'Twas the Darkest Night

by Sophie Avett

  “Tell me. Tell me.” Please. Fuck. Elsa. Please.

  “Fuck me,” she croaked, rolling her hips like his little whore. And then, just like that—her pussy gushed. Clamping. Squeezing and milking his cock until his release shoved him across a brutal edge. He doubled forward, pleasure holding him hostage as he emptied himself into her, pressing his mouth to her neck as he let out a brutal curse or a painful secret, he wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter. Right now, nothing mattered but the little witch hanging from the darkness. And he hated her for it.

  Chapter Ten

  Nothingness quelled his mind in the lingering moments afterward. Bodies humming with aftershocks. It was too intense. He withdrew from her silken folds with a hiss, dropping his forehead in the crook of her neck and collapsing forward, trusting the shadows not to let them fall. Trusting them if only in that.

  Elsa was still in the darkness. Her breath coming in heavy, even pants. As they hung in the dark, entwined like spiders spent from the violence of mating, reason slowly began to reassert itself in a slow crawl. The aroma of sex hung thick, rich, and palpable, and the scent of dried blood shimmered around them in a stagnant cloud.

  Her salty sweat tickled his nose and he sucked in a deep breath, fighting the urge to nuzzle her and ultimately failing. What if she left?

  His inner businessman sucked his teeth—so what if she left? He would find some other way to find the fey. If not, if the difference between success and failure was resting on this little witch’s dark power, so be it. He had spilled blood—he might as well lie in it. He would find some other way to sign Sinister Stitches or he would start over somewhere else.

  Much like the witch hanging from the shadows, it wasn’t in his being to lie down and die. Even now, she was steady. Panting, yes. But steady. Hardly relying on him for strength even when she had none.

  What have you done? The question echoed in the stark silence in his mind. Answer poised to drop like a guillotine at any moment.

  In all actuality, his rough seduction had probably accomplished exactly what it was meant to. He knew very well what he had done. If she was smart—and she was very smart—she would recoil from him. She would see what Gwyneth and every woman before her had realized and tried to change in him in her own special and warped way. He was ruthless and, given the proper incentive, quite capable of making anything weaker than he scream simply to hear the music.

  Her hold tightened into a white-knuckled grip. He reached out with his mind, feeling the tentacles as if they were his own wrists. Her hold was…punishing. Twinges of pain shocked up his arms and he savored the stimuli, finding it—rather than the nothingness shrouding his mind—more preferable. Anything was more preferable than what was to come.

  Her stormy green gaze blinked open. It was muted. Distant and cold. And she shuddered and slumped in the chains in complete surrender. She was gone. Far away from him. The doorway through her eyes clanged shut. Barring him from her inner dialogue. Forever.

  He knew that like he knew he would have to release her from the shadows at some point. He would remember this, the texture of her silken skin beneath his fingertips, for the rest of his miserable existence. He would think of her. His shrewish little landlord. And he would wonder whether or not she would hate him forever. But until then, for just a few more moments in time, he held her abreast in the darkness. He buried his face in her hair, trying to memorize her quiet brand of fire and banded his arm around her waist, hauling her so close, the pressure against his chest was almost painful.

  He expelled a heavy breath and released her, the raw part of his brain finally caving to the cage. He tucked the random, throbbing threads of emotions into a neat little compartment in his chest and slammed the crypt door shut. Silencing their cry until it was time to let the beast out once more to ravish and ruin.

  Chill settled onto his shoulders, the cool air teasing his moist cock. He ignored the nerve endings singing to life in his groin and tucked himself into his slacks. His zipper was a crass sound in the silence. ing Slowly edging back from the mess he’d made, he straightened until he was nothing more than a vampire waiting for the end.

  “I will call and have another room arranged—”

  “No.”

  Marshall did not react outwardly. On the contrary, he did not so much as blink. Watching him from the mirror, Elsa wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Still as stone and nearly as sad. Elsa knew that now. How? She could not explain, but his sadness was a roiling living thing. It was caving in on her. Crippling her lungs. Strangling her breath. She stifled a hot wave of tears surging forth to undermine her steely composure.

