Dragon Slayer (Sons of Rome Book 3)

by Lauren Gilley

  “No. Why would I be?”

  “Hmm, no. Of course you wouldn’t be.” Another tone shift. Now he sounded airy, dismissive. Like a prince. A shield, she thought. Or a disguise. “I’m not here after all, am I? So I can’t very well…” He opened his mouth, and as she watched, his fangs seemed to elongate, descending so that they were unmistakable.

  She thought she understood, then. “I’m not afraid of you because – and don’t take this the wrong way – you’re not scary. I trust you, whether or not I can actually touch you.”

  His mouth closed slowly, and he pushed up so he was propped on his elbows, expression morphing into one of wonder. “Do you mean that?” he asked, a little breathless.

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, small and pleased, and his cheeks turned a delicate pink. “Oh. Well. That’s…” He cleared his throat. “Say, did I ever tell you about the Scottish laird who thought I was a woman?” He gave her the cheeky, salacious grin again, and that was fine, because she’d seen the real one.

  ~*~

  Val liked to talk. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice – and why not, it was a lovely voice – and he enjoyed telling stories. In their stolen moments, when Kate was out, or even, sometimes, when Kate was asleep and Mia couldn’t seem to keep her eyes closed, they sat up against her headboard and whispered back and forth. Val told piecemeal stories from his childhood and his captivity. He bragged, and he ragged on his brother, and he never said anything too deep, too personal, too painful.

  But Mia was beginning to form a picture in her mind gathered from the scraps, filling in the blank places with all the things he didn’t say. And she was starting to think that something far more terrible than simple imprisonment had happened to him.

  It started to bother her, like a sore tooth, or a hangnail; a small, but tender kind of pain that nagged and nagged.

  During one of their late-night chats, she turned to him, fixed him with a serious look, and Val cut off mid-sentence. “Hey,” she said, wishing she could lay her hand over his in reassurance. He looked startled. “You know that if there was ever anything…anything really bothering you” – shit, she was so lame, saying this all wrong, but pressed on – “that you could tell me about it, right? You can tell me anything.”

  He stared at her a moment, gaze tracking over her face, searching. Then glanced away. Swallowed. “Yes, I know.”

  “And I really do mean anything. If…if there’s anything you think talking about would help with.”

  “Yes,” he said again, faraway now. Drawing into himself.

  But she didn’t think he would tell her.

  ~*~

  It was a tiny apartment, but the bathtub was deep. Sometimes, Mia even took advantage of that fact.

  Her mother, steadfast in her daily support, always kind, even when Mia grew frustrated to the point of tears with her own traitorous body, had an old sorority sister who lived in Denver. Only ten minutes from Mia’s place, in fact. So tonight, feeling tired, and sore, but mostly stable, Mia had shooed her mother out the door, insisting she go spend time catching up with an old friend. “You shouldn’t have to play nursemaid all the time.”

  “Oh, honey.” Kate had touched her cheek, eyes glazing over, briefly. “I don’t think of it like that at all.”

  But she’d gone, and Mia was grateful to have a few hours alone.

  Well…mostly alone.

  She’d called for Val, feeling a little stupid for it, while she stood in her kitchen. Had called a few times, and then waited. When he didn’t show, she decided not to sit around moping after him. She poured herself a glass of wine, and went to run a bath full of lavender-scented salts.

  It proved to be an excellent idea, once she was totally submerged, sinking down until her chin touched the surface of the warm water. The heat immediately went to work on her stress-knotted muscles, and the towel she’d folded to put behind her head gave her just enough support to allow her neck to relax.

  She’d just closed her eyes when she heard, “This is a terrible idea, really.”

  She sat upright with a gasp, water slopping over the edge of the tub, and reached instinctively to cover her breasts. Val sat on the edge of the counter, ankles hooked together, kicking lightly back and forth. There was no sound of his boot heels rapping the cabinet face, though, of course. He wore his red velvet; she suspected he knew it was her favorite of his usual outfits. And he held one hand clapped over his eyes.

