by M. A. Grant
The interior was a far cry from the outside impression of the building. They followed the patterned carpet past engraved wooden columns to the front desk. The woman standing behind the carved counter smiled politely at them both.
“Good evening,” she said brightly. “Do you have a reservation?”
“I’m afraid not,” Cristian said, returning her enthusiasm with his own wry smile. “We need a vaulted room for the next three days.”
“Of course.” She glanced down at her computer and began typing. A moment later, she tapped the counter. “Identification and payment card, please.”
They handed over their fake passports and Decebal’s card and received a slim stack of papers and a pen in return. “You and your donor need to review and initial these,” the clerk explained. “If you have any questions, please ask.”
They stepped to the side and Cristian began translating the document to Atlas as he filled it out. As this was a Council-funded haven and constituted neutral ground, all behavior must meet the Council’s internationally held code of conduct. No violence against other guests or between those sharing the room. No blood-play or feeding in the common areas, including the elevator, stairwells, or hallways. No sneaking new donors on to the haven’s premises without their signing a code of conduct. Atlas’s flush rose higher and higher as the list went on, but he doggedly initialed the lines alongside Cristian. Once they’d finished, Cristian slid the papers back to the clerk, who filed them away in one of her many drawers.
“Thank you, Mr. Putnam,” she said as she handed back their passports and card. “I’ve put you in room three. Down the stairs, take a left, and at the end of that hall. If you have any further questions, I’m happy to help.” She pushed over a thick metal key. The jagged teeth made it look more like a puzzle piece, or a safe deposit key, than one for a room, and Cristian handed it over to Atlas.
“Actually,” he said to the clerk, “I do have one more question. I’d like to pay my respects to the local ispán tomorrow night, since I will be here more than one day. Where would I be able to find him?”
The clerk’s shoulders tightened and she forced a smile. “Ispán Grigore’s nest is a short drive from here.” She dutifully pulled out a generalized map of the area and drew a line from the haven to a block of apartment buildings maybe ten minutes away. “You will want to take the southern entrance into the building. Only family is allowed access through the other entrances to the nest.”
“Of course,” Cristian said smoothly. “Thank you for your help.”
“Have a nice evening, Mr. Putnam, Mr. Billings,” she said, fake smile pulling painfully at the apples of her cheeks.
“Down the stairs and to the left,” Cristian told Atlas as they left the desk. “Room three.”
They were on the first of the subterranean floors, in one of the corner suites. Atlas frowned at the key when he saw the wooden door, but dutifully inserted it into the lock. The complex tumbler system set into motion. After a ten-second delay, the door latch clicked and Atlas opened the door.
Tried to, at least. “Heavier than I thought,” he grunted.
Cristian quickly retrieved the key and helped Atlas finish shouldering the door open. “The first door is always the hardest,” he assured Atlas.
“Wait... First door?”
They stepped into the small vestibule and the overhead motion light clicked on. There was barely enough room for both men and their bags in the closet-size space. A metal door waited before them. Cristian reached behind Atlas and pulled the outer door shut. The latch locked and the tumblers shuddered.
“Watch for the light,” Cristian said, pointing up.
It blinked twice, and Cristian unlocked the interior door. It was a bit of a dance to slip through it. Cristian normally would have been irritated by the inconvenience, but since it required him to press against Atlas, to feel the warmth of his body at his back, he didn’t mind as much. Judging by the hitch in Atlas’s breathing and the way he leaned in closer, his nose brushing the hair at his temple, he didn’t mind either. The moment couldn’t last though. Atlas reached for the door, and they headed into their room.
Inside, Atlas shook his head. “Glad to know it’s not just human hotels that are designed poorly.”
“Protection against accidental sun exposure is the highest priority,” Cristian said. “But I can’t tell you how many complaints these places get. Most of the elders hate staying here.”
“Why not stay somewhere else?” Atlas asked.
