Dark Pleasures_A Novel of the Dark Ones

by Aja James

  Devlin stared unblinkingly at the ground, oblivious to all else save the sound of the Greek’s dark, hypnotic voice.

  “Sensing that something was not quite sturdy in their little love boat, Hart went off to serve his country, putting some time and distance between them, putting to patriotic use the special skills he’d secretly developed under the guise of scholarly pursuits.”

  “He’d learned how to fight, how to shoot the heart out of any target, how to unravel the most complicated puzzles. How to kill. He learned how to flirt too, because charm and friendliness opened doors and made connections better than introversion and bookishness. And he learned that being a charmer, a devil-may-care rake, was a fantastic disguise that sheltered the real man inside.”

  Devlin refused to look at the Greek. He could feel the male staring avidly at him with those wild, haunted eyes.

  “And that brings us to his fool-hardy mission to purposely get himself captured by enemy troops so that he could discover Napoleon’s next moves.”

  The Greek paused for effect, gaging Devlin’s mood. Devlin refused to twitch even a hair.

  “Our heroic little Hart endured beating after beating, under the misguided notion that his countrymen were looking for him, that they would eventually find and liberate him. Wisely, he did not attempt escape, because the probability of success was quite abysmal. But what he didn’t realize was that no one was searching for him. They’d given up a long time ago.”

  Devlin’s eyelid flickered.

  The Greek opened the prison cell and prowled inside. Devlin noticed that he’d left the gate wide open, and there seemed to be none of the other mercenaries around.

  There were no sounds at all, in fact.

  Devlin was not chained or bound. He could easily make a run for it. But the Greek seemed confident he wouldn’t make it very far, or perhaps he wanted him to make the attempt just to have the pleasure of hunting him down.

  The Greek crouched on his haunches in front of Devlin, close enough to strike if Devlin timed it just right. Perhaps a jab to the eyes and throat or a kick to the groin.

  “Do you know why no one is searching for you, Devlin Sinclair?” the Greek asked softly. “Because your brother William has already declared you dead.”

  Devlin raised his eyes to the Greek, burning with rage. What nonsense was he spouting now?

  “It’s true, I’m afraid,” the Greek continued apologetically. “You see, it was his idea to have you sent out on this foolhardy mission. He planted confidantes within the General’s camp, convinced Wellington of the beauty of such a plot and arranged to have you dispatched. Dispatched and dispatched with, so to speak.”

  The Greek chuckled low at his little pun. “We were supposed to… take care of you immediately once we confirmed your identity, but…”

  The Greek cocked his head at Devlin, raking him with a slow, unfathomable gaze from the top of his dirt-streaked hair to his blackened, blistered toes.

  He smiled a snake-like smile.

  “Well. I thought I’d play with you for a bit first. ’Twould be such a waste to end something so bright and beautiful too quickly.”

  Devlin held his unholy stare for a long time.

  Finally, he said, “Interesting story you tell; you missed your calling as a raconteur.”

  The Greek’s smile spread into a grin, revealing two extra sharp canines.

  “It’s more interesting because it’s your story, Devlin Sinclair. I know you do not believe me. I can see in your eyes that you’re telling yourself lies. I do have proof, you know, insurance against the eventuality that my men are not paid in a timely manner.”

  The Greek reached into his coat jacket and retrieved two letters. He gently laid them on the ground in front of Devlin’s feet.

  “Surely you’d recognize your brother’s handwriting. The first letter is addressed to me, detailing every part of our arrangement. The second letter is from your fiancée to your brother, or shall I say, from the new Marchioness?”

  Devlin flinched.

  “Miss Lavinia Highwood and the Marquess of Hartington, the new one that is, since you were pronounced dead, married two weeks after your demise was deemed official.”

  The Greek pulled out a carefully folded newssheet from his inner pocket and laid that on the ground too.

  “It was a quiet affair, apparently, since the wedding was hastily planned. The bride was rumored to be gaining some girth about her middle, which was why she urged her lover to take action against his inconvenient older brother.”

  “You lie,” Devlin seethed, unable to control his pain and rage any longer.

  For a moment, the Greek’s ever-present smile slipped. For a mere split second, he looked truly sympathetic to Devlin’s heartbreak, saddened on his behalf.

  “Alas, I do not,” he said softly. “You can read the letters for yourself. And in case you hold out some remote hope that your troops are still looking for you, they stopped long ago when they discovered the burnt, disfigured body a few miles south of here in your officer’s uniform.”

