by M. A. Grant
“I think we haven’t asked enough questions,” he said. “You warn us of monsters in these mountains, but say they are not bears. What else could it possibly be?”
“What journal do you write for?” Daria asked Atlas, without tearing her gaze from Cristian.
“That’s unimportant—”
Up came the shotgun barrels, this time aimed directly at their heads. “It is a matter of life or death.”
“Shall we come clean, Mr. Kinkaid?” Cristian murmured.
“We had a lead and needed to confirm our suspicions,” Atlas said, ignoring Cristian and trying to ease the climbing tension in the room. “We appreciate your time. We’ll be going now.”
Daria, who’d unflinchingly held Cristian’s gaze, remarked, “Most people would argue that monsters aren’t real. Neither of you reacted. So either you know what monsters are out there, or you are monsters—”
Every supernatural action required an extraordinary amount of energy. Even elders like Decebal rarely relied on the full extent of their physical potential due to the subsequent feeding required. But if Cristian’s choice was between dying here and now, at the mercy of Daria’s silver shot, or using his full power to avoid it, there was no contest. He rallied his reserves and moved.
Atlas grunted when Cristian crashed into him, pushing them both out of range of the scatter before Daria’s finger could pull the trigger. The explosion rang through the small room, even as he flung himself up and lunged for her. He got a hand around the barrels and tipped the gun up. Another explosion as she pulled the rear trigger too late.
His free hand clamped around her throat as he tossed her gun aside. His speed sent them both careening back into the wall. She slammed into it so hard the gilded wooden icon above her shoulder rattled, but didn’t fall. Mary’s beatific eyes watched the scene unfold with a saintly calm that made Cristian’s skin crawl.
Daria’s fear, sickly sweet like rotting meat, filled his nose and mouth. He snarled against the foulness of it and a fresh wave rose as his fangs were exposed. He ground his forearm down over her collarbone, keeping her pinned there, feet dangling above the floor, before daring to check on Atlas, who was staggering upright. “You okay?” he asked.
“What the fuck was that?” Atlas asked him with a grimace. When he saw Daria’s predicament, he ordered, “Let her down.”
“She’ll shoot us.”
“You broke her gun. She won’t.”
Cristian turned back to glare at his captive. He never should have taken his eyes off her.
Even panicked, she acted with smooth, measured movements. She pulled a length of glinting wire from her pocket. Atlas yelled something. Cristian tried to retreat, but her arms came up, the wire snaked around his exposed wrist and tightened.
The silver sizzled against his flesh, its burn lancing past the skin, deeper, until it sunk into bone and vibrated through him. He screamed, and then Atlas was there. He grabbed Daria’s wrists, pinching at the tendons and twisting until she cried out and lost her hold on the wire. Cristian flung himself back, shaking himself free of the wire and cradling his injured arm to his chest while Atlas struggled with the shepherdess.
Tears flooded his vision, reducing the battle between the two to shadowy movements and grunts of pain and exertion. He’d destroyed the gun. Atlas would be fine. He’d bested Andrei. He’d taken on strigoi and survived. Cristian gritted his teeth and fled the house, rushing outside into the rain.
The first touches of raindrops on his burned skin were like molten lead, sparking a pain so deep he worried he’d pass out in a puddle. He fell to his knees, forced his shaking arm out, and whimpered as the rain fell on him. The water wouldn’t undo the burn, couldn’t, but it was cool and the longer it dripped over his skin, the more his agony dulled. He didn’t know how long it took, but the roar of his pulse quieted and he could hear the sounds of the fight in the house.
Something’s wrong. He needs me.
He repeated it over and over as he forced himself to his feet. Even when the racket inside died down, he swallowed and pushed himself to reach the door, to help Atlas if he could.
He walked into a stalemate. Atlas and Daria faced off from opposite sides of the room, hands resting on their knees as they panted and tried to watch the other. Lurid red marks littered their faces and arms and Cristian knew they’d both bruise badly. Daria sported a long scratch across one cheek, though it wasn’t bleeding as much as the cut at Atlas’s temple.