“Oh, the usual reasons. Unexpected stay-overs due to travel restrictions or the desire to travel anonymously through less than friendly regions. The haven’s records are protected and they’re considered neutral territory.”
“Like claiming sanctuary in a church,” Atlas said.
“Exactly. The neutrality only exists on the haven’s grounds though. When the Council wanted to establish these places, there was a nasty political fight over the seizure of territory land to build on. It took centuries and, in the end, they could only get cooperation from all the territories by agreeing that the haven’s boundaries were limited. Remember that line in the pavement outside? That’s the marker. The moment you go past it and off the haven’s property, you’re free game for anyone waiting outside.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to test that,” Atlas muttered.
“Agreed.” He tossed his bag on the side of the large bed nearest the wall. He unpacked some fresh clothes and toiletries, and strode to the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a bit,” he called over his shoulder, praying Atlas couldn’t read through his fake nonchalance.
He needed a moment to breathe, to allow himself to think without trying to keep up a brave face. Repression was a familiar, comfortable state of existence for him, but the last few days had tested him. He would continue looking for Radu, but his good intentions didn’t change the way he’d given up on his friend for now. Luca’s violent end sent him hurtling back to the dark memories of his mother’s death. And now, if they failed to find Florica, he might hurt some of his family’s oldest allies, and cost Atlas any chance of learning the truth about his past. His chances for successfully navigating this mess were lessening, while the pressure on him rose.
The warm spray of the shower couldn’t wash away his anxiety. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he almost missed the creak of the bathroom door opening. They were safe behind a double layer of security in their room, but he still tensed for a moment before saying, “I’ve only just started.”
“I thought you might want some company,” Atlas said. His words were soft, tentative, like he expected Cristian to order him out of the room.
If Cristian had any care for his own heart, he would. But he’d never been one for self-preservation.
“The shower’s big enough for both of us,” he said.
Atlas didn’t respond, and Cristian worried he’d overstepped again until a brush of cooler air hit him when the shower’s glass door swung open. Cristian started to move out of the water to make room, but froze when the shower’s steamy atmosphere blossomed with the unexpected sweetness of Atlas’s arousal.
“See something you like, Mr. Kinkaid?” he asked.
“Yes,” Atlas said simply.
“About time.”
He sucked in a surprised breath when the backs of Atlas’s fingers brushed over his shoulder, down his spine, and stilled on the dip of his lower back.
He ached for Atlas to keep touching him. That too-brief moment between them in the Scarsdale apartment and its unfulfilled promise now left the air charged from the simplest contact of bare skin on bare skin. The flow of water changed as Atlas stepped closer, his hip pressing against Cristian’s ass, so close and yet so far from where he wanted the contact to be. Or, he thought dizzily when Atlas’s lips pressed against the curve where his neck met his shoulder, maybe a different kind of contact was just as good.
“You were right,” Atlas whispered.
Cristian could barely string two thoughts together. “About?”
“I’m bad at...at acknowledging what I want,” Atlas admitted. “And I want you. This isn’t...this isn’t some fling or quick fuck.”
“I didn’t think it was,” Cristian assured him, hissing in pleasure when Atlas’s lips trailed along his shoulder, chasing water rivulets.
Atlas went on, his words coming faster and faster, quick puffs of breath against Cristian’s skin. “You deserve that. Deserve me being honest with you. I want to try.”
Cristian hummed and arched back into him, reveling in the way Atlas instinctively clutched at his hip and dragged him closer. “That’s going to require you talking to me, you know.”
“I—” Atlas stopped himself, and Cristian waited for his scent to sour, positive he’d said the wrong thing, taken his teasing a step too far for how serious the conversation was. But the scent didn’t change, and Atlas didn’t push him away or withdraw. Instead, he swallowed and said, “What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.” He bit down before he could add, Everything.
“I don’t like it here. Too easy to get stuck in my head.”
Cristian reached back and ran his hand up and down Atlas’s thigh and hip, encouraging him to continue as the water poured over them, hot and healing.