  She had vowed not to fall. And Marshall had made a liar out of her. And now she would be forced to live with the memory of yet another man’s touch. Never to be felt again. Only serving to remind her of how bitterly cold winter nights were.

  Kill him. The thought was stark, ringing, and white. She should kill him. He had touched her most intimate places without permission. He had tried to force his way into her mind. He’d set her on fire. Even now, her body was sore. Throbbing with pain. But so deliciously alive that she could scarcely move because it didn’t wholly feel hers anymore.

  Elsa stared at his tapered silhouette in the panel. Aside from a slight wrinkle in his jacket and the moisture pasting his fringe on his forehead, he looked perfect. Unaffected. And she did not need magic to see beyond the sharp suit and into the snarled, fanged creature, broken and hobbled, standing vigilant in the confines of his flesh.

  Let him suffer. Yes, he should suffer. He should suffer. She should walk away from the deal. Find another way to provide for herself. She was a pretty good herbalist. Maybe she could find work at the Black Briar.

  But it wasn’t just about what he’d done. It was about what she would do next. It was about her sudden strange fixation with the darkness holding him and the idea of making sure he received proper punishment. It about making sure he suffered properly. And the only way to do something right was to do it yourself.

  She rolled her next words around, testing the weight of them on her tongue. Hardly caring whether he’d stolen her fate or she’d simply given it to him.

  “Stay, vampire,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

  Shock expanded in his chest until it filled the cavity, threatening to snap every rung in his ribcage if he didn’t say something, anything. “Ms. Karr…” he reached for the formality like a steel shield, “you misunderstand. Our deal is still valid. I have no intention of reneging on our contract. I meant to offer privacy as a comfort to you.”

  “My comfort?” Her voice was bitter, pained. “Your shadows care nothing for my comfort.” Neither do you.

  She didn’t say the words. She didn’t have to. They were there. Hanging between them. Unspoken and true. Well, mostly true. He plucked a pack of Bensons and Hedges out of his pocket and mashed a cigarette between his lips. Fire sparked from his lighter as he bent forward, cupping it. Smoke curled around from the cherried tip. And then, the light was gone.

  He wasn’t an idiot. Well, mostly. It was very wise to assume the witch might have an agenda. He had only bested her through the use of cloak and dagger and the strange coincidence that she seemed to be weakened when her feet were not in contact with a surface. Like there was nothing to anchor her grasp on magic. It was interesting. And all the more reason not to release her from his only saving grace until he was sure he would survive it—but, first things first.

  “Does our deal still stand, Ms. Karr?”

  “Yes,” she said without a modicum of hesitation. “It stands.”

  Surprise. He wasn’t sure why, but he’d expected a more…robust reaction to his forced seduction. He blew out a sensual curl of smoke, “What will happen when I release you, Ms. Karr?”

  “You will carry me to the bathtub, vampire. You will carry me and help me bathe.”

  He arched an eyebrow, her reactions becoming less and less predictable. “Will I?”

  “Yes, vampi
re.” Her voice was a gravelly purr. It raked its nails down his spine and he wondered what it would sound like come dawn. Even now, after having taken her, he wondered. He blamed her insolence for that.

  Just who did she think she was, hanging in chains, bossing him about like she was the one wielding the power right now?

  Elsa shuddered in her chains and she pressed her forehead against the smooth glass. He absorbed his handiwork. Her ass was still red from his spankings. It would be red for a while. He was part vampire after all. He had many of their strengths, and he had spared almost none of them on her. Her ass was raw. Good.

  “Vampire, release me.” She forced a painful gulp of air into her lungs, her fingers haplessly digging into her abused ass. Marshall watched and waited for some vague twinge of sympathy to root its way through his detached interest. There was none. Just interest. She would wear those marks, they would sting anytime she sat on that delicious ass. She would be reminded of him. It would be a lingering reminder of his touch, an ode to the depths of his depravity and the orgasms he’d torn from her tooth and nail. And yet, the witch wanted to stay. Worse, she wanted him to stay.

