Blood Claim

by Laura Baumbach, Angela Fiddler, Jet Mykles

  He was so much like his father. Trusting past the point of good sense.

  "It may not have been in your best interests to do so.” His deep voice was deceptively soft but unerringly cold. When Hunter didn't flinch, Malcolm pulled him up his chest another inch and whispered against Hunter's parted mouth, “I am a danger to you.” He felt the heat pressed into his abdomen jerk and grow, a swelling cock lengthening against him.

  "Ah ... well.” A flash of pink tongue touched the parted lips hovering above his, and the urge to wet them down with his own tongue was too much to resist. Malcolm entangled his hand in the man's hair and held him in place as Hunter instinctively strained back.

  His gaze fell to Hunter's mouth as he slowly ran his own tongue delicately over the trembling, silky strips of soft, full flesh. When he was done, he pulled back and eased his hold on Hunter's head. He found it intoxicating that Hunter didn't draw away once he had his freedom to do so. Intoxicating, highly arousing, and responsive.

  Maybe the son wasn't so much like the father after all.

  "I kind of figured that might be a possibility.” This time it was murmured, a stuttered grunt heavy with lust and excitement. The man's heartbeat thundered in his chest, pounded against Malcolm's still breast in a rhythm that matched the pulse hammering through the shaft buried against Malcolm's abdomen.

  "Yet knowing this—” Malcolm touched his tongue to his teeth, soothing the ache growing in them as the barely detectable scent of fresh blood suddenly reached him “—you risked yourself for me."

  The scent of blood grew stronger. Hunter must have suffered an injury in the fall that was just now trickling to the surface from under his clothing. His blood scent was musky, like a spring rainstorm on rich black soil ... clean and earthy, bold. Nothing like Malcolm had imagined. Yet another surprise from this human.

  The night breeze rose higher, stirring the fallen leaves near them and carrying muted, distant voices.

  "I find danger can be exciting.” Shifting his hips, Hunter tried to ease his erection off Malcolm's stomach to one side.

  Malcolm didn't stop him, surprised when he was relieved the sexual tension had lessened for the moment. This was too good to be over so fast.

  The restraining hold gone, Hunter used one arm to prop his upper body off Malcolm's, but he didn't make a move to stand up. His tone was firm, but still laced with an undeniable apprehension.

  "And...” He stared down into Malcolm's face, gaze searching the vampire's features as if he'd find there a reason for his own actions. “I'm not a person who watches while others get hurt without trying to do something to prevent it."

  He started to lick his lips again, then paused, glanced at Malcolm's mouth, and swallowed nervously, a self-conscious, strained look on his face. Malcolm could see the man battle to force his thoughts back to the topic at hand. “It's kind of what I do."

  Malcolm managed to deadpan, “Really? So you're a superhero?"

  Hunter was silent for a full three seconds before he burst out laughing. He rolled off Malcolm and came to his feet, dusting dirt and dry leaves off his jacket and jeans. Hunter's laughter was genuine, musical and hearty, delight audible in it and in the startled grin on his young, smooth face. He looked more beautiful than his father had ever been.

  Malcolm rose up smoothly with grace that belied his large stature.

  "Not exactly. I'm a photojournalist. Freelance. I document the world's woes and the unfortunate people caught up in them. I try to bring media and world attention to people that need help."

  "Ah. Even worse—a self-appointed savior.” Malcolm mocked the righteous tone in Hunter's voice and watched with satisfaction as the man's eyes narrowed. He took advantage of his towering height and loomed menacingly over Hunter. His actions caused a spike in the scent of lustful hormones from the smaller man. He dropped his voice to a husky, growling whisper, more threatening than any shout. “Who comes to your rescue when you are in danger?"

  "No one so far.” Boldly leaning toward Malcolm's hulking presence, Hunter stared at the vampire's mouth, nervously letting his tongue trace back and forth across his own quavering lower lip twice. He then locked gazes with Malcolm and quietly said, “But I've always had this dream that some freaking tall, broad-shouldered, steely-eyed warrior would materialize out of the dark and save my ass when I needed it most.” He blinked hard several times, but kept his gaze on Malcolm. “Know anyone like that?"