  She breathed out, and let some of her sudden tension ebb. “Are you…?”

  “I haven’t seen anything, I assure you. I’m merely concerned for your wellbeing.”

  “Right.”

  “For instance.” He tilted his head, and she had the sense he could see right through his hand. Considering said hand, like the entire rest of him, was nothing but a mental projection, there was a good chance that was true. “What if you should have another of those awful seizures, here alone, and slip down into the water and drown? Bathtubs can be dangerous, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She snorted, and settled back against her towel again, letting her hand slide back into the water. Truth told, she wouldn’t mind terribly if he did look; with her brain tumor back, there was no sense wasting time lying to herself: if he were here now in the flesh, she’d grab him by the hand and pull him down into the water with her. It warmed her even more than the water to have him here with her now; she wanted him with her all the time, really. “But I’m okay right now, and this is heavenly.”

  She realized her mistake the moment the words left her mouth.

  “Oh, shit, Val, I didn’t mean–”

  He grinned, sad but sincere, beneath his hand. “It’s alright, darling. Monster I may be, but I want you to enjoy heavenly things, whether I’m able to or not.” His voice softened a fraction, full of impossible gentleness – heavy with something like grief. She saw his throat move as he swallowed. “You deserve it.”

  She felt a lump form in her own throat to know that he cared. He was a centuries-old vampire who visited her through impossible psychic powers, but he was real, and he cared about her, and she could cry because of it. She sniffed, and blinked a few times.

  Val cracked his fingers, and peeked through with one blue eye. “Please don’t cry.”

  She sniffed again, harder and shook her head. “I’m not, I’m not. It’s fine. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.” Then he pressed his fingers shut again.

  God, he was precious.

  “Val, you don’t have to keep covering your eyes.”

  He lifted his chin, voice going prim. “I believe you’re naked, are you not?”

  “Do you know anyone who takes a bath with clothes on?”

  One fine brow arched into view above his hand.

  “I don’t mind if you don’t. Honestly.”

  Slowly, he lowered his hand to his lap. And smirked. “Darling, I assure you: I’m hardly the blushing virgin.”

  “You’re blushing a little bit, though,” she pointed out with a giggle, and didn’t feel quite so self-conscious about being totally bare beneath the water.

  His cheeks were indeed a little pink, but he smoothed his smile into something unconcerned, haughty, and got slowly to his feet.

  She’d barely touched her wine, but her tongue felt loose. The warm water, she thought, or maybe having him here in the intimacy of her bathroom, while she lay naked and vulnerable.

  She didn’t feel vulnerable, though. She said, “I like the way you stand.” She would have died if she’d said that six months ago, but it was true. He had this catlike grace, and he cocked his hips like he knew he was sexy. “And that’s not just the tumor talking.”

  His smile became a smirk – an attractive one – and he took two panther-like steps toward her, hips rolling. “I didn’t think it was.” Another step, and the movement pulled his coat tight against his waist, highlighting its narrowness; and his breeches pulled tight in other areas, h
ighlighting things that were definitely not narrow. “Perhaps I stand that way on purpose. To arouse you.”

  She snorted – but it was a weak sound, and she knew it. She felt a heat gathering low in her belly, a tightening. And a fluttering in her chest. Shit, it had been a long time. Too long.

  “Perhaps,” she echoed, faintly. “That’s sweet of you.”

  He grinned, fangs sharp points, and his pupils dilated as he came closer, and closer still. “Not really.” His gaze made a slow journey from her face, down to the water, over her body beneath it. She’d pulled her knees up a fraction, and they shadowed the place between her legs, just enough that he wouldn’t be able to see it. But his gaze shifted down her legs, to her toes, and back up, over her pale belly, and breasts, and down her sunburned arms.

  “I like the way you sit a horse,” he said, eyes finally returning to her face, “and I’d ask if you do that to arouse me, but I know you don’t. You’re only wonderful at it, and that arouses me.”

