Mikhail turned his head and flashed a charming smile at Nadia. Gunnar shuddered with aggression at the brazen flirtation. “Komar,” he bit out.
“Go call his Adak and find out her ETA,” Mikhail prompted, and Nadia moved away from him, way too quickly.
Gunnar flinched at the severing of their minute connection. The loss of her contact on his skin was rapid. Her scent remained, though, and it plagued him as he took each tortured breath into his lungs. He heard her footsteps hastily retreating to the door and knew the moment she exited his room. “Hell!” He shivered as hostility surged inside his weak body. “You’re a dick, Komar.”
Mikhail shrugged and one of his eyebrows quirked. “Been called worse.”
That was true. Gunnar had been privy to the various and creative epithets Tray had used to describe his little brother’s famous bad manners. “What the fuck are you doing here? I need rest and recuperation.”
Mikhail moved to the foot of the bed in his typical loose-limbed swagger. Long raven-black hair tumbled down his back. His beat-up leather jacket didn’t hide Mikhail’s massive strength. It made Gunnar gnash his molars.
Due to his forced stint at Soviet University, Mikhail had escaped the long-lasting trauma that came with the invasion of their village several decades ago. So, he didn’t have the same demons plaguing his family, but he was just as unpredictable. Just as volatile. Since he was the youngest son in a royal family of four brothers and one sister, it gave him the distinct ability to get away with everything. Indulged and hot-headed did not make a great combination. His mother spoiled him rotten. The ladies loved his playboy demeanor. And Gunnar wanted to groan in frustration at Komar’s bad timing. Of course, Mikhail had to show up when Gunnar was at his worst.
Mikhail dragged the metal fold-up chair from its spot in the corner. He spun it around and slid onto the seat, leaning his arms on the backrest. “You’re due company in a bit. Tray sent me to prep you.”
Could his boss be any more frustrating? “Great.” Rolling his eyes, he found the remote on the bedrail and hit the “up” arrow. The head of the bed rose upright at a slow interval. His head swam and lightheadedness gave him a fresh wave of nausea. Sheer force of will kept him from throwing up at Mikhail’s feet.
“Thanks,” Mikhail uttered sardonically.
Gunnar let the sheet fall to his waist, and experimented with moving his injured arm. It was heavy and unwieldy. And the pain! Lady Satanaya, it hurt like a bitch.
“Praying to a fake Abkhazian goddess is going to get you nowhere.”
“I’d pray to the god of morphine if it would help to make you a figment of my imagination.” Gunnar scratched his chest and picked at the glue from the heart monitor lead. That thing itched.
“Komutani is on his way with the Kartal. You need to get nourished and find your clarity. They want to know what went down at Traian’s penthouse, and you are the only one who was an eyewitness.”
The whole thing was like a kaleidoscope of vivid colors and smells. Remembering the explosion made him shudder. “The room blew up; what more do they need to know?”
Mikhail’s upper lip twitched and a hint of fang tips showed. “One word…Tory.”
Gunnar nodded. “She’s been up to no good ever since she found out about Tray’s half-breed mate. But both Aleksi and Ivan. Why?”
Tapping his cleft chin with his knuckle, Mikhail’s eyelids drooped in thought. “Brother Dearest doesn’t keep me up to date with his shit. Ivan and I don’t often see eye to eye. Komutani, on the other hand, I avoid his militaristic ass whenever possible. I’m a lover not a fighter.”
A smirk tugged at Gunnar’s mouth. “You’re a proficient enough killer. It’s in your genetics. With a little practice, you could be like your big brother.”
Mikhail sucked air over his teeth. “Which one? They all have caveman tendencies.”
Like Gunnar’s more meager roots, the purebred Komar family came from a line of Turkish invaders who’d been made into a vampiric race. Centuries ago, the villagers ingested a toxic berry that wreaked havoc on the inhabitants, annihilating the weak, and changing the physiology of those who survived to resemble vampires. They forsook all human nationality and called themselves Kan Asma, the people of the Blood-Vine. They were Gunnar’s people, too, but he didn’t have the luxury of such lofty ancestors as the Komars. They were leaders, barbarian kings amongst the rabble. Warriors propagated Gunnar’s lineage, too, and he was proud to have some Viking running through his veins, even if it came from a poor slave.
