But he stops grinning when I move over him, the tips of my breasts brushing his chest. His erection burns against the lower part of my stomach, stiff with need.
Carefully I touch the undamaged parts of him, between the bandages, and I duck my mouth to his chest, taking his left nipple lightly between my teeth. He hisses, and his length twitches against my stomach.
I bite gently, just a pinch, and there's another twitch. I grin wickedly and tend to his other nipple, laving it with my tongue before giving it a light bite.
The sound that slips from his throat is pure hunger and aching pleasure. I sweep my fingers across the curve of his throat, over his collarbones and his shoulders. Such magnificent shoulders.
I take my time touching him. Loving him. Every rib is mine. The smooth pecs and curved biceps are mine. His sinewy forearms, slim wrists, strong fingers—they are mine. His stomach, with its ridges of muscle—mine. His hipbones, the flat plane of his abdomen—mine. His powerful thighs, and the dark hair between them, and the length of him that is miraculously erect, desperately longing—they are all mine too. His muscled calves, narrow feet, every toe. Mine to love.
"You're mine," I tell him. And I move myself over him, lowering until my body is flush with his. He groans, digging eager fingers into my rear, but I wriggle free, conscious of a hint of pain in my damaged rib. Instead I move down, my face hovering between his legs. One long lick, and a strangled cry breaks from him.
"Open your eyes," I say, and when he does, I take him in my mouth.
He watches me do it, swearing repeatedly under his breath. After a few seconds, I arrange myself astride his hips, as we did last night. But before I can slide down on top of him, he seizes me and flips us both over. I'm on the bottom now, breathless and alive and wet and ready.
When he slides in, I bite my lip and hold onto him for life itself. Deep, smooth strokes, heat and silky skin and rippling muscle. He's panting, teeth gritted, the tension of passion in that beautiful jaw of his. I lean up and kiss him while he thrusts, and he murmurs eagerly into my mouth, kissing me back as if he's starving and my tongue is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.
Then his lips break away, parted to let out a raw moan. "Are you coming again?" he says hoarsely. "I can't hold out much longer—I wish I could—I—"
"Just let go." I'm so close to my own climax—if I can just get there—a little more—I hiss the dirtiest words I know into his ear and he rams into me three more times before we explode together, rocketing into that space between desire and satisfaction, into those few precious seconds of pulsing, thrilling pleasure.
He sinks against me with a sigh, his eyes half-lidded and glassy with delight. After a minute he moves away a little, then tugs me against his chest, encircling me with both arms.
"Doesn't that hurt?" I ask him. "With your wrist, and the cuts?"
"Finley, when will you stop worrying about me? Asking if things hurt, if I'm okay? When will you learn that I don't care about my own pain, as long as I get to hold you?"
"I'll stop checking on you when you quit worrying about me," I retort.
"Never gonna happen."
"Well then."
He's so quiet for a while that I wonder if he's asleep—and then he says, "So what did you and Reuel talk about?"
Sighing, I recount the events of the evening.
"What am I going to do with him?" I sigh, nestling closer to Atlan. I inhale deep breaths of his skin, his scent. Spice and heat and soap, with the faintest hint of salty, metallic blood from his wounds. Some people say that blood doesn't have a smell, but I swear I can smell it. Maybe some element of Atlan's vampire sensibilities has rubbed off on me.
"You have to stop trying to fix him, Finley. I don't know why you're so invested."
"Because I can imagine what his early life was like, and I feel bad for him. When I was in college studying to be a teacher, I learned all about how crucial a child's early development is. You mess that up, and it causes permanent emotional problems. A lack of socialization can be just—devastating."
"But you can't fix what's been done to him, all by yourself, in a week."
He's right, and I hate that he's right. "So you're saying I shouldn't even try?"
"I'm saying that some people are just too messed up. You can pour yourself into them, and they might seem better for a while, but you can never really trust them. Think about everything Reuel has done, Finley, before we got here and especially since we arrived. Think about Perez—her bruises, her torn uniform. Think about Darius, what he's become. What Reuel almost did to me, just to get information. What he would have done to Chandra, what he almost did to you. The kind of man who would come that close to rape is not someone you want to help." His voice is rough and dark with anger.
