenched her fists repeatedly at her sides, the aching urge to hit him making her tremble. Inevitably, temptation proved too strong, her fisted hand connecting with his aristocratic nose. The deed done, Bulma could only feel elation. Why, she had done women across the globe a phenomenal favor; perhaps now he wouldn't be so irresistible.

When she recovered from her dazed thoughts, Bulma focused her eyes on him, hopeful to find a perfectly imperfect face. Her hope was shattered. He stood there, seemingly completely unaware of the crimson liquid that trickled from his nostrils, his ambiance only glorified by the rugged appearance the shed blood presented; his knowledge of such only more becoming. He wore a casual smirk, the rakish curl to his mouth seductive in its lure.

"You are aware that any common lady would slap me, not punch me in the nose," he informed, eyebrows furrowed slightly with wonderment and amusement.

"Well, Mr. Ouji, I am no common lady," Bulma clarified tartly, her chin lifting defiantly.

"Perhaps not," he offered with wry humor, his tone suggesting reluctance to the acknowledgment, "No, common doesn't fit," he murmured, his head tilting to the side.

Uncharacteristically he seemed uncertain, indecisive in all meanings of the word, his head tilted in bemusement, lips pouted in wonder, and classically devilish eyes cast down in thought. He looked almost vulnerable, though that thought in itself was absurd.

Wasn't it?

Flashback____________________________________________

The crimson droplets accumulated at the bottom of the crystal glass, spiraling inconsistently with the movements of his hand, as he distractedly exposed the liquid to the air, opening the very pores of the wine, letting the taste expand to its fullest. Such were the actions of any true connoisseur. And, by the gods, he was familiar with wine. Whether it be result from his familiarity of its thick, sun-dipped flavor- as well as the consequences in the morning- or from his obvious association with the substance as the owner of many vineyards, had little significance at the moment. He really could think of nothing more besides his expected guest. His most honored invitee.

He had sent Damien to fetch her mere moments ago, the instruction sent with no more than a flick of his wrist accompanied by a bored side-glance. Those moments stretched like hours, extensive moments infiltrated with humidity and a chilling sensation pregnant with apprehension and anticipation. It really made no difference that the room was temperate; Vegeta was still on edge.

The ballroom was decorated grandly, new draperies and linens strewn fashionably about the windowpanes and buffet setting. Many of his associates hovered near the walls, admiring the fine architecture of the dome ceiling, one that was a famed piece of art; the fine, chiseled marble and frozen, white, crystalline mercury a defiance of the known. Whilst his family members ambled merrily about, testing the delicacies his customary banquet offered.

Silence enveloped the room, containing the hitched breath of elite con artists accumulatively within the large palace. It took a lot to catch the people he associated with off guard; he just hadn't anticipated it to be a woman that held that power. Of course, he did it all the time, but that was different. He knew she was an exquisitely beautiful woman, rather painfully aware of that truth, actually, but he had not expected a reaction such as this.

Even the musicians were tentative to perform their arts on their instruments, the musical voices of the violins and pianos seemingly hesitant to rein their beauty supreme within the room. Eyes were focused avidly upon the entrance of the room, waiting with classic animation.

Apparently for his reaction.

Expectant glances were darted to him, but he paid little heed, treating the phenomenon with languid amusement. Indifference maintained within his composure, Vegeta turned with boorish rapidity, though a thoroughly amused smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, his boyish dimple presenting itself, which, sadly enough, was an unusual occasion. His expression was tantalizing to the women, simply a hazard to the men present.

Finally his sensuous, obsidian gaze rested on her, his beautiful captive, the siren that he forced into his life. There she was, simply...By the gods! What the hell was she?! His composure actually faltered at her appearance, however not in his expected reasoning. No, it couldn't be because she was simply so surreally gorgeous. That was simply too much to ask for!

A coughing fit suddenly broke out in the room, many uncomfortable by the waver within his composure. Their fear of him fueled their uncertainty, but their anticipation proved more prominent, the spectator's eyes focused solely on the pair that now glared at each other from across the enormous room, the forces of unleashed obsidian condescension and unrivaled seas of raging sapphire colliding hazardously.

Damien shifted uneasily from where he stood, unfortunate to be standing at Bulma's side, somehow only fueling Vegeta's agitation. After all, the boy could have least warned him! His pride dismissing the thought as soon as it occurred to him, as he could will his way through any given situation, Vegeta pasted on a domineering smirk, his posture challenging as he looked upon her with ill-concealed amusement. Though at first it had been a mask, his impudent display soon turned to reality, a reflection of what he was thinking. It was rather amusing, was it not? Embarrassing her-self in front of the top elite crime industry, and for what? To make a soon to be disregarded statement?

Ha, the little imp.