  Let her hang there and make the room reservations anyways, his better sense cautioned. Sliding on the balls of his feet, he glided backwards on the shadows to the privy. Hand poised over the gold hot water knob that was advertised to fill the garden tub in a matter of seconds, he stood, studying the blood red roses dotting the briar that wound around the porcelain. Playing a chess game against himself.

  Yes, she could be lying. Her civility could be a veneer. She could be plotting right now. Her emotions were probably, and understandably, volatile. Probably kill him with a few blows, though he would do his very best to make the fight interesting for her.

  Or she could really want him to stay with her for a reason he could not readily even begin to comprehend. And that…that was worth maneuvering his rook into the next black square and taking the risk he would not be able to see an attack coming. Assuming he wanted to.

  He turned the faucet. Hot water gushed from the nozzle, steam rising in thick puffs to sear the instantly humid air. The sound of the water splashing in the porcelain claw foot tub reached Elsa’s ears and her entire body trembled as if she’d registered the sound like a godsend.

  I should let her hang there a little longer. For her insolence. Marshall left the tub to fill unsupervised. Even as the desire to languish in her pain rode him, something else—something far more foreign—was sure that was enough. He’d done enough. Marshall leaned forward, pressing his body against hers—studying her reaction, her expression, her heartbeat with razor sharp interest. He bracketed his arms, bracing himself on the glass as he lowered a whisper into her disheveled curls.

  “Very well, witch. I will stay with you.”

  Elsa did not recoil from his touch. Her heartbeat was steady. Her breath, though coming in shorter pants because of exertion, was steady. Unshakeable. He pressed his forehead between her slick shoulder blades. They were tense, rippling with pain against his brow.

  “Well, vampire?” she spoke, the vibrations thrumming through her chest.

  He turned his cheek against her, using the conduit to avail him of the shining, thick cord of attraction pulsing between them. His heels echoed in the quiet walls of her mind as he followed the path to the sealed doors of her desires. He pressed his palm against the slated rock where the smoky doors had once stood, searching for a crack. There was none. Not one hairline fracture.

  “The mountain is mighty, vampire.” Her voice was breathy, echoing through her thoughts and therefore his mind. It startled him.

  He released the chains and she fell like a heavy sack of soil in his arms, hissing like an angry cat. Her limbs went limp and he swept an arm beneath the back of her knees, cradling her against his chest. Resting her brow against his heart, she sucked in a shallow breath, her fingers drifting up to grab the lapel of his coat. “The bath, vampire.”

  “Very well, Ms. Karr.” Pointedly peering over the top of her head, Marshall moonwalked into the porcelain palace of a bathroom. Even in the darkness, it sparkled. Black marble countertops. Extended and twisted gleaming gold fixtures. Fluffy red towels, almost the color of Gwyneth’s shade of ruby. He perched Elsa on the edge of the tub, careful to avoid the briar thorns acting as decoration. Confident she would hold herself upright as he managed her dress.

  Their faces were close. So very close, his sharp vision could make out the individual pores of her skin as he sank to his haunches before her. Her skin glistened in the single shard of moonlight that managed to wedge itself into the hot cave. Her small mouth set in a bland line. That little mouth—that harsh little mouth had scorched his demons with passion and he selfishly wondered whether she’d ever kiss him like that again.

  “You can moonwalk,” she commented, her voice quiet. Brittle and dry.

  Leaning forward, he trapped the voluminous fabric of her dress as his nimble fingers crawled up her spine in search of the zipper. “Would you care for a glass of water?”

  “No.” Her mouth formed a little ‘o’ and he wondered how it would look sealed lovingly—or not so lovingly—around his cock.