"So that's the unforgivable sin."
"Pretty much. That and murder."
"Can anyone come back from those things, though?" Absently I trace the edge of one of his bandages.
"You mean like redemption of some kind?"
"I guess. How do you redeem yourself after killing someone willfully? Like, not in self-defense."
"I don't know." The shadow over his face reminds me of the night I first met him. He was disgusted at his Captain's gift of a blood-slave, reluctant to accept me because of what I represented—a breach of his moral code, his principles. He's an honorable person. It's one of the things I love about him.
"I suppose," he says slowly, running his knuckles along my hip, "that a person would have to do enough good to outweigh the bad. Like, massive amounts of good."
"Would neutralizing the zombie threat be enough? Would that redeem him, in your opinion?"
Atlan narrows his eyes at me, and then he sighs. "Yeah. I guess it would. He'd save a lot of lives that way."
"Maybe that's why he's doing this. To gain redemption." Even as I say it, I realize that I don't fully believe it. Reuel's motives, whatever they may be, aren't that pure. They're tangled and twisted, good intentions knotted up with self-serving ones.
Atlan snorts. "If this is what his good side looks like, I don't want to see his bad one."
"I really think he's trying. He could have forced me tonight, in his rooms, and he didn't. He barely touched me."
"How noble of him," Atlan sneers.
"Oh my gosh." I push his face, lightly. "You're still jealous, even after everything."
"Nah. I just don't like the guy, as a person. Or as a chimera." Atlan stretches out to his full length on the bed. "Well, we should get some sleep, because the lock on that door means I can't go back to my own room, and when they find me in here, there's going to be hell to pay. I should rest up, because I'll probably have to fight somebody or other."
"Let's hope it's just one of the techs. Or maybe the doors will unlock automatically in the morning."
"They're not that high-tech. But don't worry about it now—just kiss me, Trouble."
Tenderly I kiss him, and he sighs satisfaction into my mouth.
"Be right back," I whisper, slipping off the bed.
I pull on my scanty clothes again and turn out the light, darting back to his warmth. Tugging the blanket over both of us, I snuggle in against him, feeling perfectly safe and exquisitely happy despite the pitch black of the room, despite the uncertainty of our situation. I'm so glad he sneaked in here—not just because of the mind-blowing sex, but because of how much I miss him when he isn't here. His presence is natural, easy, comfortable. It's right.
I touch his lips, slipping my finger between them to feel the crisp points of his fangs.
"You're fascinated with monster parts, aren't you, Trouble?"
"No." I cup his jaw in my hand and give it a little shake in protest. "I just love you, you vampire bastard."
He kisses my face in the dark—my nose, my forehead. "Love you back."
24
Atlan
I wake up in midair, dangling from a massive hand whose claws pierce my flesh.
I grunt in fury, my fangs
whipping out, and I twist, savagely biting the hand that grips my upper arm.
Reuel drops me, his face a mask of insane anger. "How dare you?"
"How dare I what?" I roar at him. I'm in a half-crouch, ready to pounce, ready to rip into him. I'm beyond civility now. This is a challenge, and I will not back down.
"How dare you sleep in here, with her?"
"Did those antlers mess up your brain when they sprouted?" I snap. "You should understand by now that Finley and I are together. Together. She doesn't belong to you. Get it through your skull, you perverted monster."
Through the red glaze of my fury, I glance at Finley—she's dazed and shivering, huddled at the head of the bed with a pillow clutched in her arms.
"You were told to sleep in separate rooms." Reuel's voice is poison and slivers of bone. "There will be consequences."
My laugh sounds more like a snarl. "Bring it on, bitch. If you hurt me, or Finley, there will be no deal with our people. No help with your mass mind-wipe project. You'll be stuck in this bunker until you die. You're running out of supplies, right? Going a little crazy? Oh wait—you sailed right past crazy into full-on demented. Go ahead, come at me. Break the deal. You think you're big stuff? Wait 'til you're forced to go topside without military support. You can fight off some of the zombies, but even you won't last long against a horde. How far can those wings carry a big guy like you? You think you can escape a world full of teeth?"