  Malcolm felt a twinge of something sharp and hot twist in his chest. This sensual human was beautiful, confusing, impulsive, and unpredictable. Malcolm wanted to taste his blood and drink from him, here and now, but the faraway voices from before were drawing closer, and Malcolm had the sudden need to prolong this game, extend the claiming of his prize just a bit more.

  "I might know someone.” Malcolm reached out and ran his thumb over the eyebrow scar in what could only be described as a caress. Lust and the faint scents of precum mixed with blood filled his nostrils and invaded his mind, shaking his iron control. Taking this prize would be better than he had imagined. It was almost worth killing William to be able to claim it. “Why don't we go someplace private and discuss it?"

  Hunter drew back. He cast a glance at a trio of people approaching from the end of the block, taking in the destroyed bench and the deep tire marks in the dirt and grass. “I don't feel like taking the time explaining this to the police right now."

  He backed away from Malcolm and hurried down the sidewalk, away from the new arrivals. “I was thinking someplace more public.” Walking backward, the usual bouncing step in his restless stride and a flirtatious, sultry look in his eyes, he smiled at Malcolm. “For now. Coffee?"

  * * * *

  The little diner was clean, cheery, and the food homemade. It was three blocks from his apartment, and Hunter was a regular there when he wasn't out of town on an assignment. The staff was mostly older women, social and good-natured. He was well known and liked there. People would remember seeing him and whom he was with if anything bad happened to him later.

  The short walk from the park was a quiet one. He tried to walk beside the stranger, but the taller man's stride was difficult for him to match. He ended up doing his usual skip-and-bounce step. It kept him swaying back and forth on the sidewalk and made conversation difficult. His companion didn't seem to expect a lot of talk anyway, so Hunter just led the way.

  He spent most of the time fighting off two urges. One to run far away, to get lost in a crowd somewhere—and the other, stronger urge to pull the seductive, mysterious, and admittedly dangerous man into the bushes and explore the firm body attached to the slick, sensual tongue that had lavished his lips earlier. The man's taste was like his scent, masculine and indefinable.

  The front of the shop was partially plate glass windows. As they approached the diner, Hunter couldn't completely suppress a gasp when just his image was reflected in the sparkling clear surface. Behind him was only a wall of unbroken darkness dotted with starbursts from streetlamps. He walked more slowly, letting the man's physical presence register at his back, large and now more menacing than sexy. The plate glass still showed only one pale, dark-haired, startled face in the distorted reflection. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the presence he felt was really there despite what the window was telling him. One look in the amused, steely gray eyes told him the man was aware Hunter had noted the missing reflection and he was patiently waiting for a reaction.

  Shaken, Hunter pulled open the door, walked briskly to a table away from the windowed section, and sat down in a booth. “Want coffee? I come here for the coffee. Well, for the meatloaf really, but the coffee is great."

  Hunter expected the man to sit opposite him, but he automatically slide further into the booth as the large man shoved the table forward with a nudge of his black designer boot and sat down beside him. Nervous, but turned on by the man's boldness and close proximity, he waved at a waitress, coaxing her closer to the table.

  "I like it here. The wait
resses are mostly older ladies, and they like to play mother hen to all the single guys that come in.” He smiled and mumbled, “Kind of let's me pretend I still have a mom now and then.” That was a piece of personal information he hadn't meant to reveal, but he couldn't take it back. “If that makes me sound weak, I don't care. I miss my mom. She died unexpectedly.” All the same, he was relieved when the man only gave a single nod by way of acknowledgment.

  He held the man's neutral gaze for a moment, then studied the design on the laminated tabletop. “I miss my dad, too. They were great people. They taught me to be who I am."

  "Photojournalists, too, I gather?"

  "Yeah. But they taught me more than how to take a good picture.” He unwrapped his own prized camera from under his layers of outer clothing and placed it on the table between them, checking it for signs of damage from his recent activity in the park. He couldn't resist turning the lens toward the man and letting his fingers play over the shutter button. They itched to press it, but this close, the man was sure to hear it.

