by K. L. Kreig
Real. Pure. Unbearable.
She was helpless once again. Something she swore she would never be.
“Ah, I can see you’re confused, ma chérie,” that dark, repugnant voice crooned. It was him. Siobhan. The one who had escaped his punishment so long ago. Or was that just yesterday?
“Non. Not Siobhan, mon amour.” Something ran along her cheek, the tenderness of the act belying the sadistically malevolent tone. “Who am I, you ask? I’m everyone and no one. I’m the Messiah and the Dark One. I’m eternal light and everlasting blackness. And I’ll breathe the very life back into your worst fucking nightmares, Giselle.” Her drawn-out name sounded like poison on his spiked tongue, the ends piercing her flesh like a thousand needles. “You can’t run. You can’t hide. You can only endure. Now…let’s start again, shall we?”
This the time the pain centered in the very core of her being, a place she’d never let anyone willingly enter. She was being torn in two, but her physical flesh, nerves, muscles, and bones didn’t matter. They would heal. They would heal so they could be violated over and again. No…it was her soul that would be shredded beyond all recognition. It was her soul that would die black and shriveled and hollow.
She began to pray for darkness that would never come.
* * *
Giselle jolted from her nightmare drenched in a cold sweat, breathing ragged, heart racing. Phantom pain lingered on her flesh. Her screams still echoed in her ears. Her mind was cloudy, making her weak, vulnerable. Defenseless.
It’s not real. It’s not happening. You’re not there.
It was a dream. A horrible, hellish, insufferable dream.
You are fine.
You are fine.
Just fine.
Breathing deeply and slowly, Giselle willed her heart rate to slow. She’d let her guard down, something she never did, and she struggled to remember why. Why did she feel safe enough to let sleep take her under so hard?
She tried to move, but steely arms banded tightly, holding her still. Fear should have her on the defensive, but instinctively, she knew she was safe. Safer than she’d ever been. It was a foreign feeling her sleep-fogged brain still struggled to reconcile.
Before she could get her bearings, a baritone timbre rumbled sleepily in her ear, “Shhh, baby. I got you.”
That voice. She recognized that deep, sexy voice. It was balm that soothed her scarred soul. It was the male she’d tried for the past year to forget. To ignore. To hate. To leave behind.
The same male who’d told her earlier tonight he loved her.
Loved. Her.
Her.
Giselle Petrova.
She still fought to wrap her head around it. How could Mike Thatcher possibly love her when he didn’t even know her? Not really. Didn’t he understand she was ruined, broken, scarred, stained, repulsive, coldhearted? Whatever word that best described the unlovable?
That was her. Unlovable.
She shouldn’t be here, leading him on. She should have left his ass the minute he said it and never looked back. No…what she should have done was twisted his balls until they snapped off and then left his ass and never looked back.
But she didn’t. She stayed. She willingly allowed him to carry her back to his bed, lay her down next to him, and hold her close. She remained silent when he stripped her down to her panties and kissed her hair. She lay perfectly still while he stroked her back and whispered sweet fucking nothings in her ear. She let herself be lulled into thinking this, this…thing…between them was a real possibility, when it wasn’t.
But did she leave? Even then?
Fuck no.
Here it was. Hours later. The middle of the night and here she still lay. In his house. Between his sheets. Wrapped in his arms. Everything inside her was speed melting underneath his warmth and affection when she needed to stay frozen, unaffected, and unattached instead. Unfortunately, around Mike Thatcher, it was becoming more arduous and precarious to accomplish.
He’d changed her in ways she didn’t like. In fact, she hated them. He made her soft. He made her care. The gorgeous asshole made her feel, goddammit. And removing the frigid barriers she’d erected caused old emotions to boil hot and closer to the surface than she was comfortable with. She could practically see the ashy singe on her skin from memories of ancient horrors.
Nothing good could come of what they were doing.
Nothing.
Both of them would get hurt.