“I kept thinking while we were driving. You said I don’t say how much I want you.” Cristian started to argue because he hadn’t said that, but Atlas kept going. “It’s stupid, but if I didn’t say it, I thought it wouldn’t hurt so much.” He nuzzled into Cristian’s neck again, with greater purpose this time, and mumbled, “I want you all the time, Cristian.”
“And I you,” Cristian promised. He turned to face Atlas, enjoying Atlas’s dark gaze and the way his hand slid up his body, mapping the line of his ribs.
“Even now?” Atlas breathed when Cristian reached up and wrapped his arms around the back of his neck.
“Of course. You aren’t alone in this.” Atlas gave a ragged exhalation and Cristian smiled, hoping Atlas could read all his affection and hope in the expression. “That’s why I want you to let go,” he said honestly. “I want you to have a moment to escape out of your head and just be, even if it’s for a short time. We’ll have time for honest talks later.”
“Fuck,” Atlas whispered, and leaned in without warning. It was a frantic kiss, born of desperation and relief, and Cristian hummed with pleasure as Atlas took what he wanted, what he needed.
He could give Atlas that much at least. He let Atlas adjust his body and head however he wanted, relieved to submit to his care. He didn’t have to plan ahead. Hell, he didn’t have to think. For once, he could lose himself to the sensation of Atlas’s skin against his and let the rest of the world fade away.
He ran his hands over Atlas’s chest before trailing lower to his stomach. He paused when his fingers brushed against coarse hair, but Atlas only hummed in approval, giving Cristian permission to reach lower. He circled Atlas’s cock with his hand, admiring its heft and the stretch of his heated skin. An experimental stroke left Atlas groaning into his mouth, so Cristian repeated the action, smiling when Atlas’s breath stuttered and he rocked forward a bit.
Atlas reached up a shaky hand and traced Cristian’s lower lip with his thumb. “Your fangs are showing,” he whispered.
“Sorry,” Cristian whispered back, his gut sinking.
Atlas’s pupils were dilated, his focus burning in its intensity. His grip on Cristian’s chin tightened when he tried to pull away, and it took him a second to realize Atlas wasn’t turned off by the sight of his fangs. Far from it, in fact.
“You’re so careful with them,” Atlas mused, still playing with Cristian’s lip, a maddening back and forth of his thumb against the sensitive skin. “Would you still be so careful if you were on your knees for me?”
Actions spoke louder than words. He pulled back from Atlas’s grip and trailed his hands down Atlas’s body as he knelt before him. The shower continued to stream over them, but Cristian didn’t reach up to slick his hair back. He was too distracted by the admiration and hunger in Atlas’s gaze.
“Yes,” Cristian promised. “Let me prove it to you.”
Atlas watched him for a long moment, water beading on his eyelashes, his chest heaving. His scent wavered, caramel threatened to give way to sunbaked asphalt, but Cristian reached up and brought Atlas’s hand to his head. The man threaded his fingers through Cristian’s soaked hair and released a shaky exhalation. The scent of his worry faded away as Cristian waited for his direction.
Atlas kept one hand buried in his hair, a tether to the moment, while reaching down for his cock. The temptation to look, to admire the picture he’d make, crackled along the edges of his awareness, but Cristian stayed still and didn’t look away from Atlas’s face. The longer he knelt there, proving his obedience, the more the lines of tension around Atlas’s mouth leached away. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but finally Atlas’s fingers flexed against his scalp. Slowly, gently, Atlas pulled him forward, and Cristian closed his eyes and accepted his reward eagerly.
Atlas was thick and Cristian hummed in appreciation of the stretch in his jaw. He focused on the drag of that glorious cock over his tongue, the way he had to open wider to account for his fangs, and he lost himself to Atlas’s increasingly deep thrusts, mesmerized by the man’s trust in him. His world was nothing but the slightly bitter tang of precome, the soft grunts nearly drowned out by the water falling, and the increasing tempo of Atlas’s pulse. Cristian’s building pleasure crested slowly through him, tingling warm and liquid in his muscles, but he kept his hand away from his own erection. He needed Atlas to claim his orgasm first. Once he spilled, Cristian would happily follow after.
