by Sophie Avett
Marshall plucked a grape from the tray and slipped it between her frown. “Gwyneth and I… The more success we got, the more success we wanted. We were like a team. I’d open the doors to the rich and famous, and she’d net me accounts and powerful friends with her allure. After a while, the image we presented mattered much more than the reality behind it.”
He shook his head to clear a swarm of memories. “When she became shrewish over my constant dalliances, I got mean. And she…” He wound his fingers into Elsa’s curls. “Gwyneth knows how to incite the worst out of me. It finally ended after she found me in my office while I was working late one evening and took a stiletto to my head. Shall we leave this sordid tale at ‘the parting was mutual’?”
“You weren’t alone that night? The one you were supposed to be working late?” She asked the question, but it sounded more like she was requesting confirmation.
He nodded slowly. Let her know the animal she’d fought to collar. “I was never alone, Ms. Karr. Not once. Not ever.”
“But you loved her once?” She toyed with the ring on her middle finger. Frown lush and ripe. Sticky from the fruit. “Isn’t that why you were going to marry her?”
“I’ve been told by those oh-so-wiser than I not to call what we had love. I was going to marry her for the same reason we stayed together as long as we did.” He captured her hand and feathered his thumb across the gold circlet. “For the advantage.”
Elsa stared down at the diamond wreath between their entwined fingers. “Did she know that?”
He hesitated for a moment. He was very sure Gwyneth was the black widow caught beneath the tumbler, but he thought back to the emotions playing across her face when they'd spoken earlier. True, she was probably playing him, but he didn’t know anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything. “I don’t know, Ms. Karr.” He sank their hands into the water and caught her gaze. “Why?”
Her small pink tongue darted across her bottom lip. “Is your family why you don’t draw for work?”
“What makes you think that just because I can manage a slight better than a stick figure I would ever want to do that for work?”
“A passion for art?”
“In the shallowest of terms, I’m a collector, Elsa.” He dragged his knuckles down her arm as his mirth waned. “I collect pretty things. I draw pretty things. But I’m hardly an artist.”
The phone rang in the bedroom. His cell phone. Shrill reality trying to poke holes into their dream. Not now. Not yet.
“Don’t you ever wonder if it’s an emergency?”
“My sister has an emergency at least three times a day. My mother twice as many if I allow it. And my office knows where I am. They’ll call the room if they need me for anything pertinent.” Even as he spoke, he almost couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth, or the fact that he honestly didn't give a fuck who was on the other end of the phone. He cared even less about the mostly finished Sinister Stitches mock-ups begging for completion. On the contrary, he had all the intrigue he could handle right on his lap.
His mind paged back the hours to stepping out of the print shop the first time he’d asked the crone for a favor, the use of her Winter Wonderland set. With hands balled at her sides, her shoulders bunched, Elsa had cut an interesting silhouette in the twinkling lights. He’d drawn her against him, and she’d allowed him to simply exist behind her. They’d stood there for a very long time. He’d waited and waited for her to push him away. Force him to give her space so she could mingle.
It never came. Elsa was content to stand and stare at the open tundra until time turned them to stone. That was when he’d realized where he had gone wrong with his initial design for Bits and Pieces. She wasn't some dark, sultry witch. She was cooler. Harder. Brighter. Something capable of breaking a werewolf in half with her bare hands. Something strong enough to hold…him.
Marshall’s throat worked against thick emotion. “My turn to ask the question, Ms. Karr.”
She pushed at his chest, arching a wary eyebrow. “What? What do you want to know?”
He gathered her hair onto her left shoulder, clearing her back, and seated a possessive hand on the raven's shoulder. “I want to know about the marking. The practice seems to hold some importance to you.”
“All the witches in my tribe’s coven and their mates are marked eventually. Usually with markings of our people. The raven on my back was a gift from,” her gaze drifted down, “…Liam.”
“Elsa?”
Murky depths peered at him. Open. Full of an emotion he couldn’t name, but desperately wanted to know. He freed his hands from hers and slid them up her shoulders, relishing the gooseflesh that pebbled her skin. Apricot oil, tender flesh. Soft curves. Very different from his brute muscle and sharp lines. She was so different. So rare. So precious.
