Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ VeNdEtTa Of ThE hEaRt ❯ Chapter 8 ( Chapter 8 )

Vendetta of the Heart...

"Well out with it," the once English-illiterate milkman requested of Damien.

"Yes, yes," Damien conceded with a cunning grin.

He so loved to play mind games, a hobby acquired by watching his mentor's flawless ways. Why, Vegeta had driven sane people to do the most outrageous tasks if only to suit him! Yes, he was a master of the arts, and Damien couldn't be more proud to call him family. Off handedly he wondered how the `guest' reacted to the milkman. What desperate measures would have she taken to gain the haggard milkman's attention? He fairly chuckled out loud at the images crossing his mind's eye. The blue haired temptress must have thrown herself out the window, and to think it was all for no good, the milkman purposefully being displayed in front of her- like an escape she never could reach. Why, the old man wasn't even a milkman to begin with, just a poor ol' beggar that was paid to play the part for the day.

This, of course, being another of Vegeta's suggestions to taunt the beauty.

"What was the agreed arrangement," Damien questioned with a yawn, his open wallet displaying numerous bills.

"Uh," the man stuttered stupidly, "a- um, 5k."

"Oh?"

"Aye," he agreed.

"And American bills, I suppose, as well?"

"Um, aye, that it would."

"I'm a generous guy," Damien broached in a nonchalant voice, pausing to see the man before him nod in approval, "I'm generally easy to get along with?"

"Aye," the man agreed, a bit uncertain of where this was going.

"But, you know what," Damien laughed genially, a lopsided grin adorning his face.

The questioning arch of the man's eyebrows was enough to urge Damien to continue, his grin suddenly turning into a reproachful smirk, eyes narrowing contemptuously, "I never got along with liars."

Before the man could speak in defense, a new voice intruded the conversation, cultured and refined into a soothing murmur, "Touche."

The voice had a deep monotone, the sound a thick vibration like an instrument of illicit temptation, edged with veiled contempt.

"Quite," Damien agreed, watching as Vegeta approached them.

"Don't suppose me a hypocrite, my tongue is hardly pure," Vegeta said evenly, false pleasantness coating his voice, "but I always was skilled with my tongue," he concluded, a wicked smirk curving his mouth.

Though Damien was slightly confused as to the innuendo in Vegeta's words, he didn't question it, only watched as Vegeta glanced near the staircase. Vegeta cloaked his chuckle with a `humph', as he could hear the `ear-dropper' stumble at his words. Oh yes, he knew she was there, knew it the moment he walked in, the heavy scent of her labored body all too recognizable.

Soon he would be the one to `labor' her body instead of her silly attempts at running down his staircase, he with a wicked grin.

Despite his venturing thoughts, he was prone to mock the insolent chit. He rolled his eyes inwardly, I mean, really now, could she be even a little bit more mannered. Listening in on his conversations, could she be more obsessed, he thought with a self-pleasing smile.

"I'm not a liar," the man croaked, placing a mask of sincerity on his face.

"Be careful wh-" Damien growled, though unable to complete the threat, as Vegeta cut him off.

"No, no," Vegeta said with empathy, "You're right, it was unjust of me to accuse you of sinning so bluntly, heaven forbid. What ever would Mama think of me?"

"I forgive you," the man spoke, reassured by Vegeta's words, "It clearly was a mistake."

"I don't make mistakes," Vegeta corrected with a demeaning smirk, "I don't believe in justice," pausing shortly, he let out a cruel chuckle, "And I most certainly don't have a `Mama'."

There was long pause.

"Those were all lies, another step to my damnation. Look what you made me do?" Vegeta accused, his pitiless obsidian eyes narrowing to slits.

"I- I'm sure you will be forgiven," the man stammered beneath the vicious glare, having a frightening resemblance to charcoal marbles, hardened with hate and glazed with a lust for blood.

"Ah, but that's to say I repent my doings," Vegeta posed, "I would need a conscience for that, wouldn't I? It's a pity I misplaced it."

"Of course, why would the mob regret," the man said shakily, trying to please him anyway he could.

"What did you just say," Vegeta snarled, his eyes ablaze with quiet anger, a silent anger that could burn as threatening as the fires of hell.

Silence reigned supreme.

"What. did. You. Just. say?!"

"T- that you s- shouldn't re- regret," he stumbled over his words, horror encompassing his age-withered eyes.

"Give him the money," Vegeta ordered, turning to Damien with a black scowl etched across his face.

Turning on his heels, Vegeta made a grand exit as he ascended the regal staircase... anticipating the vixen he was sure to stumble upon. Halting suddenly, he cast a side-glance to the man who was eagerly accepting the money offered at the door.

"The family," he spoke in a deathly whisper that floated to the ears all within range, the air tense with his anger.

"W-what?"

"I am, the family," Vegeta pronounced haughtily, his black eyes flashing with pride.

With that, he continued his ascent, like a dark shadow shifting within the veiled fortress that served as his domain.

*************

Was it just her, or did the temperature rise, oh, I don't know, 20 degrees?! Damn that man and his odd affect on her. `Skilled with his tongue', she snarled inwardly. What a cocky son of a gun! Furthermore, she still had yet to get to the bottom of this fiasco. Surely a genius could solve it, she assured herself. Bulma had concluded that this was all a misunderstanding, or maybe a joke even. Perhaps an involved way to whisk her away to her honeymoon, where Yamcha would gallantly show up and rescue her, just as the knight in her dreams had done so many a times. After all, she had told him of the fantasy on several occasions, had she not? It could be possible?