A twinge of fear in his eyes tells me I've struck truth. His massive hands curl into fists, his own talons slitting the flesh of his palms.
"You're not that important to the human military," he seethes. "They may value you now, but if I show them a way to save their whole weakling race, they will take my offer, whatever it costs. They won't need vampires any more once my plan is put into effect."
"Yeah? How long will that take? Who do you think is going to build this cordon you want and set up to contain the zombies? Vampires, that's who. So if you want this to work, I suggest you show me a little more respect." I stalk over to him, my anger fueling my courage. "I tried to play nice, but I'm done. You won't subject Finley to any more of your attentions, and you'll treat me like a team member and a partner. An equal, not a prisoner."
I'm suddenly aware of Finley's presence. She's not cringing behind me, or shrinking against me—she stands at my side, her eyes blazing and her lips tight—flaming with righteous purpose, like when she leaped over the wall to save Harry.
"We are your friends, Reuel," she says. "Or at least we want to be."
"Speak for yourself," I mutter.
"I want to be," she amends. "And maybe Atlan would too, if you'd quit acting like an asshole. We've been through too much to allow you to control us this way. We won't put up with it any longer. And stop making my boyfriend bleed! It's wasteful, and stupid. We're allies, or we should be. Control your—your Darius. Maybe you need to lock him up or something, until he stabilizes, so he doesn't rip Atlan's chest open again."
Reuel's gaze darts to my bandages, and I realize that he probably knows nothing about my scuffle with Darius. "What happened?" he asks.
"I picked a fight," I admit. "Not a good idea." Probably even dumber to pick a fight with this guy—he's bigger than Darius and more comfortable with his motley array of parts. But I've taken a stand now, and I don't plan on being the first to yield.
The chimera draws himself up to his full height, towering over both of us. His antlers are like a crown, and now that he has his rage under control, they lend him a dignity that's almost royal. "So you want me to allow your relationship, and curb Darius. Any other demands?" His voice has turned cold.
Finley looks at me, and I shake my head briefly.
"No," she says, lifting her chin. "I think that pretty much covers it."
"Fine," he grits out. "You may share a room. I'll speak to Darius myself. Today we will be going above ground, to fetch more zombies for testing. Last time I had to do it myself, but this time, you will assist me." He looks at me, daring me to object him phrasing it as a command.
"Sure," I tell him. "If you say 'please.' "
I expect Finley to intervene, to tell me I'm pushing him too far, insisting on too much. But she seems to be just as fed up as I am.
"Yeah," she agrees. "That's fair."
Reuel glowers, but he manages a barely understandable "please" under his breath. "You will come to the kitchen when you're prepared for the day." And he storms out in a swirl of half-folded wings and writhing tail.
Finley and I stare at each other for a second. And then she says, in a pompous, comical imitation of Reuel's voice, " 'You will come to the kitchen when you're prepared for the day.' "
I burst into laughter and drag her against me. "Thanks for backing me up."
"We're a team." She squeezes me around the waist. "And now, we should get ready. I'm dying to get out of this bunker and see the sun again."
"Wait a second." I push her back a little. "You're not going with us."
"Um—yes I am."
"No, you're not. We're going to be outside, Finley. Out in the Hordelands, capturing zombies. What if one of them got to you? All it takes is one puncture from a fang—"
"I'm aware." She pulls away from me, her lips stiffening. "I'll ask Reuel for a gun."
"He won't give you one. He's not stupid—you could turn it on him. We're still prisoners, remember? They're going to be watching us, to make sure we don't try to escape. It's best if you stay down here in the bunker, where it's s—safe."
Her eyebrows soar. "Did you just say it's safe down here?"
"Comparatively." I run a hand through my hair. "Finley, just listen to me, okay? I want to know that you've got walls between you and the zombies."