  His muscles shuddered with fatigue as hunger panged through his groin, his energy store depleted from his recent efforts to keep her captive. He ignored the exhaustion and found her zipper, his heavy lidded gaze resting on her lips as if he could taste every crevice of flavor sealed in her faint frown. “My sister, Cassandra, loves Michael Jackson. When we were children, I indulged one of her more creative…tributes to him,” he explained quietly.

  “You adapted the dance move into your movement for efficiency purposes.”

  “Yes.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “Why?”

  Elsa plucked the cigarette resting idly in his mouth and nursed it, blowing a serpentine snake. It circled, winding in on itself like an Asian dragon. “Curiosity.”

  “Is that why you asked me to stay, witch? Curiosity?” His mouth was burning. Throbbing with yearning, and the realization startled him. He pulled away as if the distance would alleviate the sear. He wanted more kisses. Kisses he’d made sure he’d never have again.

  Marshall’s logical mind crushed the thought to dust as he viciously separated himself from his physical impulses. Sealing his psyche in a stark coffin of ice. He would help clean up the mess he’d made—that was all. If only because it amused him to do so. Or perhaps, he’d do so simply out of a twisted idea of decency and a faint sense of obligation to “after-care.”

  Whatever the reason—he didn’t bother to wait for her answer. He worked the zipper down, the spokes splitting open in the silence like a crocodile’s mouth. Her bodice released its painful clasp around her torso, her breasts falling and chest caving as she exhaled a deep, deep breath. She slumped forward a little, shoulders sagging.

  “Better?” He worked a lace sleeve down her damp arm. She did not answer, her only sign of life was the lifting of her other arm to aid in his attempt to peel off the second sleeve. The lace scratched a pale red trail across her flesh, filling his mind with her sorely abused bottom. He wet his bottom lip.

  “If you wish, I will call the front desk. I am quite confident they have something appropriate for the…soreness.”

  Her gaze called his—locking. “No.”

  He searched the swampy depths in vain, reading nothing but defenses nearly as impressive as his. Strange, harsh satisfaction fitted to every contour and plane of his body like gleaming black armor. “Why am I here, Ms. Karr?”

  Elsa lowered her chin, her snarled curls curtained her face. “To help me bathe, vampire.”

  “So you say.” Marshall frowned at the ratty soft-skin boots that had probably seen better days long before she’d gotten them. Hideous. He snared the shadows angling over them to hold the edge of her skirt up in thin webs with tiny claws. He grabbed her shapely ankle and she perked with interest, her fingers curled themselves into a tight white knot on her lap.

 
Her feet—there was something special about her feet. She obviously didn’t like having them touched. Marshall added the observation to his arsenal, his mind taking to the puzzle. Clinging to it like it would get him through the next few moments.

  One boot off. And then the other. Small and surprisingly delicate like his mother’s bone china, her feet were bare and balmy. They looked rather normal. Well, perhaps not normal. Most of the women he normally associated with had obsessive interests in their appearances, from the top of their heads to the pedicures they couldn’t live without. Even so, he didn’t normally think of feet as attractive. They were purely functional. Elegant in their design simply because they served a purpose.

  Elsa’s feet…were different. Pretty. Purple enamel painted across her even square nails. Kept and manicured in a way the rest of her wasn’t. Several silver and gold toe rings gleamed in the moonlight. Glitter had somehow been mixed into the nail polish, making them shine like candy.

  “Those belong to me.” Elsa arched a thick red eyebrow in vague amusement and set them firmly on the ground.

  The water cut off automatically.

  With her cooperation, Marshall eased her to stand. Her knees shook a little, but she lifted her chin with determination. She fisted her hands at her sides and gave him her back.

  Her bodice was pulling away from her body, weighted by the puffy skirt slowly sinking into a puddle. Exposing a valley of naked skin from the nape of her neck to the dip in the small of her back. He found a picture there. In the curve. Tattooed into her skin, a raven peered back at him with beady black eyes, a burning orange sun rising over elegant wings that spanned the flare of her hips.