“Leave her,” he ordered Atlas, desperate to check how bad his injuries were. “We’ll find them on our own.”
Atlas ignored him. His eyes were fixed on Daria’s neck. Cristian tracked his line of sight and his stomach dropped out. During the fight, Daria’s jacket had come off, leaving her neck exposed by the shirt she wore underneath. Now he understood why Atlas wasn’t walking away.
Atlas’s scars were centered on one side of his neck, deep and jagged from the strigoi’s fangs ripping free. Daria’s scars curled around the back of her neck, as if something had clamped its jaws along her nape and begun to chew.
“They attacked you too,” Atlas wheezed, no question in his voice. “That’s how you know what’s out there.”
“Shut up,” Daria hissed.
“The strigoi attacked you too,” Atlas said again.
Cristian went to his side, nudged him, and helped him stand upright. Atlas hissed and clutched his ribs as he stood. Cristian wished he’d hit Daria harder, hard enough she couldn’t have gotten in whatever lucky hit led to Atlas’s injury.
He couldn’t take his revenge on her now, but he could disrupt whatever selfish peace she thought she’d won over them. “We want to stop them,” he told her. “And we will with or without your help.”
It was a struggle to support Atlas and protect his injured arm at the same time. But he did it, and left Daria wide eyed and lost to whatever confusion he’d created.
Chapter Nine
The only benefit of the village’s small size was how easily they found a room at the only bed-and-breakfast on the edge of town. Tourist season was over, and the owner was more than happy to offer them a place to stay for as long as they needed. Cristian dealt with the check-in. Despite the steady ache of his injured wrist hidden beneath his jacket sleeve, he engaged in friendly banter and made sure to keep all the attention on him. Meanwhile, Atlas shuffled off to their room with their bags, avoiding any awkward questions about his more obvious injuries.
When Cristian finally excused himself and retreated to their room, he found Atlas frowning and pulling all the curtains shut. One of the beds was missing its top blanket, and a quick glance into the small bathroom showed the blanket now served as a makeshift window covering in there as well.
“You’ve been busy,” Cristian commented. He toed off his shoes near Atlas’s at the door to avoid tracking mud everywhere.
Atlas looked back over his shoulder and frowned. “Will this be enough?”
“It’ll be fine,” Cristian assured him. He settled down on one of the two beds and peeled off his jacket. The wound left by the silver garrote sent pulses of pain through his hand and up his arm when it was exposed to the air. He couldn’t hide his wince, and it brought Atlas to him in an instant.
“Let me see,” he murmured. He took up Cristian’s hand like it was some rare, breakable thing, and gently manipulated his arm to examine the whole red, weeping line burnt into his skin.
Cristian tried to distract himself from the pain by checking the wound at Atlas’s temple. It had already stopped bleeding, and he’d cleaned away most of the blood. Satisfied that Atlas had taken care of himself for the time being, Cristian started counting the furrows of his brow, which grew more pronounced as his frown deepened.
“This looks awful,” Atlas said. “What can we do?”
“You already did enough by getting in her way,” Cristian said, delic
ately pulling out of Atlas’s grip. “It’s a ligature mark, not an open wound. If the silver had gotten into my blood...” He offered Atlas a wry smile as he thought of Sanda’s sudden, painful end. “Well, you would have needed to start updating your resume.”
Atlas didn’t take the bait. Instead, he took a seat on the edge of his own bed, where he could watch Cristian openly and without any distractions. “There’s nothing we can do to help it heal faster?” His gaze darted back down. “Or something to help you manage the pain?”
“I got lucky. Time and feeding will make it better eventually.” He didn’t mention how difficult it would be to find a willing donor in this backwater village, or how the risk of traveling into a larger, more established area could bring all their enemies down on their heads. He didn’t have to say any of that, because Atlas could read between the lines well enough on his own.
“I’ll feed you,” Atlas declared.
“No.” He said it as gently as he could, knowing Atlas would be stung by the rejection. “You’re not looking too good yourself. I can handle a little pain for a few days. If you’re still willing once you no longer look like you got trounced in a barroom brawl, I’ll happily accept.”
