by Sophie Avett
Her thick eyelashes swept across her stern cheekbones, her gaze resting on the gentle cuff around her wrist. “What do you require for sustenance?”
“Aside from regular food stuffs?”
“Yes.”
“Desire.”
Her eyebrow quirked. “Sex?”
“No, desire. If I could feed solely off the act, I doubt Mother Nature would have seen fit to give me such an abundance of charm.”
Her eyes sparkled with mirth. “You fancy yourself charming, do you?”
“Do you fancy me at all?” He didn’t know why he’d asked the question. Actually on a scale, it was downright stupid. But he wanted to know the answer.
She lifted her eyes to his throat. “Are you asking me to feed you, vampire?”
“I don’t know what I’m asking.” The words came out unbidden and he sliced his tongue open on his fang as punishment. “Care to answer anyways?”
Their gazes met.
“You feed off of desire. Can you not scent it then? Like blood?”
“Not as proficiently as my father, but enough.”
“And yet, you still ask,” she murmured. It was a low, sweet growl.
He wasn’t quite sure what to say. Somewhere in his lust-addled brain, he knew what she was implying. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew. The Master swatted a leather crop against his thigh, bristling at the insinuation. How dare she.
Marshall caught her arm and tugged with every intention of hauling her closer—she didn’t budge. He tried again with more force. Still nothing. His attention sharpened with renewed interest and he studied the pale flesh of her arm like a three headed hydra. More force, his biceps flexing. Still nothing. He hardly seemed to be bothering her slow study of his elegant collarbones.
“Mountains don’t bow to oceans, silly vampire.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “Shall I feed you?”
His eyebrows rose slightly and he had a split second to be surprised before her palm shot out against his chest. The force—it was brutal. Painful. And strangely pleasurable. His skin heated beneath her hand and he glided backwards, moonwalking on slick shadows. The closet door rattled as his back collided against the cool mirror and he found himself caught. Trapped, even. Between a rock, a hard place, and a black magic woman.
The Dominant he’d forged in the depths of Club Brimstone’s dungeon rolled with fury at their new position. Everything else was piqued, taut with interest, and yet, it could not stand. Better she understood now that any play between them would be on his terms. He grabbed her wrist. “Elsa—”
“Hush, vampire.” She splayed her fingers across his heart and lifted her chin, revealing a look of seriousness. “You are useless, weak.”
A favor, then. Not an act of submission. Just dinner. Despite the lamentable loss of heat in her eyes, the boundaries she set quelled the ire and discomfort. He relaxed against the chilly glass at his back and dropped his hand to his side. She registered the change almost immediately, her eyes brightened with it—the excitement of it. They lingered with his. Searching. Studying. Learning. And eventually, warming as lust found its way to the murky green surface.
He opened his sense to it, diving into the red shimmer pulsing around them, losing himself in the energy. Feeding from it. Of course, he’d lied earlier. He was much better at reading desire than his father—only because it was his favorite part of the hunt. A deeper look and her desire would be little more than an open book.
His fangs dropped and his pupils absorbed his eyes as he pooled his focus and spliced the red shimmer swirling around them, siphoning out every dull grey emotion until all that was left was a thick chord of pulsing crimson attraction. Using the skin on her palm as a conduit, he latched onto it—flaying the barrier between their bodies and minds as he went.
Mentally, he dragged a spaded tongue along the silken walls of her lust, the part of her mind creating whatever fantasy was fueling her desire for him and perfuming the air with the musky scent of her arousal. He followed it, gorging himself on the energy. The heated look in her eye. The way cherry curls crackled on her shoulders. Her mouth dropped open, her tongue sliding across a chapped bottom lip.
What did she taste like? He imagined cinnamon and whiskey. Sharp and hot. Spicy and sexy. Brutally smooth.
The fantasy lay ahead. Pulsing and ripe for the picking. Images peeled across the walls of her desires. Screams. Sighs. Precipitated by snaps of leather against bare skin. He should’ve known she was a sexual Dominant. He waited for a twinge of disappointment, disinclination, or even annoyance to follow the revelation. Nothing. Nothing, but steady interest. Strange.