  "I grew up traveling the world with them while they worked, seeing sights and living places other kids my age would have nightmares about. But not me. I loved the excitement near the war zones, on the fringe of riots, in a dark seedy alley in some poverty-stricken village. I dreamed about spending my life traveling, taking photographs, exploring the world few others see."

  "Embracing the dark side?"

  The man captured Hunter's gaze and held it trapped in his chilling, steel gray stare. It seemed to Hunter that the doors to hell could lie beyond those fathomless eyes.

  Hell or maybe a dark version of heaven? He heard an invitation into that darker embrace in those low tones, smooth as fine brandy. Lust flared in the pit of his abdomen, and he became acutely aware of the wet patch on his boxers clinging coldly to his skin where his cock had wept during the car attack. He imagined he could smell his own scent. He gave the man a bold, honest look. “Flirting with it, maybe."

  "That can have consequences of its own."

  The man's intense stare seemed to transmit a new message, one that sent a thrill of excitement straight to Hunter's groin. Hunter impulsively let lust take control of the moment. “Yeah, I was, maybe, hoping it would."

  The man's eyelids suddenly dropped to a sultry half-mast, and his nostrils flared, making Hunter wonder if he could smell his arousal, too. The whole imagined fantasy was enough to make his cock unfurl from the partially hard state it had retreated to during the walk to the diner. It forced him to shift in his seat to make more room in his jeans for it. Warmth rushed through his veins, heating his skin. He shed his jacket and scarf, letting them fall around his shoulders and down into the booth seat, fingers returning to the camera to toy with its levers and buttons.

  "Do I get to know your name?” He looked up from the camera to capture the man's unwavering gaze.

  The man's expression of firm reserve never altered, but his voice had just the slightest touch of surrender in it, as if he didn't give out the information entirely willingly. “Malcolm Crane."

  Hunter wasn't surprised. It was strong and bold, just like the man. “Nice. It fits you."

  "And you prefer to be called...?"

  "Hunter. Hunter Pray.” He held Malcolm's stare for a moment, then added, “But I think you know that already, Mr. Crane."

  "One's name and what one wants to be called can be two different things. For example, you may call me Malcolm."

  "Okay. Malcolm."

  "Your name fits you as well—a challenge, a worthy opponent to be stalked and, eventually, claimed.” Something dark and unnamed flashed in Malcolm's eyes. Hunter's cock jumped, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears as Malcolm added, “Pray for the prey?"

  "I don't pray anymore. Not since my parents died."

  The dark look didn't fade from his stormy gray eyes. “Death is a natural part of living."

  "True, but theirs came before their time."

  "How so?"

  "They were killed in a riot in a small, backward Romanian village where they were documenting atrocities in a local power struggle.” Hunter took a deep breath, his fingers traveling over the camera, adjusting the lens and hitting the shutter lever as he turned the camera every angle he could while snapping pictures. He realized what he was doing only when a large, cool hand closed over his where it held the camera and stopped him from spinning the device. Staring into the man's unflinching, uncaring eyes, he let the shutter close three more time, aimed directly at Malcolm, before he stilled. “Nervous habit. Sorry."

  "It is of no consequence.” It was a short sentence, but it had an ominous ring to it. The grip on his hand was strong and commanding, and it didn't leave when Hunter stopped playing with the camera. The power in the mere touch was amazing. It sent a shiver down his spine he knew Malcolm could feel through their joined hands.

  A waitress appeared, two empty mugs in one hand, a pot of steaming black brew in the other. At a nod of thanks from Hunter, she set a mug in front of each man and filled them. Malcolm pinned her in place with a look, made an abbreviated, half-wave at her, and she turned hurriedly away without asking if they wanted anything more.

  Hunter shot Malcolm a disappointed glare, but then decided the conversation was dampening his appetite. For food, anyway.

  "You were left alone?” The hand finally slipped off of his. Hunter took a deep breath, relieved, even if a small part of him ached over the loss of contact.