  Her mouth fell open, and she breathed out a shivery little exhale. Her blood was thrumming, and the heat in her belly had become an empty ache. She wanted – a dozen specific fantasies flickered through her mind, each rawer and dirtier than the last.

  She wet her lips, and his gaze followed the movement of her tongue. “Val,” she said, voice low and rough. “Come here.”

  He sank down – gracefully, always graceful – to his knees beside the tub and rested his forearms on its edge, his face only a few inches from hers. Eyes dark pools, fangs elongated and teasing at his lower lip as he breathed roughly through an open mouth.

  She was panting, too. “Val, please.”

  “I can’t touch you, darling,” he said, pained. “I wish – God, you have no idea how much I–” He closed his eyes a moment, swallowed, expression almost a grimace. When he opened his eyes again, they were nothing but pupil, the blue only a thin ring. “I can’t touch you,” he said again, “but you can touch yourself.”

  And…oh.

  She could do that.

  She wanted to do that.

  Her hands shifted under the water.

  “Go slow, love,” he murmured, like his throat was tight.

  A tightness she felt in her own throat; her whole body felt tight. She had to wet her lips again. “Where should I start?”

  He reached with one spectral hand, and hovered it just beneath her ear. “If I were here, I would touch you everywhere. I’d start right here, at your lovely throat.”

  The words sent a thrilled shiver through her. Of course a vampire would go for the throat first. Would he sink his fangs? Drink her blood? No, no, she didn’t think so. She knew he wouldn’t. But the thought of those sharp points scraping lightly over her pulse left her reeling, and she pressed wet fingertips to the side of her neck.

  Val let out an explosive breath, a little hiss at the end, utterly transfixed.

  Her skin came alive under her own touch in a way it never had, made electrifying by the weight of his gaze. She trailed her fingertips down, and felt her pulse flutter. Swallowed with an audibly click when she reached the ultra-sensitive hollow at the base of her throat. She pretended it was his touch; pretended she could feel the heat of his breath as he leaned in even closer, as her hand slipped beneath the surface of the water.

  “You’re so utterly feminine,” he murmured around a low, pulsing growl when she cupped her breasts in both hands. They felt heavy, swollen, her nipples drawn tight, despite the heat of the water. She plucked at her nipples and lifted into the sensation with a little gasp.

  “Yes,” he said.

  And as he moved lower: “I love your hips. I love that little bit of softness, there, on your belly, and just inside your thighs. God, you’re such a woman and I love it.”

  “Val.” Her heart hammered behind her ribs; the rush of blood in her ears loud as a faucet left running.

  “Lower.”

  She went lower, a punched-out sound leaving her throat. She was wet already, slick in a way that had nothing to do with the water, and she teased apart her lips while her thumb pressed into her clit.

  Val reached into the water, then. The second his hand made contact, it curled into mist, but he kept going, all the way up to his shoulder. So that, had he been there, his hand would have joined her between her legs. She pushed a finger inside her sex and pretended it was his.

  His voice came rough, frantic. “I bet you’re so warm in there. I bet you’re hot. And tight. And wet. I want to taste you.”

  She let her head fall back, eyes going to the ceiling, the soft glow of lamp-shattered light across the plaster. Added a second finger.

  “Yes, more. I would stretch you, work you open. And then – and then my cock. I’d split you open.” He gasped, desperate, broken breaths. “Mia. Does it feel good? Do I feel good to you?”

  “You feel amazing,” she said on a moan, and stroked deep, deep as she could, wishing it was deeper. Wishing it was him.

  Her arm flexed with the effort, and she heard the soft slap of the water as it lapped at the edges of the tub. Heard her own choppy breathing, and his. Imagined the weight of his body over hers, hot breath, and wet tongue, and the bite of his fingertips into her waist, the sharp press of narrow hipbones on the insides of her thighs. Slick slide of skin, a frictionless slide between her legs. Split open, like he’d said. The image that conjured, God.