There was a raw component to her energy as if she hadn’t quite come to terms with her preferences. Shadowed figures guarding the entrance into that part of her mind swayed with persuasion. In her fantasy, their position wasn’t much different. His back was still against a wall. Though this one was stone, not wood and glass. Smooth like the rock in Elsa’s apartment. Oddly enough, he was dressed. Suit, tie, jacket—the works. Cuffed, his hands extended over his head. Kept in place by a keyhole screwed into the ceiling and a generous amount of some kind of spectral, glowing chain.
It was not the first time he’d stumbled onto someone’s fantasy of having him bound and begging. Usually, he didn’t care to stick around to see how it played out. He would simply do something to stimulate a different one. One he found more appetizing. This time, he did stay. He seated himself in the corner of her thoughts and studied the image, trying to glean an understanding of the artist’s inner landscape.
Elsa’s mental projection of herself took form before him, dressed in her usual ratty brown robe. Standing before him, she laid a hand in the middle of his chest. And then, they were close. So very close. Mouths hovering a painful sliver of time and space apart. She breathed out, he breathed in. Sharing in something more intimate than a kiss.
In corporeality, the tips of her nails grazed a sharp trail down the center of his pectorals, marring his skin with vibrant red streaks. Six faint squares of muscle outlined on his stomach flexed beneath the pleasurable abuse. And he couldn’t help but feel like he was being marked in more ways than one.
A liberty taken without permission.
Marshall’s fangs sliced a path across his lip, ruby red beads of blood sliding down his chin, and the shadows riled with his ire. He was no submissive. Even outside of leather—it was his bed. His rules. His game. Anyone who didn’t want to play could burn. A favor was one thing. This…this was something else. Possession. It was in the very way her gaze and touch lingered on his skin. And it was severely unwanted.
Warmth and lust faded from Elsa’s gaze, murky green eyes narrowing as she adapted to the change in atmosphere. Her mouth thinned into a hard line and all the red shimmer evaporated into nothing. She did not immediately pull her hand from his skin, but swept her chilled regard across the splashes of blood screaming against his partial nudity. “Satisfied?”
Shadows hissed softly into the pregnant silence.
His jaw ticked, but he managed a smooth, devilish smile out of sheer force of will. “Yes, Ms. Karr, thank you.”
The next few minutes were strange. They stood very still for a long time. Her eyes holding his in that cool, shrouded manner, and he began to wonder whether he knew anything about her at all. In that moment, everything he’d learned about her seemed utterly irrelevant. All the time they’d spent in each other’s company rendered useless. She was an island. She was a complete mystery.
Finally, she pulled away and dedicated her study to the explosion of fabric spilling out of her suitcase. “Feel free to use the privy first.”
* * * *
Curse Sinister Stitches and that bloody fey.
Curse the boat and that harlot of a ghoul.
But most of all, curse that vampire and this bleeding dress.
Elsa swore colorfully as she stumbled out of the black wreath of velvet. Flinging it to the side, she swiped the back of her arm across the film of sweat
on her brow and shimmied into the limp bell of satin and lace she’d rummaged out of her carpet bag at random.
Magic whispered along the fabric, infusing the textile with living energy that licked against her skin as the dress grew a will of its own. The lace bodice tailored itself to her curves, then cinched around her waist, pulling tight enough to thrust her breasts nearly to her chin. Offering up the ornate ruby resting on the creamy swells in sumptuous invitation.
“Amazing…” Elsa turned her arms over as lace peeled itself apart from her bodice and snaked around her limbs in sleeves from the tops of her shoulders to her wrists. Her reflection in the mirrors paneling the back of the closet caught her attention and the satin-like material dancing around her legs, sending chills across her skin.
She hardly recognized herself in the mirror. Actually, she hadn’t really recognized herself since she’d left home. Elsa smoothed a rough hand down the side of her hair, matting little frizzy strands into place. Black lace snared her attention and her palm slipped from her hair, skimmed the edge of her breast, and smoothed down the abrasive bodice.