"I understand that, but this is not your choice. It's mine. And Atlan, I have to get out of here. It's horrible, and stifling. I need sun. And honestly, the safest place for me is wherever you are."
A swell of panicky anger fills my chest. I don't want her out there, exposed. Vulnerable. "What happened to the girl who was too scared to go near the wall?"
"She grew a spine?" Finley shrugs.
"More like she got way overconfident. You're staying here."
The fire in her eyes threatens to consume my soul. "No. I am not."
"Why can't you just listen to me for once, instead of making this some kind of assertion of your independence?"
"Why can't you let me make the decision?"
I debate pushing her against the wall, trying to kiss her into submission. But my gut tells me that would be a very bad move. "Fine," I grit out. "Do what you want. You wanna get yourself killed, after everything we've been through—you wanna put me through that pain—go right ahead."
I slam out of the unlocked door and stride down the hallway to the bathroom. A quick shower does nothing to dampen my anger, and I pointedly ignore Finley when we're sharing the sink area.
You're being immature, I tell myself. Just make up with her already! But I can't get past the fact that she won't see reason, won't let me protect her. It's damn foolishness, is what it is.
The human blood-hire, Bob, is in the kitchen when we arrive, monologuing to the lab techs about one of his conspiracy theories. He has lost maybe ten pounds since I last saw him, but otherwise he's the same bombastic, annoying guy that traveled with us from the Safe Zone. I wonder why Reuel saw fit to let him out of his cell. The chimera made it clear he had a purpose for Bob. Some kind of testing.
When we're nearly done with our breakfast of oatmeal, Reuel enters the room. He moves behind Bob, clapping both hands on the blood-hire's shoulders and squeezing. On the surface it looks like a friendly gesture, but the way those black talons flex over Bob's meaty shoulders shows anything but camaraderie.
"Bob is a very important part of our mission today," says Reuel, smiling. His forked tongue whips out for half a second, so fast I wonder if I imagined it. "He's going to encourage the zombies to come closer, so we can catch them."
"
Whaa—? I'm going to be the bait?" squeaks Bob.
Finley stands up immediately, protest written all over her face; but Reuel fixes her with a look, lacing both hands around Bob's plump neck. "You have something to say, my dear?"
Finley watches those talons play along Bob's jugular and she swallows hard. "No. Except—why do you need Bob? Won't the zombies attack you too? You could be your own bait."
"We need something with a stronger, purer scent than Darius and I have," Reuel counters. "Something that will draw them close. Besides, Darius and I will be fighting, moving around. We need someone to stand right in front of the doors and serve as a tasty, fleshy temptation." He drags a black nail up the side of Bob's quivering cheek.
"Why don't you use me as bait instead?" Finley says, her head high. "I was going to ask you if I can come along anyway. I'm getting really depressed down here, without seeing the sun."
Reuel frowns. "Not possible. You're too valuable. This blood-bag, on the other hand, is very expendable. I've already gotten Darius's permission to use him."
"He's a person, you know. A blood-hire, not a slave." Finley's cheeks flame and she stares right into Reuel's eyes. My anger melts, and I'm left with nothing but admiration for her. Damn it. She's most lovable when she's being absolutely reckless in defense of someone else.
"You." Reuel turns on me, his eyes demanding my allegiance on this matter. "You want her out there, serving as bait?"
I clear my throat. "I think she has the right to decide, and she should do whatever she wants."
His glare intensifies. "Is that so? Very well then. So shall it be. Bob will return to his cell, and Finley will be our human bait. An incentive for you to complete your task more quickly, vampire."
I nod, but my stomach knots with tension, and it still hasn't unknotted an hour later when I step onto the elevator, along with Finley, Reuel, Darius, and a couple techs with guns—one of whom is our friend John from yesterday's dance party.
The elevator creaks and jerks, jolting in a slow ascent, bringing us closer and closer to the surface, and the sun, and the zombies that infest the Hordelands.
This is not great. This will not end well. Why did I agree to this?
Captured by the Chimera Zombie-Master Page 17