Then why am I still here?
“Uh, uh. You’re not running, beautiful.” Mike tightened his hold as she tried to rise again, his tone now hard, unyielding, his grip bordering on pain.
She huffed and relaxed back into him, fully intent on leaving whenever the fuck she wanted. The fact she didn’t really want to leave pissed her off even more. She’d let this human burrow himself under her skin further than the teeth of a bur. A place she’d only allowed two others in her entire life to go, and it took them decades to break through the concrete her flesh had become. The detective had managed the same task in mere months.
“You do realize you can’t keep me here, asshole. Right?”
She was being a royal bitch when he’d been nothing but kind to her the last few days, but she couldn’t help it. Sarcasm was instinct. Giselle tried hard not remember how it had easily taken a back seat to the fun they’d been having. Yes, fun. They’d laughed, talked, traded light barbs, and worked in easy tandem as if they’d been doing it for years. He’d let her feed from him for Christ’s sake and he would never understand what it took for her to do that. And now that she had, how hard it was for her not to do it again. The scent of his blood howled her name. It belonged to her.
This time, though, would be for sheer indulgence versus voracious need. And that, more than just about anything, scared the hell out of her. She’d never once taken blood for pleasure. Not once.
Mike turned her toward him, framing her face with his large, manly human hands. They were calloused and thick and they felt so damn good on her icy skin, every touch evaporating that frigidness just a tiny bit more.
Damn him.
She needed to go.
She wanted to stay.
“Yeah, I realize you can pull your Houdini act and be gone in a flash, pun intended. But I want you to stay. I’m asking you to stay, Giselle.”
The need she heard, as though she was essential to his very being, halted her snide retort. They had camaraderie. They’d both been living life in the dark. In pain. Buried alive. Each breath full of toxic memories they wished would mercifully kill them, but hatefully wouldn’t.
Why was he the only male in her one hundred forty-one years who’d been able to lighten her baggage? Counteract the poison?
You know exactly why, Giselle. You just won’t acknowledge it.
“Please,” he urged, holding her stare. That was a word he used sparingly. Mike Thatcher didn’t beg for a damn thing. He took what he wanted and made no apologies for it. Ever. If he were any other way, she wouldn’t be tangled in his bed right now. She shouldn’t be anyway.
Holding her eyes, he lowered his head until his lips touched hers, tentatively, at first, seeking permission. They pressed harder, taking more, demanding it all. She gave it. Gave in. Gave out, whatever. She was weak. So very fucking weak when it came to him. His touch scrambled her brains, knocked into her barricades like an unrelenting battering ram. Shit was flying loose everywhere.
“Stay,” he demanded gruffly between light bites.
Mike’s intense want thundered through her body like a jet engine, fueling her own desire. While that feeling emanating from a male would have repulsed her in the past, she now found herself wondering what type of lover the detective would be if she could only allow herself to say yes. Gentle and loving? Rough and demanding? The perfect combination of dirty and sweet? The temptation to find out had grown to an almost unquenchable thirst she needed to assuage.
But she didn’t know how. She’d never done any of th
is before with a male.
Giselle’s sultry persona was just that. A guise, a front, a role she played. She was full of show and cocky declarations—and utter bullshit—because the truth was she hadn’t been intimate with a male since the day before her last blooding at age twenty. She’d never had free will growing up and, from the time Dev granted her amnesty she’d exercised her choice to abstain.
She’d never swayed on that decision until the obstinate detective came along, tempting her beyond all reason, popping her celibacy lock. He was the golden ticket. The key. She craved him on a weird, uncomfortable level she couldn’t ignore anymore.
Giselle had allowed Mike Thatcher to explore places on her that were pure and untouched, at least in the way he was doing it. She’d never been worshipped or given pleasure that was solely for her. Every graze of his fingers or nip of his dull teeth awakened her more, pulling womanly desires from the deep bogs within. She never knew it could be this way between a male and a female.