“I’ve had worse,” Atlas shot back. “I told you, I have to get over this. I can’t do my job otherwise.”
Ah, yes, there was the frustration in his voice, the need to prove his worth when he’d already done that a hundred times over. Cristian wondered if Atlas would ever lose that defensive edge, if he would ever understand his own value or how rare he was among humans and vampires alike. He could easily pull on his own sarcasm and irritation to respond, but he didn’t want to. Tonight’s unexpected fight lingered, written on their skin in bruises and injuries they wouldn’t be able to hide easily. And the bruises left on Atlas’s mind and soul would take even longer to heal.
“Atlas,” he said, “I have never doubted your strength. You face every challenge like a warrior and you never back down.”
He didn’t mind when Atlas dropped his gaze. He’d long known Atlas suffered embarrassment over any genuine compliment directed his way. He read Atlas’s body, the slight hunch of his shoulders, the way his hands fisted on his thighs.
He tried to soften his voice even more, hoping it made the truth more palatable, and went on, “This is no longer just a job. Not to me. It hasn’t been for a while.”
Atlas bit at his lower lip, fighting down whatever interruption he wanted to make.
“I won’t turn my back on my father or the dangers he’s facing. I can’t. But I also can’t step aside and watch you destroy yourself for a paycheck.” He hesitated. Without trust between them, there was no way they’d be able to support each other as they uncovered the truth about the strigoi. He wanted to help Atlas shoulder the burden of those discoveries, but he couldn’t do that until Atlas let him past those emotional walls.
Walls he could smash through if he admitted he already knew Atlas’s shame, that Andrei’s suspicions of Atlas’s ties to the Wharrams had been proven right. With that secret dragged out into the open, maybe they could find better footing. Or maybe he would be left with nothing but smoking rubble as Atlas’s guilt poisoned whatever they could have created.
He had to tread carefully, to watch for any fractures forming. “You have responsibilities too. Everything you’ve done to keep Beatrice safe, everything you’ve sacrificed, is too important. I won’t let you throw that all aside. I—”
His chest tightened, the word on the tip of his tongue, so close to escaping. Love, he wanted to say. Because it was love, not the all-consuming lust or passion he’d expected to fizzle out, but a constant pressure, one that had taken him over despite knowing Atlas would never feel such an emotion for him. It had no place in this conversation, so he forced himself to change course. “I...care for you. Deeply. And I want to help you find what closure you can here—”
Atlas surged forward, his mouth slamming into Cristian’s. His hand scrabbled at the back of Cristian’s head, his fingers digging into his hair and using that leverage to tilt his head back farther as he deepened the kiss. Cristian groaned and let Atlas take the lead, reveling in the heat of his lips and the aggressive slide of his tongue, the way he stole his words and breath without regret. When he finally pulled away, his fingers tightened the smallest amount, and the prickling of his scalp shocked Cristian enough he opened his eyes.
Atlas stared back at him, lips slick and face flushed. “Stop talking. You can twist anything with your words, so...stop talking.”
The command was too raw, too close to begging, so Cristian reached up with his good hand and brushed his fingers along the grim line of Atlas’s jaw. “Make me,” he challenged softly.
Atlas’s pulse ratcheted up, and he watched Cristian warily. “If I wanted to...?”
“I’d be good for you.” He wasn’t sure where those words came from, but the moment he said them, a new clarity snapped into place. Since Atlas’s first work shift, when he’d bested Cristian through his wits alone, all Cristian had wanted was to show this man he could be just as good as he was. He could show it now. Would show it.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” Atlas breathed.
When Cristian nodded, Atlas gave a ragged exhalation and leaned forward again. This kiss was gentler, more careful, but Cristian felt the tremble in his jaw and hand. Something wanted to break through and he’d move heaven and hell to ensure its freedom.
“Clothes off,” Atlas whispered when he finally drew back. A soft order, one that would be easy enough to turn down if Cristian changed his mind. A sweet, unnecessary offer.