  "Yeah. The only child of two only children.” Hunter took a sip of the steaming coffee, gaze dropping into the swirling dark brown depths, memories rushing in and making his eyes brim. It had been ages since he'd felt the urge to cry over his parents’ deaths, but something about this man made the hurt of their loss feel fresh again. “It was an ugly death. They were attacked with axes and shovels. I only saw the pictures, but it wasn't pretty. Their bodies were shipped home, but only my mother's arrived. Backward province. Poor records. They said they lost my father's body before it was shipped It's never been recovered.” He took another quick sip of the hot liquid to refocus his thoughts and drive back the ache of loss. “That was a few years ago, my freshman year in college. It was the first time I wasn't on assignment with them since I was eight.” Regret crept into his voice. “If I'd been there, I might have been able to help."

  "Or maybe you'd be dead as well.” There it was again. That disturbing way Malcolm had of bringing danger and death aimed at Hunter back into the conversation.

  "Maybe.” He shook off the uncharacteristic melancholy and found the courage to look directly at Malcolm again. “My dad's motto was flee and stay free. I'm more of the confront and confirm type. Meet danger head on. Roll the dice and take my chances. Winner takes all."

  Feeling bolder, he stared at Malcolm, but something cold and frightening turned the man's eyes a darker shade of gray, and Hunter swore a ring of blood red now encircled the gray irises.

  A shiver that had nothing to do with sexual interest slithered down his spine, and the urge to continue flirting with the man faded away, held in check by a sudden sense of self-preservation.

  "I probably taunt danger more often than I should.” Cradling his camera, Hunter made a move to slide out of the booth, but Malcolm didn't budge. They shared a long, silent stare until Hunter realized his jaw was trembling.

  Fear and attraction had always made for an intriguingly powerful sexual response for him, but the fear and attraction had never been in the same object of his sexual interest. Usually it was a setting of unrest or turmoil that created the fear, and Hunter would find a compatible soul in the chaos with whom to share the release of his sexual tension. Combining the two was proving to be a powerful aphrodisiac, but in this case real, honest-to-God, bone-chilling fear was overwhelming the intense attraction he had for the towering, pale stranger.

  "Thanks for the coffee, but I think it's best if I go now. I ... I guess I'm freaked out by the car crash thing. I'm not going to be good company tonight.” Without anoth
er word, he pulled himself to a standing position on the booth seat and hopped over its high back into the next unoccupied booth.

  Camera clutched to his chest with one hand and his coat in the other, he headed for the door without looking back. He didn't even stop when his scarf slipped from his grip, snagged on an empty chair as he barreled out of the diner onto the sidewalk. He was almost a block away when he realized he was still holding his breath. The last war zone he'd visited hadn't felt this dangerous.

  * * * *

  There was no sign Malcolm had followed him, but Hunter put the chain on the apartment door and slid the deadbolt into place as soon as the steel door closed behind him. He leaned against the cool, solid surface, the palms of both hands flat on the smooth metal. He found himself comparing the chill of the hard steel with touch of Malcolm's hand. The flesh had the same sense of solid strength as well as the smooth coolness. A flash of desire bolted through him, but he used the accompanying burst of fight-or-flight, fear-fueled adrenaline to push it away. This time his fear and desire were too entwined for him. A dangerous setting wasn't the same as a dangerous suitor.

  Logically, there was no reason why a man like Malcolm Crane would be stalking him. By the cut and quality of Malcolm's clothing and his rock-solid self-confidence, the man was very successful at whatever it was he did and was used to having the finest things life had to offer. Why he was interested in Hunter remained known only to Malcolm. But Hunter felt sure Malcolm wanted him and especially him.

  With a deep sigh of regret drawn through dry, pursed lips, Hunter backed away from the door, carefully setting his camera on the small desk by the entryway. He tossed his coat over one end of the sofa, losing a moment to a fruitless search for his scarf before he remembered leaving it dangling off a diner chair in his haste to put space between his impulsive libido and Malcolm.

  It had been his father's scarf, one of the few treasures he'd kept and continued to use over the years. His mother had knit it using varied shades of blue and green to remind them of a particularly pleasant assignment in Northern Ireland. The blue of ocean and green of the traditional shamrocks highlighted his father's eyes and fawn-colored hair, just as they did Hunter's. Cursing himself for leaving it behind, he made a mental note to go back to the diner in the morning to try to reclaim it.