He leaned forward, his mouth hovering just inches from hers. “May I?”
“Yes.” It was a harsh and fervent prayer. And he sealed it with a kiss.
One kiss melted to another until smoke rose from their mouths to blend with the steam. Marshall urged them out of the tub. He remembered she couldn’t wrap her legs around his waist, and swept his arm beneath her legs instead, fingers digging into the curves of her generous thighs as he carried them from the bathroom. Wet footsteps. Cool air colliding against steaming, damp skin. He dropped her back on the purple satin and covered her body with his, swallowing her curse in a deep, languid kiss.
Elsa muttered something about the Christmas Ball and the fey in-between the onslaught. He barely heard her. Braced with one arm on the bed, he reached between them and found her scalding entrance with the head of his cock. Marking the tender slope of her neck with love bites, he pushed home with one sure stroke and Elsa arched off the bed, the insteps of her feet digging into his ass.
Pure, wet heat. He flexed, nearly lost, but Elsa rasped a command in his ear and he rolled them over, willingly surrendering the helm. She straddled him. Glorious frizzy curls framed her sweet oval face like a lion’s mane and tumbled down her shoulders to cover her breasts, wispy ends dragging across the purple satin.
Faint candlelight gave life to the cherry tendrils. He slid his palms against her cheeks, into her hair, half surprised the fire didn't burn him, and she covered his hands with hers and smiled, pressing her lips against his wrist as she leaned forward, cocooning them in a curtain of flame.
It was a world of their own. And in the blessed privacy of that world, he pulled her down, chest to chest, skin to skin, and covered her mouth with his. She surrendered everything in that kiss, but hardly admitted defeat. Never. Elsa would always give as good as she got, whether she was on her knees or not. He sampled that indomitable spirit, tongue snaking into her warm mouth, meeting, dancing with hers in a rhythm as old as time.
Granting himself a moment’s reprieve from the iron wrought over his guarded heart, he opened the Moors to every riddled little sigh and broken sweet nothing. He lost himself in her hair, holding and touching her like a woman he could love if such a thing did truly exist.
“Vampire.” She ripped his hands from her hips, lacing their fingers together, her hips jerking as she rounded her orgasm. She rode him furiously through her release as if she truly had the power to make them one glorious animal. Her eyes fell closed, an eyelash fluttering off as she tossed her head back in ecstasy, titian curls spraying in a storm of angry fire.
That moment—Marshall snapped the image. He saved it amongst the few a man carried with him even in death. Just in case he was never fated to see the sun again. His eyes drifted closed as the orgasm rippled down his spine, and he fervently wished on the eyelash drifting down to land weightless on his cheek that she would want him. Forever. So that he would know warmth for eternity to come.
Let him die before she did. Let him never wake up to another dusk without her tiny feet tucked away beneath his calves. Let him never fall in Elsa’s eyes, but let him fall. God, let him fall. Let him break against the mountain. Let her save him because he
was ready. He was so very ready to be saved.
Please, God, let him know what it was to love her.
Chapter Twenty-One
The beginning of the Christmas Eve festivities would take place on the top deck. Monsters clad in mortal sin from head to toe gathered around the massive mahogany ship’s wheel. Employees wore decorative wreaths on their brows, framed with candles. Spikes of flame crowning their heads, complementing their ghostly garb as they wove through the pockets of weres, witches, vampires, the occasional fey, and the very occasional human, serving drinks and finger snacks like eyeballs, toes, and the sinfully corrupt cupcakes the vampire had turned into a crime.
A prince of beasts. That was what Marshall was. He’d tucked his fangs behind a beautiful, polished veneer, but no one could doubt the man cutting across the floor on black dress shoes was anything less than undead. He’d left his short chestnut hair rakishly disheveled, and when she’d asked him about it, he’d muttered something about cowlicks. His royal garb was a tailored black suit, with a matching satin-backed vest. Crisp white tie noosed around his neck, he was every bit the Victorian gentleman, from the soft supple gloves, to the velvet top hat drawn rakishly over his left eye.
She did not feel as confident. She felt completely naked.