“Pick one,” Gunnar finally said.
Mikhail shook his head nonchalantly. “If I ever need to eliminate a pest, I’d do it with more style. Since he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, Ivan’s method is to pawn it off on a sucker like you. Luke just uses his híbe to make someone end it themselves. Tray’s a lethal son of a bitch. Anyone who crosses him or threatens his mate won’t know what hit ’em before the death blow. Why he keeps you around is beyond me. You must be one hell of a shoe-shiner.”
Gunnar had often wondered the same thing. It wasn’t like Tray couldn’t handle his own problems. He was obsessive in his traits. The male used his anger as a way to increase his volatility. They’d been together for over two hundred years and sometimes, he assumed Traian simply kept him around because it was status quo.
“You do the important crap he can’t do when the Council is watching.” Mikhail answered the unspoken question.
Affecting a puzzled expression, Gunnar pretended like he had no idea what Mikhail spoke of.
“Just tell me, did my brother piss off anyone in Russia with all his covert digging around?”
No, they’d been so careful. Gunnar stared at Mikhail, hard.
“When was the last time you went to Rostov-on-Don?”
In the winter and it had been freezing. He’d shivered his ass off. His Viking ancestors would be scoffing at his So-Cal acclimated wimpiness.
“You did clean up after yourself, right? No skeletons in the closet—literally?” Mikhail’s shoulders rose and fell with a long breath. He stared over at Gunnar with a deep scrutiny.
Gunnar dropped his head back on the pillows and thought about his last excursion in Russia. It had been a simple intel gathering trip. Tray made it his personal mission to find a way to rescue their lost people. Privately, though, he had his own demons to exorcise and had asked Gunnar to help. No one knew about these extracurricular side-trips.
“Scientist or soldiers?” Mikhail’s pitch dropped, deepened, and sounded vicious.
Plucking at the thin blanket, Gunnar purposely deflected. He pushed an image of the ice sculpture display he’d viewed at the art gallery near the city center into his thoughts. Swans and mermaids, a huge trout, and a giant replica of a conch shell were scrolling in his mind’s eye—a purposeful diversion to the other information he needed to keep secret.
Mikhail’s dark eyebrows slanted in scrutiny and he narrowed those arrogant blue eyes. Gunnar simply deadpanned. Score one point in his column.
“My brother’s being an idiot going into this alone. He needs help.” Mikhail’s voice lowered with a hint of emotion.
Hunger pain clenched in his stomach and Gunnar gasped at the intensity. Pressing his palm against his belly, he pushed down hard enough to try stopping the spasms. Closing his eyes as a wave of need slammed into him, Gunnar swore in Turkish, letting the curses fill the room.
“Good thing the pretty little nurse is gone. I’d hate to have to tear her away from you again when you’re border-line feral.” Mikhail drummed his fingers on the metal chair.
At the mention of Nadia, Gunnar’s body lit up and his gums throbbed. Holy fuck, this weakened state was throwing him a curve ball. He preferred his body in tip-top shape. Strength, vitality, and being in fighting condition felt normal but this present situation made him fight the inborn nature prodding him to launch out of the bed, find Nadia and show her exactly what having her so close had done to his sanity.
A soft r
ap on the door of his room had him jolting with awareness. God damn, he could smell her. And, Erica. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Come in,” Mikhail stated, and the humor in his tone pissed Gunnar off. Someday, he’d knock that cocky son of a bitch out cold.
Nadia walked into the room. Her lavender scrubs were wrinkled and she’d pushed the sleeves of her sweater to her elbows. The stethoscope around her neck sat askew. Thick white sneakers squeaked on the polished linoleum. Several strands of her curly hair had come loose from a hastily done ponytail. He wondered what it would look like long and free—sexy and alluring, for sure. An unreadable expression was on her face. Earlier, those beautiful eyes showed so much compassion and concern. Now, they were flat and pained. He longed to capture her hand, holding it for support…for some kind of connection.