Marshall’s snowy blue gaze leapt to life in her mind’s eye and she idly wondered whether he had picked this dress out, too. If he had, he had taste. Dark and decadent. Almost theatrical if it wasn’t for the smooth airy skirt. He had stood before her, his back against these very mirrors just moments ago. She reached out to touch the glass as if she could capture some of the heat he’d left behind.
Earlier, he had read her desires as if she’d simply spoken them aloud. She wondered what kind of…pet he would be. Judging from his reaction to her fantasy, she couldn’t say for sure whether he found the idea displeasing or not. Honestly, she wasn’t sure why she wanted him like that at all. Sure, she attended Ingrid’s little…shows every once in a while, but she had never found the idea of indulging in such activities with anyone besides her intended mate so appealing as to actually try them.
That kind of sex always seemed…invasive. Like it would somehow disrupt the quiet she’d worked so hard to cultivate on the edge of town. More often than not, she was content with her fantasies. And yet, when she thought of Marshall, when she pictured him tied to the ceiling with nothing but desire for her—and only her—brimming in his eyes….
She slipped her hand down, cupping the apex of her thighs through the fabric swishing against her legs. Heat radiated between her palm and her center, and she tugged her bottom lip between her teeth, biting down a throaty little purr. Curse him, Odin. Curse him, especially.
The crystal orb rang. A haunting little cry. It glowed blue on the coffee table, where she’d set it after extricating it from the jaws of her carpet bag. She snatched up the little ball and tapped her finger against the marble. “Speak?”
“Greetings, darling,” Ingrid's syrupy brand of frost purred through the arcane speaker. “How are things?”
Elsa scooped up the pair of soft boots she’d worn onto the ship. “The shop, huldra?”
“Thor’s bleeding hammer, you really are a square. The shop is fine…well, mostly. Some man from the bank stopped by and dropped off some paperwork. He said you knew what the matter pertained to.”
Elsa tried to ignore the sinking in her stomach as she strangled her shoes. “Is that all?”
“Have you succumbed to your desires, yet?”
She snorted, let the marble hover in midair, and yanked on her ratty boots. “I have succumbed to nothing except a mild annoyance with your line of questioning.”
“Only mild? You must like him.”
“Hardly.”
“Excellent. You can still have your fun and we can avoid another Li—”
“Ingrid!” Elsa barked, both surprised and embarrassed by her vehemence. Thick emotion scraped at the back of her esophagus. She cleared her throat and pressed her fingers to her temples before she spoke again. “My apologies.”
Ingrid’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Elsa, I don’t like the way you look at him…”
Elsa closed her eyes against an onslaught of memories and she held her stomach as it turned and twisted. The heat singing in her skin, the warmth Marshall had left behind, sickened into a chill as his image was replaced by the Black Irish smile that had once felled her to her knees with his love, and then, his cruelty.
“…all the more reason not to become emotionally involved.” Ingrid spoke as if she could hear Liam’s burly laugh beckon and taunt. “Fuck the vampire and be done with it.”
Shadows danced, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. Elsa’s eyes flew open and her lower abdomen flexed with unfamiliar jitters.
“Pardon the interruption, Ms. Karr, but are you ready for dinner?”
She forced her hand to her side and tossed a flat frown over her shoulder. “Indeed, vampire.”
Leaning against the door frame, Marshall was the picture of bloody elegance. Black slacks with a matching vest. A deep wine shirt. He’d left the top buttons undone. It was rich simplicity, and he wore it sickeningly well. Damp, disheveled locks drifted over his eyes as he peered at the blue marble on the coffee table with interest. She breathed in deeply, thoroughly appreciating the combination of his sandalwood body wash and amber cologne. His mouth quirked and she swallowed twice before she could speak. “Huldra, I—”
“And then be done with it, Elsa,” Ingrid reminded her firmly, but added in her signature sultry burst of frost, “Otherwise, enjoy. For both of us.”