Annoyance, she felt that too. A wave banked up against the hull, cold spray dousing the crowd who ripped, roared, and howled their approval to the mighty ocean. Another surged from the east, white foam kissing the air. Sea salt and magic, dark and heady. Sickening the roll of unease in her stomach. A third sent Elsa swaying off balance. Wind whipped her velvet hood back on her shoulders and she cursed, grappling onto Marshall for support. We’re all gonna die.
“Vampire, curse the fey. She’s not worth it.”
He drew her around and pinned her between his solid body and the banister. “What about me? Am I worth it?”
Snowflakes melted against her cheeks and clung to her eyelashes. Her frown deepened. “I got on a boat for you, vampire. I am outside in this cursed blizzard for you. And here I am, yet again, dressed up in this cake. For you.”
“Mmmhmm…” Snow blue eyes darkened into sapphires and her skin heated beneath his hot look. “Guilty as charged, Ms. Karr.” He leaned forward, cool breath smoking against her ear. “Punish me later.”
“You’re—”
“What? Impossible? I’m starting to think you like that about me.”
What didn’t she like about him? Elsa flattened her hands against his chest and stared up at her vampire. She forgot herself, the ocean, the crowd—she forgot everything but him. Easing up on her tiptoes, she sought his mouth in a kiss. He did not deny her. His lips parted and he swallowed her purr of praise as she sealed herself in her own private paradise. His mouth. Mint, apricots and the tea he’d insisted on having before they’d descended to the activities.
Warmth radiated from his chest, burning her fingertips even through several layers of finery and coat. And when she could not take anymore, when she had to breathe or else, she broke the kiss gently. Lamentably. Eyes hooded, he followed her mouth as she eased down onto solid ground. Their breaths mingled in a pocket of cold air, but she hardly noticed the chill. He nibbled with his fangs, tongue teasing the individual wrinkles of skin across her bottom lip.
“Another?” His voice was hoarse, deep.
Her eyes fluttered open and a rare smile curved her mouth. “Ask me properly, little vampire.”
He had not said it since he’d whispered it at the end of his punishment and she longed to hear it again. She longed to hear him call her his. She longed for him to say it out loud again, so she could know for sure her longing was not unrequited. Even with everything that had passed between them, she couldn’t help but feel like she was grasping at the straws of a dream that was quickly coming to an end. But she wouldn’t think of that now. She would think of him. She would think of this vampire and she would make him call her Mistress again if he ever wanted to put them both out of their misery and kiss her.
“Now, little vampire,” she whispered. For me.
The corner of the vampire’s mouth curved in an honest dimpled smile. He pressed his frame closer against hers, erection thickening against the edge of her corset, and drawled against her throat, “Please…Mistress. Another. Truth be told, I want several. Tell me, Mistress, do you suppose anyone would mind if I pushed up all that cake and kissed you where I really want to?”
Elsa shivered girlishly and pushed at his chest. “Insolent.”
“It isn’t wise to tempt a demon, Ms. Karr.” He nibbled at her earlobe. “Unless you’re an angel looking to get fucked. Hard.”
“Well, now, that sounds like my kind of animal.” New Gotham and Nordic mountains. Narrow and sharp. Downtown. Salted and sultry. A little loud. And strangely familiar.
Marshall and Elsa froze, casting arched looks at whoever had dared intrude upon their heated discussion. Three witches. All of them with hair blacker than raven feathers. Sweet moon faces, lush wide mouths, razor cheekbones suggesting a kinship with the fey. Sisters. Natural trinity. Magic and spectral energy crackled between the triangle. A potent mixture of black and white. Strong. Mature. Not to be trifled with.
The first, the one who’d spoken, stood in the middle. Milky skin bronzed from the sun. Moonlight caught the wicked ceremonial Nordic axes slung into dainty holsters on the metal skull belt around her waist. Hands braced on her hips, she led the trinity, her back straight. Fierce blue eyes piercing the way like the stern nose of a dragon ship. Raven, spiral curls kissed down to her rear, framing her face like a black manticore’s mane.
“Handsome son of a bitch, isn’t he?” She let out a low whine and folded her arms across her breasts, shielding the dusty pink nipples peeking from beneath the large roses laced down the chest of her barely-there gown. “Astrid.”