Atlas’s breath stuttered and his thumb brushed at the corner of Cristian’s mouth. “Look at me, Cris,” Atlas whispered.
He did, dazed and cock-drunk, and Atlas made a shocked sound before his entire body went taut. Cristian took as much of him as he could. Atlas came, pulsing against his tongue. He swallowed what he could and lifted his chin as the water washed away what was left. Atlas gave in to his weak knees and knelt too, using his grip on Cristian’s hair to drag him into a breathlessly gentle kiss.
“So good,” Atlas breathed against his mouth. “So good for me.” He reached down and palmed Cristian’s neglected erection. “Now you.”
A few short strokes left Cristian crying out against his lips, chasing the molten sensation of pleasure until Atlas slowed and carefully released him. He pressed a kiss to Cristian’s forehead and murmured, “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Cristian said, struggling to get the word out past the beautiful haze in his head. “Mean it. Anytime.”
Somehow Atlas got him vertical again and they finished washing up and getting ready for bed. Atlas pulled the sheets aside and let Cristian settle before crawling in and curling up against him. His head rested on Cristian’s chest and his steady breaths tickled over his exposed skin. Cristian stroked his fingers through Atlas’s short hair. They didn’t bother to speak. Even without a feeding, they were attuned to each other. The minutes passed and Atlas’s breathing evened. Cristian returned to himself in bits and pieces as Atlas drifted off, rousing himself enough to stare up at the plain ceiling overhead.
Atlas knew Cristian would be there for him when his secrets grew too heavy to bear. Hopefully that trust wouldn’t be lost after he met Grigore and learned what other monsters were out there.
Chapter Five
The grim building housing Grigore’s nest loomed ahead of Atlas and Cristian. The windows had been systematically blocked, some with wood or metal, others with paper and foil, and others still with black paint. The only illumination escaping from inside came from the electric lights in the lobby, which was guarded by two intimidating men standing outsid
e the door, smoking and gesturing donors inside.
Even from this distance, Cristian knew the odors wafting off the donors’ skin weren’t cosmetic. They came across as a pungent mixture of excitement, fear, lust, and even resignation. A handful of young people—probably from the university—hurried past Atlas and Cristian with nervous glances, rushing to beat them to the door. Cristian’s stomach churned at the scarring revealed by their carefully planned outfits. They were regulars, and judging by their hollow stares, they were coming here too often and had grown addicted to the bond.
Maybe it was a mistake to bring Atlas here.
“Whatever we see inside, Mr. Kinkaid, you mustn’t react,” he murmured.
“I’m a professional, Mr. Slava.”
Cristian’s nose tickled at the note of damp, overturned earth, a smell completely out of place in the middle of the urban street. But it took him a moment to connect that new scent to Atlas’s brusque response. Hurt. Atlas was hurt by his comment.
He did an admirable job of hiding it. He stood at Cristian’s side with the same precise bearing he wore at the start of every shift in Scarsdale. He assessed the building’s entry procedures with quiet intelligence, and most would read his tight lips and slightly narrowed eyes as focus and determination. Cristian knew better.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, grateful they were far enough away that Grigore’s doormen couldn’t hear. “I’m not doubting your abilities. I’m worried because—” He could find honest words, but not the right words. He loathed to feed Atlas’s anxiety after finally helping him relieve some of his burdens yesterday.
“What are you worried about, Mr. Slava?” Atlas asked. He no longer smelled like a freshly turned grave, but the damage had already been done.
“You haven’t seen our world yet, not really. Father’s territory is unlike that of any other elder. I know you’ve come a long way since you saw me at Hahn Lake, but here...” He took a breath and stepped in front of Atlas, forcing him to meet his gaze. “If it’s too much, we leave.”