He pulled his shirt off, careful to avoid dragging the fabric over his wrist, and fumbled with his pants. He lay down, arching his back to raise his hips, and slid everything off, tossing it haphazardly to the floor. When he sat back up, the socks followed, and soon enough he was utterly nude, unable to hide from Atlas’s careful inspection. His cock, which had been plumping since the first of Atlas’s kisses, was now too hot in the room’s cool air, and the slow slide of Atlas’s gaze over it only made his arousal grow.
Atlas wasn’t unaffected, even if he tried to give that impression. Cristian could see his erection straining against the fabric of his pants, and his desire filled the room with the mouthwatering aroma of salted caramel. Atlas leaned in, grasping Cristian’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and Cristian wished he could lick at Atlas’s skin, taste his need, and offer his body as a way to sate it.
“Only your wrist hurt?” Atlas asked him.
“Yes,” Cristian promised. “Are you—”
Atlas’s thumb stretched, rested firmly on Cristian’s parted lips, and he gently shook Cristian’s head. “No more words,” he ordered, and something in Cristian sat up and took notice of Atlas’s utter calm, his firm command of the situation. “I only want to hear words if you’re asking me to stop. Understand?”
He nodded, mouth suddenly dry.
“Lay back.”
He did, scooting himself farther back on the small mattress, eyes never leaving Atlas as he stood and watched Cristian get into position. He didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he lifted them over his head. Atlas hummed and grabbed a pillow from the spare bed. One of his knees settled beside Cristian’s thigh as he leaned over him and positioned it under his injured arm, keeping the burned section lifted. Apparently satisfied, he stood back up.
This time, his eyes were hungry and every moment they lingered on Cristian’s skin felt like a caress. “You could be a statue,” he murmured. He reached out and trailed his fingers from Cristian’s chin down his sternum, coming to a stop in line with his ribs. “So beautiful.”
Cristian whined and tried to arch up into Atlas’s touch, but he tapped his fingers over his stomach and lifted his hand. “Be good,” he reminded, and Cristian relaxed back down on the bed. “Perfect,” Atlas praised.
He didn’t remove his own clothes. Instead, he climbed up on the bed again, with greater purpose this time. He settled his hands above Cristian’s shoulders, and his knees bracketed Cristian’s waist. The brush of fabric against bare skin left Cristian shivering. Goosebumps broke out over his body. Atlas kissed him again, teasing him with careful nips and soft brushes of his tongue, just enough to give Cristian a hint of his taste, but not enough. Never enough.
He kissed the corner of Cristian’s mouth, his jaw, then down his neck to his collarbone. He shifted his weight and the bed beneath them creaked, the old springs of the mattress adjusting as Atlas skated his lips farther down to his pectoral, and lower still to his nipple. The warm suction of Atlas’s mouth around it made Cristian twist on instinct, groaning from the burst of sensation behind his eyelids. He could feel Atlas smiling against his skin, even as he used his tongue to tease the nub tighter, as he delicately ran his teeth over the too sensitive skin.
Cristian tried to buck his hips up, desperate for some kind of friction, but the moment he did, Atlas drew away, sitting up on his knees and denying the contact. He wasn’t cruel though. He put his hands on Cristian’s thighs, petting him with soothing touches until he gave up his futile attempt and forced himself to relax again. “Easy,” Atlas murmured, still stroking the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs. “Easy, Cristian.”
He said his name with fond amusement, and Cristian had to squeeze his eyes shut again as he tried to regain some kind of control over his emotions. The love in his chest kept welling up, overflowing until his skin felt hot and tight from it, ready to burst at any moment. And Atlas hadn’t even done anything yet.
Atlas’s jeans rasped over the blanket as he moved his body and weight down farther. His warm breath hit Cristian’s hip and he didn’t have any time to steel himself before a teasing kiss pressed into the dip of his hipbone. His cock twitched and the bead of precome that welled up cooled as it slid down his skin. No other lover had ever taken Cristian apart this wholly. No other lover had ever brought him to the brink of begging. Only Atlas.