Gunnar lifted his arm about to reach out to Nadia when he froze in place. Lithe and elegant, Erica strode into the room with a confident smirk on her glossy red lips. She’d dressed up for the occasion. A butt-hugging suede skirt went to the top of her knees. Perfectly buffed high-heeled knee boots smacked of straight up sex. Her silky teal shirt plunged at the neckline showing a generous amount of cleavage. Honey blonde hair was swept up in a messy knot and curled strands flittered along her collarbone. Long silver earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders and thin wire-rim glasses perched on her nose. She looked like a naughty teacher straight from an erotic fantasy. Usually, it worked for him. Hell, it’d work for most of the male population. Today, the overt seductiveness repulsed him. Nadia’s simple allure was a great deal more striking.
“Don’t go there, Nakani. We need you fed and healing, not pining after a forbidden female.”
Dragging his gaze away from his Adak, he stared at Mikhail, hard. “We? Traian’s my boss. I’m only concerned with getting out of this hospital and going back to work for him.”
Mikhail stood and crossed the cramped space. He laced his fingers around Nadia’s wrist and tugged. “Let’s give them some privacy.”
Gunnar saw red. Righteous indignation forced his transformation. Fangs elongated and his senses multiplying, Gunnar snarled at Mikhail, “Take your hands off her or I’ll kill you, right where you stand.”
Ignoring Gunnar entirely, Mikhail leaned close and whispered in Nadia’s ear.
The bed shook as every muscle in his body clenched, ready to spring. He ignored the pain, his weakness, the probability of falling flat on his ass and jerked forward. Nadia stepped away and pulled her hand from Mikhail’s hold. She set her fingers on Gunnar’s throat where his pulse went haywire.
“Easy, Gunnar. Do you need more pain medicine?” Her voice washed over him, so caring and gentle.
He shook his head. I just need you, he thought desperately.
She soothed her thumb along his collarbone. When he glanced up to catch her gaze, her eyes were unfocused and her teeth had clamped down on her bottom lip. She blinked, a slow sweep of dark lashes. “I’ll be right outside the door; just call and I’ll be here.”
He nodded.
“Drink from Erica, Gunnar. It’s the best thing you can do to speed the healing,” Mikhail cut in.
Nadia flinched, her fingers trembling against the curve of his shoulder. She nodded her head. “He’s right.” Turning on her heel, she made her way out of the room. Mikhail followed with a prowling stride.
Gunnar looked over at Erica. His Adak stood there examining her French-tipped nails. “Let’s get this done.”
She smiled at him and reached up to unbutton the collar of her blouse.
How the hell was he going to do this when he wanted Nadia?
The fuck if he knew.
Chapter Three
Nadia heard Mikhail close the door behind them. Her feet wouldn’t allow her to go further than the hallway outside Gunnar’s room. He’d seemed so traumatized, on the verge of snapping. It must be his need for blood causing such a change in him. The moment Erica walked in the room, Gunnar’s transformation had occurred. He’d been frightening yet beautiful. Something primal inside her wanted to be the one to nourish him. She hated that he needed his Adak. Even if blood hosts were the only way to keep an unmated male alive far longer than a human, it felt all wrong. He required stronger blood. Her blood.
Truly, she was exhausted. Thinking about something so intimate and forbidden was unlike her. Not only did their culture forbid any liaison between unmated males and females, she had no right to fancy this specific male. When her time came to find the mate she’d be united with, she’d face the blood-rite ceremony. The formal procedure involved a sterile, isolated event where she chose one of three blood-filled goblets. Some form of instinct or guessing would prompt her choice. The one she selected would be her mate, for life, provided she survived the initial ingesting of his essence. In her culture, girls did not dream of pretty white wedding gowns or chapels bedecked with roses. They shivered in dread awaiting their destined time.
Being Kan Asma meant she’d remain a virgin until the day she sipped from that fated goblet. Though archaic, dating or flirting were not allowed. Some of her friends had joined a growing movement to push the Elders, who ran their governing Council, to consider changing their traditions to match the liberties given to American women. So far, their voices had been ignored. Until something changed, Gunnar would keep his gentlemanly distance, no matter the attraction they both felt for one another. Which meant, he’d feed from Erica. Never from her. Nadia swallowed down the envy scorching her throat. She leaned against the wall, tense breaths wrenching from her lungs. Making fists, she tipped her head back, closed her eyes, and willed herself not to tear up like a lovesick ninny.