“Your taste is certainly improving, Brenda,” purred the second sister from where she stood on the left. Black lotus flowers adorned the silky waves piled in neat curls on her head. Spine sensually curved, her pelvic bones jutted against the satin clinging and gasping for dying breath against her hips. If a spider came along—it was her.
The silver butterfly designs embellishing her long black nails shimmered in the starlight like tiny silver stakes as she lowered pink tea shades on the bridge of her slender nose. “Ain’t it a lovely night for a bite to drink, sugar?”
Elsa’s jaw clenched as she straightened from the banister. She would break a witch if she had too. No problem.
“There you are, girly.” The witch on the right, Elsa recognized.
Tulle delicately puffed at her shoulders, fitted velvet sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline, the Gothic ballerina from the observatory had morphed into a Reaper’s princess. Gillian’s choker had changed too—a black velvet strip adorned with an ornate cameo with a sparkling purple crystal at the center. Suspended beneath the broach, a large beautiful enamel butterfly fluttered in the hollow of her throat. She flashed a dusty pink smile and fiddled with the orange blossoms adorning the intricate fishtail braid washing down her shoulder. “Oh, and merry met, sir vampire.”
Marshall straightened and pulled away from Elsa. Far enough for propriety, close enough to send a very clear message. He tipped his hat politely. “Merry met, trinity.”
They hardly seemed to notice him after that. All of them cast expectant looks at Elsa. Her skin crawled beneath their scrutiny. Is there cake on my face? Suddenly, she regretted the cupcake she’d insisted on having if he was going to insist on having tea. Fighting the urge to step back against her vampire and demand he blind them, Elsa reached up into the privacy of her cloak and touched the amulet resting snugly on her breasts. “Merry met, coven.”
“Well, come on, come on,” Brenda huffed. “Show us the damn dress, girl. Blood on a fucking moon, we’ll be here till next Christmas at this—Hey! You. Yes, you. Bring your gorgeous ass and that platter over here. Wait,” her nostrils flared, “are you scared, wench?” She snatched a crystal
flute of sparkling champagne, growling, “Run, weakling.”
“Oh my fucking Pop-tarts, would you please put a cork in it, Brenda? We’re in public.” Gillian fisted a delicately-gloved hand in her sister’s curls and produced a gold circlet from beneath her skirt. “You forgot this behind the print shop. Mrs. Potts was nice enough to fetch it for you.”
“Ouch! Oh, damn it, Gill, I don’t want to. Don’t kill my vibe with that piece of tin—mother-fuck-you, that was my ear!”
The witch swatted at her sister’s hand as the crown was wrestled over her curls, and Elsa had the strangest urge to smile. She tried to place a niggle they’d somehow met before. Print shop. Mrs. Potts. Brenda. She thought back to the couple she’d heard crying out. Ah, yes. That’s right. She lifted her eyebrows, scanning their immediate surroundings. There had been a male attached to the howl behind the backdrop. Where was he now?
“Be still, you idiot.”
“Gill! Gill, I’m warning you—Gillian!”
“Let me take your cloak, sugar.” Astrid stalked across the damp planks in six-inch piranha tooth platforms, slinking with the grace of a creature with eight legs instead of two. “Please, before I have to give in to the impulse to rip out their windpipes.” She came to a stop, her spine curved in a wicked “S.” Offering up her hands in supplication, she peered past Elsa to the snowy blue eyes watching the exchange with interest. “I promise, I won’t bite.”
“Nonsense, Miss Astrid,” he said.
Elsa backed up against the solid wall of vampire. He slipped his arms beneath hers and caught the flaying strings of her velvet cloak. Cool and sensual, he whispered, “Come now, Elsa, let us show off how edible you look.”
She couldn’t understand why, but as his strength and warmth seeped into her back, excitement of a most unfamiliar kind raced through her veins. He had dressed her, her vampire. She’d stood for him on a stool fashioned out of shadows and allowed him to touch her everywhere. His smooth jaw rubbing against her thighs as he helped her step into her underwear. A gentle and firm caress as he scooped her tender breasts into her bra. Her nipples pebbled against the abrasive white material as she leaned back, easing up on her tiptoes to whisper an incantation in his ear like a secret.