“Stay,” he cajoled again, convincingly dragging his tongue along the swell of her breasts before dipping further to suck a painfully peaked nipple. When one hand gently fisted her hair while the other tunneled down the back of her panties, she mentally caved. Her soul was starved for affection, her body weeping to be adored.
“Touch me.” Make me forget is really what she meant.
Drawing his hand around from her ass to the wet space between her thighs, she silently begged. He pulled back to make sure it was okay. He always did that, and as always, the sweet gesture made her fall into him, getting herself lost once again. And, as always, her answer was to slant her mouth over his, telling him with her body everything she couldn’t with words.
Once again, she let him stroke her, drive her up, take her over. She writhed in sweet pleasure underneath his magical fingers as they demanded she go places she’d never wanted to go before. Now, she couldn’t get enough of it. When he’d wrung everything she could give, her body just as sated as if she’d fed, he settled his front to her back and told her to sleep, not expecting anything in return. Even though his stiff, throbbing desire prodded between her cheeks, he made no move to take care of it or ask her to.
Just another thing about him to like. His selflessness.
God, this all felt good. Too good. Every last bit of it.
But what happened if he found out about her? About the blood on her hands and the wounds on her spirit? About the smears of sin that still felt smothering and base? What would he think of her then? How could he love her then?
Mother of all fucks.
Her head now buzzed for an entirely different reason. Giselle tried to relax. Tried shutting herself down, tried enjoying the warmth still deliciously humming through her veins, but a whirlwind of thoughts raced at warp speed, easily sweeping all the good away until all that remained were doubts.
What the fuck are you doing, Elle?
Blood just because?
Touch for pleasure?
Cuddling? Cud-dul-ing?
No. That wasn’t her.
That could never be her.
Could it?
No. No, it couldn’t. Jesus, she’d made the gravest of mistakes. She had her head so far in the goddamned clouds she was seeing promises that didn’t exist. Wanting a future she couldn’t have. Wanting a whole host of shit she didn’t want to want, but couldn’t stop wanting anyway.
Giselle was ruined. Tainted. Untold DNA stained her skin, her soul, her body both inside and out. She wasn’t fit to befriend someone, let alone be much, much more than that to this incredible male holding her.
Her icy exterior was turning slushy, and that was unacceptable. Hell, he’d worn down her sharp edges so much already she was actually here because she was doing Rom’s mate a favor. A favor, for the love of Christ. Giselle did not do favors. The foreign word tasted bitter on her tongue. She wanted to spit it out and grind it into the ground with a spiked heel.
She should have never allowed them to go this far. She’d made a huge mistake spending so much time with Mike, dropping her guard, letting him too close. She needed space to think, to breathe, to reevaluate.
Feeling clammy and panicky, she willed herself to the place of inner frozen calm she expertly tapped into until his breaths gradually softened to a slow, even cadence.
Then, when she knew he was fast asleep, she stealthily slipped out of bed and dressed. With one last longing glance she once again left her Fated behind, all the while lying to herself she was doing it to protect him from her when it was so obviously the other way around.
3
Mike
He’d woken this morning and Giselle was gone. Classic. Totally expected, yet, soul crushing nonetheless. But surprisingly…he wasn’t mad at her. He was mad at himself. He knew he was moving too fast. He knew she might not be in the same place he was emotionally. Hell, she may never be. Maybe he was just a shiny new plaything to her and nothing more. But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn’t true. The feelings she had for him could not be hidden in her expressive eyes. She just couldn’t verbalize them. Therefore, he should have kept his big fucking mouth shut and maybe she’d still be here right now.
He got her message loud and clear. She apparently needed space, so he’d give it to her.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your summoning, human?”
“You’re such a fucking prick, bloodsucker,” Mike muttered under his breath before stepping aside to let Renaldo enter his humble abode.