Yes! That must be it! What a romantic Yamcha was, she thought with a sigh.

...yeah right. Yet, she persisted with her sharp mind that it was so. That this was a scheme to bring her dreams to life. But, then again, why would Yamcha choose `him' to play the bad guy? Sure, he did fit the dark nemesis sort of thing, possibly too well, but he certainly altered her vision of the `bad guy'.

He wasn't supposed to be the dark enchanter, tempter of the body and sensuous to the eyes.

Vegeta was the embodiment of her darker fantasies- the ones with the cruel, jaded prince seducing her into his wicked flames. Did she mention that these dreams started only recently? Oh, say, the night she had met him?

"Thinking of me," the deep timbre of his voice sending chills down her spine.

She knew who it was.

"What do you want, Mr. Ouji," Bulma inquired snobbishly, a blush staining her cheeks.

"My ears were ringing," he responded smoothly, crossing his arms as he stood above her, Bulma still being on the floor, hiding behind the large pillar of the stair railing.

"You're going deaf," she bit out, "You look old anyways."

"Don't tell me you haven't heard the old saying," Vegeta continued, acting as if she never spoke, "that if your ears ring, then someone is thinking of you?"

"I can't say I have, nor do I care to pretend that I want to hear it."

"Your cares obviously are forfeit, for now you know," he countered, a blithe smirk molding his sensual mouth.

"No, Vegeta, nothing of me will ever be forfeit to your will," Bulma opposed, her frown swiftly transforming into an challenging grin, as she stood, refusing his offered hand.

"Ah- but you already are, Dearest Angel," Vegeta murmured, his heated breath tickling her senses.

"Oh?"

"Uhm-mm," he breathed, head tilting to the side, lowering ever so slightly, his face inches from brushing against the skin of her neck.

"Why did you bring me here," Bulma demanded softly, her heart skipping beats.

"That isn't what you were going to ask," he whispered, his soft lips caressing the pulse on her neck, moving softly against the porcelain skin.

"Wh- why do you call me Angel," she gritted, tensing as he pushed his leg between her thighs, his rock hard muscles pressing scandalously against her feminine flesh.

"Because Angels were meant to be floored," Vegeta informed, his voice a deep, masculine vibration, as he flexed his quadriceps, creating more friction, making Bulma's breath hitch.

Those were his departing words.

------------------------

Though through the past several hours Bulma had remained calm, clinging to her composure with dignity, she surely couldn't keep up the farce any longer. Panic overrides many obstacles and barriers, but it had never before conquered Bulma's sense of stability. With no more excuses left, nor novel scenarios of why she had been taken, Bulma was scared. Horrified to be truthful, yet her pride restrained her from admitting it.

She wasn't safe-she was alone.

Being lonely is an unfortunate thing, but to be left stranded with no hope or reason of faith in her survival, Bulma was on the verge of tears. Technically more tears, for as she lay with her head encompassed by several plush, tear stained pillows her heart ached for the soft, tender touch of her lover.

"Oh, Yamcha," Bulma sobbed in anguish, burying her face further into the linens of the Queen sized bed she lay on.

Despite the shed tears that spoke volumes of her inner turmoil, Bulma refused to be defeated by self-pity. Situations in life are never meant to break you, their soul purpose is to make you stronger, and that was exactly what Bulma had in mind. She would overcome the pain, the trepidation, the fear- the temptation.

He wouldn't defeat her.

This was more than a trial of survival, it was a game of wills, and she had no illusions that it wasn't going to be difficult. Vegeta Ouji was a formidable foe, she knew it from the moment she set her eyes on him- and left them there- and within the limited hours she had known him, he had only prove her more than correct. She mustn't underestimate him.

Every definitive quality he possessed epitomized masculinity, the virility of his very presence causing her feminine pores to come alive. She was keen to every movement he made, and that, understandably, frightened her. His strong jaw, always set in a determination she had never encountered before, his obsidian gems smoldering with a passion she could not define, and his sensual lips smirking with a wickedness she was not accustomed to- he was an element of the unknown.

And he was her captor.

God help her, but she wasn't sure which was more dangerous; the gun he carried or the passion he harnessed, the sensuality he exuberated. She could deny it no longer, the man was devilishly tempting, and was more dangerous than words could describe. Though the gun she glimpsed, or rather felt on his waist, threatened her life, the flaming passion he was jeopardized her very soul.

A very feminine soul, indeed.

Unexpectedly she found herself staring into two emerald eyes of cool hauteur. Bulma jumped in surprise, her eyes immediately narrowing at Damien in disapproval. What if she had been undressed?!

For some reason, she thought that was point.

"Don't look so down put," he jested, "Vegeta was unable to retrieve you himself, though he offers his most sincere apologies."

"Leave," Bulma ordered forcefully, hoping feverishly that he wouldn't take account of her swollen eyes.

"Only if you accompany me," Damien said loftily, an impish grin tugging at his lips.

"I most certainly will not!"

"Come now, I'm not so entirely bad, am I chit? He shall be there as well, after all," he cajoled, "I shall return in an hour then," he suggested merrily.

"No," she admonished.

"Ah, but you must meet the family," Damien countered, a lopsided smile conquering his lips at her surprised expression.

`The family,' Bulma thought meekly, eyes widening in apprehension.

"Yes, yes, of course," he responded cordially, as if he heard her thoughts.

The heavenly ones help her, who was `the family'?