Marshall lifted his eyebrows slightly and Elsa flushed and snatched up the speaker. “Ignore her.” She tapped the orb and it died into a mundane glass marble. “I’m ready.” She levered herself out of the chair and tossed the ball back in her bag. It clanked and rattled, circling until it dropped deep into the depths of the magical pocket.
He reached out for her hand. “Come here.”
She draped a black fur stole over her forearm and eyed his palm with suspicion. “Why?”
“I mean you no harm,” he promised.
Time stilled between the two of them. She searched his expression and found nothing but the steely shrewd regard of a predator. Her feet felt heavy, leavened. She did not come to any man’s beck and call. Never. Never again. She offered her hand, but did not budge an inch. If he wanted her cooperation, he would appeal to her on her terms.
Marshall did not hesitate to take the distance between them, coming to stand so close, so quickly, she back-stepped, the back of her shins bumping against the chair. Snowy blue eyes were almost black in the shadows. His cool slender fingers closed around her wrist and he hauled her against the solid wall of his chest, his embrace sealing around her like a coffin.
He yanked and something popped. She hardly noticed. She was gone. Yearning for the individual folds of the thin skin stretched across his bottom lip, wondering whether each individual wrinkle was a crevice of flavor. What would he taste like? Her tongue snaked out to tease the line of her mouth and she found it a poor substitute for his.
Marshall showed her the writing on the small tag he’d apparently pulled from her dress. “Twirl to activate skirt.” His voice rolled over the words in a deep murmur. It vibrated in his chest and her naked shoulders tensed as she stifled a shudder. He took a step back and guided her around. He studied her from hooded eyes. Slowly. So very slowly. He savored. Without reserve or shame.
One time around. Then two. Then a third. Every time their eyes would meet, her skin grew warmer as desire deepened the snowy depths into a profound sapphire blue. Her knees were weak, but as he drew her around faster and faster it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing seemed to matter. He became her only point of focus in a world quickly blurring beyond what she knew. Beyond what she could readily understand.
Magic. It crackled to life, sparking across the textile and thread. Energy tickled her naked thighs and the limp silky material puffed and inflated into a voluminous bell of smoky black tulle. “What …” Unfamiliar excitement danced in Elsa’s veins and she reveled in the fabric twirling about her. Wispy and lig
ht. Akin to smoke and shadows, the bottom hemmed by a ring of gray fog.
Marshall finally drew her to a stop and she mopped her hair back out of her face, breathless. He didn’t immediately close the distance between them again, and Elsa couldn’t control her legs as they carried her until the hem of her large skirt covered his slick black dress shoes. Their gazes held. They stood absorbed in the moonlight. Pale light beaming down on them like a blessing.
“Beautiful,” he whispered and backed away toward the door.
Tethered to him by their entwined fingers, Elsa allowed her feet to carry her across the oak, and she couldn’t help but feel like somehow, someway, Marshall had finally caught her.
Chapter Eight
As they made their way down the halls, Elsa couldn't help but glean an image of the interesting pair they made in the shining paneled walls. Despite their marked difference in height, the proportions were pleasing. Marshall was tall, for a man or a vampire. Lean and tapered, he was a romantic and dark silhouette, obscured completely in any reflective glass by his innate glamour. It appeared her vampire did not fancy looking at himself in the mirror.
Strange. She would’ve thought him of all people vain.
Their journey to the main deck started with the descent down a large ice staircase. The smoking blocks of ice nibbled at her feet even through the heavy soles of her boots and he hooked her hand around his forearm, insisting on being her escort down the shining steps. There would be no mistaking they were an item and she ignored the thrill electrifying her veins.
The atrium and lobby gave way to a long glittering aisle flanked by a series of glass shops and freestanding stalls. Small mobs and pockets of monsters, and the very occasional human, dotted the market place. Dressed in mortal sin from head to toe, they strutted, shopped, mingled, and reveled in the season.
Elsa tucked herself closer into Marshall’s side, grinding her teeth together as her eyes drifted from one source of noise to another. “Where are we going?”