“Is this Gunnar Nakani’s room?” A deep, cultured voice broke into Nadia’s thoughts. She righted herself and straightened her shoulders, affecting a look of professionalism.
The first glimpse of the males standing in front of her, prompted her to focus on the floor. Her knees bent in an automatic curtsy. “Komutani,” she offered in deference to the Kan Asma leader, Aleksi Komar. Turning to the other male, Ivan, she repeated her motion and whispered in a choked voice, “Kartal.”
God, she’d never been this close to either of them. Power coursed from the males in thick waves; she could feel it tingling along her limbs. They were cousins, and direct decedents of the royal Komar paternal line of the kraliyet. She could see the familial resemblance. They both had angular features and deep-set eyes.
“Answer the question, female.” Ivan barely moved a muscle as he remained before her, arms crossed over a steely, broad chest. He looked devoid of any emotion except for the piercing death ray of a glare he shot her. In his eyes, she saw annoyance, impatience, and displeasure. Conscious of how she appeared, she tugged at the hem of her scrub top to straighten out any wrinkles. Something about this male made her want to cover herself from head to foot—a long ago tradition of their people—simply to hide in plain sight.
His clothes were precisely tailored. The slate-gray slacks hugged massive thighs. A long-sleeved, silk, button-up shirt accentuated the delineated strength of his torso. All the silver pinstripes lay flat, as if his chilly demeanor alone kept them straight. He had layer upon layer of muscle, and it flexed with his every leonine move. A sharp chin and wide, dusky lips reminded Nadia of a pirate. His thick obsidian hair, tied at the nape of his neck, only added to the menacing appearance. After his earlier glare of displeasure, she avoided looking at his eyes in a deeper scrutiny.
“Everything’s fine.” This thickly accented voice came from their leader, Aleksi. He was born an heir to the chief position and inherited it after leading those who’d survived the attack on their village to safety. They’d sought refuge in Turkey, settling temporarily within the cave fortress of Cappadocia. There, he went through a hasty ceremony that cast him in the highest command. Ready or not for such responsibility, he bore the mantle of authority with sincere devotion. Unfortunately, Aleksi lost his father and brother as casualties of the invasion. His dearly loved mother endured a
trocities and succumbed a short time after they fled. The tragedy had claimed many lives and propelled him into the role of Komutani. Throughout the history of the Kan Asma, there was always a warrior commander whose sole duty was to keep the people safe.
As a youngling, Nadia’s history lessons included Aleksi’s lineage and a retelling of the many times his family fought for their protection. Aleksi was idolized by young males. On the other hand, females all but swooned in his presence hoping someday they might end up mated to him. Like all girls with flights of fancy, they knew once an irrevocable blood-bond formed, they’d become one of the revered kraliyet. Even Nadia had daydreamed about being a princess installed within the elite aristocracy. It meant being pampered, adored, and cosseted. Anastasya, Aleksi’s sister, was elegant, lovely and, oh so feminine. Also, she never went anywhere without a bodyguard. Nadia wondered what it would be like to feel important, cherished, and noble. Probably a whole lot better than working until her feet hurt, and scraping funds together to make the mortgage.
“Direct us to Gunnar’s room,” Aleksi said gently. Nadia could hear the susurrus intonation of their mother tongue in his words. He had a thick accent, a little rough around the edges.
She pointed at the door behind her. “He’s here, but he’s with his Adak. Mikhail insisted he feed.” Nadia stared past Aleksi’s shoulder at Mikhail standing there messing around with his phone. At the mention of his name, he didn’t bother to look up or confirm what she’d indicated. She’d get no help there.
Watching the three males gave her the chance to compare them almost side-by-side. Where Mikhail and Ivan shared many brotherly characteristics, Aleksi stood out more. He had long, thick hair for a male, and he wore it loose. The russet strands flowed down his back to the bottom of his shoulder blades. He was massive, tall and solid. A fine weave T-shirt of solid blue pulled tautly across his chiseled torso. Loose jeans settled on his hip bones and accentuated his lean waistline. Heavy combat boots finished off the outfit. He wore simple clothing but it didn’t hide the depth of his nobility. Even if he wore rags, Nadia would still feel his noble bearing. He didn’t need a coronet on his head to show his superiority, but it’d be pretty damn sexy.
Mated in Treason Page 3