Fuck if he wanted him here, but fuck if he had any choice either. He may have decided not to contact Giselle directly when he woke to a cold and empty bed after begging her to stay in the middle of the night, but he never said he wouldn’t find out what the hell was going on with the woman he was in love with either.
The only way he knew how to do that was through Devon’s powerful lieutenant. By the way, Renaldo threatened to, let’s see, personally cut out his shriveled-up heart after he first sucked his body dry of every single drop of blood, several months back if he hurt Giselle, he had an inkling they were pretty close.
Which didn’t sit too well with him, by the way.
In fact, it didn’t fucking sit well at all.
“You know, along with superpowers, cat-like agility, and sound-of-light speed, us bloodsuckers have a very keen sense of hearing. Prick,” Ren declared without venom as he swaggered on by.
Mike couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Touché.”
“Where’s Giselle?”
“I was going to ask you the same. Beer?” he offered on his way to the fridge. He was never one to care about so-called rules when it came to imbibing. If he wanted a beer with breakfast, he’d have a fucking beer with breakfast.
“What the hell. Sure.”
Mike took two Bud heavies and popped the tops before handing a cold brew to the tall, broad vampire now leaning against his faded yellow kitchen wall. He didn’t like the way Ren was already scrutinizing him. Had he any self-preservation left in his weary body, he would be intimidated by his enormous size and bulk and perceptive stare. Alas, he’d lost that care years ago.
Except now…now he wondered if that still held true. If Giselle wanted him, he definitely had something to live for. And that’s what he aimed to find out right now.
“I know you didn’t ask me here to shoot the shit and play beer pong, so why the hell am I standing in your cracker box kitchen when I have better things to do?”
“So you haven’t talked to Giselle, then?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant instead of agitated.
“Why?”
Mike shrugged. “You two seem pretty tight.”
Ren regarded him for a few solid heartbeats. “Contrary to your beliefs, Detective, I am not her fucking secretary or her keeper. Giselle does what she wants when she wants. The only one she listens to is Dev,” the too-arrogant-for-his-pants vamp replied smoothly.
“Don’t I fucking know it,” Mike mumbled in agreement.
Ren took a healthy
swallow from his bottle before asking, “What’d you do to piss her off?”
This was it. Do or die time. Should he confide his feelings about Giselle to Lord Devon’s second in command? If he did, would he end up watching his heart pulse its last few beats in Ren’s hand before he took his final dirt nap?
Turns out he didn’t need to say a word.
“Oh fuck. I know that look.” Ren started shaking his head. His face was impassive and that pissed Mike the hell off.
“What look?” he barked defensively.
“The ‘hopelessly devoted to you’ look, asshole. You went and fell in love with her, didn’t you?” Ren generally showed no emotion, unless it was impudence, but his tone bordered on challenge.
He didn’t know the nature of the relationship between Giselle and Ren, but he’d always secretly worried that Ren had more than “friendly” feelings toward his woman or they had some sort of past. Even though Ren had tried pushing them together not that long ago, he wouldn’t put anything past the blood drinker. Push Mike toward Giselle and then bury him six feet under for touching her sounded like just the justification the bloodsucker needed to slit his throat without ramifications.
Well, fuck that shit. Giselle belonged to him.
Mike straightened to his full height. At six foot two, he was a fairly tall guy but was still several inches shorter than Ren’s impressive six-six stature. Standing toe-to-toe with a species that could gut him and bury him faster than he could sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” was not a smart move on anyone’s part, but especially his. It was no secret that Detective Mike Thatcher wasn’t a fan favorite of the plasma drinkers or vice versa. But fuck all if he cared. Giselle was his. His.
“Why? Do I have competition?”
He hated the fact he had to look up to this fucker as heavy silence thickened between the two. Insinuations, anger, and power shimmered in the air, nearly taking solid form. Then a broad grin formed on Ren’s lips and it stretched until the cocksucker was laughing. Hard and loud.
“What the hell is so funny, bloodsucker?” Mike spat.