  He growled, the quiet rumble of a big cat. “Mia,” he said again. “Come for me.”

  She did, back arching, chest heaving up out of the water, sex tightening like a vise around her fingers. She closed her eyes, and stars burst behind the lids.

  An orgasm like a full-body spasm, one that brought only pleasure, and wiped every bit of pain and worry from her system. She made a noise, something embarrassing and high-pitched. But she didn’t care; she gave herself over to it completely.

  It was a slow comedown, muscles unlocking one at a time. She slumped back, boneless, so weak she was afraid she couldn’t get out of the tub, now, and blinked her eyes open.

  Val’s face hovered over hers, expression reverent.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

  “Thank you,” she countered. And then emotion rose in her, a post-coital tide of endorphins crashing. “I wish you were here.”

  He smiled like it hurt to do so. “I know, my love. So do I.”

  ~*~

  Some days there were headaches. Vicious, throbbing, relentless headaches that made her flinch away from the sun and brought tears to her eyes. Those days were the worst – those were the days that she couldn’t do the things she wanted to do…the days when she started to wonder if, maybe, just maybe, Val wasn’t real after all. That she’d dreamed him up, and then dreamed Donna telling her that she’d seen him.

  She was having one of those awful headache days when she took a tumble off Brando, and Donna banished her to the office. Alone, surrounded by all the ribbons and awards that marked a life she wouldn’t get to live any longer, she put her head in her hands and gave in to the tears.

  Val appeared, then.

  “My imaginary friend,” she called him, hating herself for letting the words slip, hating the sad way he tilted his head.

  He disappeared suddenly, after that, vanished without a sound.

  She didn’t see him again for three weeks.

  8

  SHOW ME

  Mia brushed Brando with long strokes of the body brush, flicking her wrist at the end, little puffs of dust rising up toward the sunlight spilling through the stall window. He huffed contentedly and leaned into the pressure. His coat gleamed, penny-bright, his new autumn hair coming in darker than his washed-out summer coat.

  Grooming a horse was the most soothing activity of which she knew. But she couldn’t stem the tide of worry for Val. Alone with only Brando’s warm presence and her own thoughts for company, she couldn’t stop replaying their last interaction, wondering if she’d finally managed to push him away for good, too overc
ome by pain and misery to say the kind things he so obviously needed to hear.

  But even worse was the thought that he wasn’t coming to visit because he couldn’t. Early on in their relationship, the first time she brought him to the barn and he spent all day there, he’d fritzed out for a while, and been tired in the evening, telling her it had taken too much energy to maintain an astral projection for that long.

  Maybe he was tired.

  Or maybe, a dire voice whispered in the back of her mind, something had happened to him.

  She lifted the brush and started another stroke–

  “Mia.” A ragged gasp behind her. A pained, choked voice.

  She dropped the brush and whirled, bumping back into Brando as she lost her balance.

  Val stood at the open stall door, in his tattered prison clothes, his hair wild and greasy. His eyes glowed, dilated and feverish.

  “Oh my God–” Mia started.

  “Mia,” Val said again, his voice raw, like he’d been screaming. “Listen to me. I don’t know how long I’ll have, but I have to–” He paused to catch his breath, panting. “I have to tell you this. I can’t…”

  “It’s okay. Take your time.”

  “No, I can’t! There is no time!”

  “Val.” Her heart raced; she felt its sharp tattoo under every inch of skin. “What’s going on?”

  He gulped a few more breaths, and then drew upright, a valiant effort to compose himself. “Your father’s drug. You haven’t agreed to take it yet, have you?”

  “No. But why–”

  “Don’t. You can’t. There’s a good chance it will kill you.”

  “What?”

  He closed his eyes a moment, sighing. “Christ, I should have told you all this from the start.” When he looked at her again, he said, “Forgive me, darling. You’ll hate me after this, for keeping things from you, but I had to know first. I had to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?” He was scaring her now.