Befitting to what had just crossed his mind, the impertinent woman raised one slender brow at him, an impish grin twisting lips he once admired. Perfectly curved lips he desired to touch; or, that is, before she had made that hideous little gesture. It took practically all his control not to snarl; she was ruining his fun. Why hadn't she been reduced to meekness; demure smiles and downcast eyes? Better yet-

...why was he angry?

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

She stood proud, shoulders squared in pride, her eyes demeaning as they assessed him languidly. His presence filled the room, reaching to the very corners of its large expanse, intoxicating the very air she breathed, his scent tantalizing her senses. The black tuxedo he wore was divertingly form fitting, but for all she knew it could just be his size of suit could not hide the steel muscles that were sheathed by the velvety skin he sported so well. A tick worked in his jaw, hinting at the raw anger that manifested within the pit of his stomach. She only hoped it would not surface.

Oh, how she wanted to cower. To hide from his dark anger that echoed in his onyx depths, petrifying her with its untamed intensity. She wasn't sure whether or not she truly could mask the fear that enveloped her, not even sure if at that moment everyone knew? A bead of sweat accumulated at her temple, the chilled moisture making her shiver involuntarily. She was so cold.

She was so hot.

How was that even possible? She could swear that the temperature of the room was rising at a rapid rate, making her want to run away from its heated clutches. And yet, she could feel the icy cold chills that ran along her spine, making her breath come out in slow, shallow heaves. This was hell. It just had to be.

And he was its Prince.

The menacing figure began to approach her steadily, a slow stride that offered tempting moments for her to run; to flee the uncertainty that dimmed her thoughts. It was an offer her pride could not accept. With each step conquered she could hear the palpitation of her heart thudding in her ear, even as her body was stilled in an eerie calm. It wasn't until he took those extra steps to be directly in front of her that she began to feel her composure slipping away. Their proximity gave a new meaning of the saying "seeing each other eye to eye". But had they ever said anything about "lip to lip"?

His breath fanned over her cheek, his head lowered so he could look her straight in the eyes, capturing her. Forcing her to surrender to his gaze; or else fight its beseeching insistence only to fail. She stilled her breathing, forcing her intake of breath to be relaxed; as calculated as was his nearness. Her eyes desired to flit away from the heated eyes that searched her; but she couldn't. Wouldn't dare. The risk was too great, the price too dear.

She needed the advantage.

Taking a dainty step closer, she challenged his intimidating presence, forcing herself not to cringe at the heat that accosted her body. The warmth of his body radiated from him, the passionate fire that held a raging inferno within him burning her with its electric heat. To be ice would be fatal, defenseless against the fire that would melt her. No, no ice would not do.

She would just have to be fire.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The daring move caught him off guard, but he had learned long ago not to underestimate your opponent. Nor to overestimate them. She was a woman- his captive- defenseless to his mastery, trapped within his domain. He ruled her. That power elicited unexpected joy, more than he was entitled to, but, then again, the possession of a woman was always tantalizing.

He possessed her.

A self-pleased smirk, wicked and illicit, curved his burgundy lips, moist from the bittersweet wine that still clung to the satiny texture. Her sapphire eyes burned into his memory, the unrelenting gaze looking straight into the very depths of his being. The very core of his soul- a space that was hollow.

"Tell me, Sweeting, wherever did you acquire such a- interesting taste of fashion?" Vegeta spoke with so much sensuality that she could have sworn she had been physically touched.

"Italy."

Curse her, the minx had figured out where she was! Though a rather broad deduction, it was still rather intriguing. She could prove to be more fun than he had first anticipated.

Or more of a problem.

"Bravo," he purred, his hand reaching to caress her cheek approvingly.

"No on-core," she mocked prettily, avoiding his touch swiftly.

"I wouldn't want to encourage naughty behavior," the timber of his voice rumbled, the echo of mirth kissing his tone.

"So it's naughty for a woman to be intelligent," Bulma said in a monotone, "How quaint."

"There really is no need for such- malevolence," he chided tauntingly.

"Too much for you, am I, Vegeta," she inquired loftily, the sound of his name on her lips a sensual caress.

God help him, was she trying to seduce him? The thought sent chills of anticipation down his spine.

"There's only one way to find out," he murmured roughly, undulating his hips softly to emphasize his intention.

He almost laughed when she coughed in surprise, her eyes widening to large blue saucers. She could pretend to be a wanton harlot, but he knew her passion was buried much deeper than that. Of course, treasures far more valuable were always hid with more care. The hunt was always a very pleasurable part of complete surrender. And in this circumstance, he would more than willingly act the part of the pirate.

"I suppose so," she conceded with strained calm, a chilling smile offered too graciously for his comfort.

The minx!

"Well, since it seems greetings are over," Bulma pronounced more loudly than necessary, "I believe you mingling with your guests is in order."

"Mayhap, I enjoy my present company," he asserted smoothly.

"And mayhap, I do not," she contradicted with a coy smile.

"Touché."

Present____________________________

(Scene to be continued...)