  Devlin thought of the other soldier who’d been brought alive to the fortress with him. He’d not heard or seen the other man for days.

  “Yes, you guess rightly,” the Greek said, seeming to read his thoughts. “That soldier died in your stead, I’m afraid. I had to provide evidence of your demise, after all, to collect my payment.”

  “Then why am I still here?” Devlin demanded, furious that someone totally unrelated and innocent had lost his life for him.

  “Why keep me alive?”

  The Greek remained silent for so long, Devlin thought he wouldn’t answer.

  But then he said in his dark, haunting voice, “You remind me of a boy I used to know. The most beautiful, golden boy you’ve ever seen. His name was Xanthos and I loved him very, very much. He was studious and serious, like you, but full of passion with an unerring sense of righteousness. In the end, he loved justice and truth more than me, and I had the unfortunate task of… killing him.”

  His dark, red-centered eyes bore into Devlin, so commanding Devlin couldn’t look away, not even to blink.

  “In doing so, I killed myself,” the Greek said softly. “Xanthos had been the best part of me.”

  He let out a long, shuddering breath, and before Devlin’s eyes, the Greek seemed to deflate and age. The ever-present careless smile was gone. A cold bleakness settled into his demeanor, and for once, he was entirely solemn.

  “I am tired of this endless existence and despicable human treachery. You will be my resting place, Devlin Sinclair.”

  Devlin could not begin to understand what he meant. So he said, “If you plan to end your life, by all means be my guest.”

  A low, humorless chuckle rattled through the Greek’s chest and out between his lips. “I must give you my gift first, beautiful boy, the gift I should have given him.”

  “What—”

  But the Greek was suddenly upon him, cutting Devlin’s words right out of his throat.

  Twin daggers struck the side of Devlin’s neck while the heavy weight of his captor trapped him against the wall. The Greek’s hands held Devlin’s arms immobile at his sides, as strong as iron manacles. He knelt directly on top of Devlin’s legs, keeping him pinned helplessly to the ground.

  Devlin’s eyes bulged, his nostrils flaring. He couldn’t move even one muscle of his body, but he could hear the grotesque sounds of the Greek sucking at his throat and swallowing thirstily.

  He was drinking Devlin’s blood! He’d bitten Devlin in the neck with his teeth! It was too mind boggling to take in.

  Soon, the blood loss caught up with Devlin, sawing away at his tenuous grasp on consciousness. When his eyelids slid shut, he heard the Greek’s voice in his head:

  I will inject the last of my soul into your body when you are in the in-between, the ephemeral yet infinite gateway between life and death. When you awake, you will see the world with different eyes. You may even have some version of my Gift,
the ability to see into others’ memories. And you will be very, very thirsty. My men are passed out outside in a drunken stupor. They will be easy prey for a newly made vampire.

  Why? Devlin pushed the question out in his rapidly fogging mind.

  You look exactly like him, my Xanthos, the Greek answered in his head. You have his courage and his strength as well. And I am tired of living this pointless life without him. You, Devlin Sinclair, have much more living to do. Xanthos would have approved.

  And then, just before Devlin breathed his last as a human, he heard a long sigh and a crumbling rustle. The weight was lifted off of him, as if it had simply disintegrated into the air.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Devlin woke up gasping, his heart pounding, his vision blurred.

  Grace was beside him immediately, helping him to a sitting position, rubbing her hand in soothing circles up and down his back.

  “Devlin, what is it? Did you have that dream again?”

  He shook his head. He couldn’t speak yet. Every time he had the nightmare, he relived the process of dying and coming back to life. Becoming a vampire.

  But it wasn’t the Change or the physical torture during the weeks he’d been imprisoned that made him dread this particular dream. It was the story his captor told.

  And when he’d drank his fill of the band of drunken mercenaries’ blood, when his vampire senses had sharpened to a razor point, he’d gone back to his cell and read the two letters the Greek had left behind. The marriage announcement in the papers as well.

  Next to them had littered a pile of unassuming black ashes, so contradictory to the larger-than-life presence of the kaloskagathos Greek.

  There had been no escape from the truth of it: the murderous designs on his life by the two people he cared for the most in the world.

  “Devlin, are you all right? Would it help if you talked to me? Dr. Weisman says talking helps to ‘unburden and demystify.’”

  He still couldn’t speak, simply doing all he could to breathe in and out.

  “Would you rather write it down? I know I don’t respond the right way in these situations.”

  “Grace,” he rasped, putting a hand on her arm, stilling her.

  She didn’t show it in her tone, which was without inflection as usual. But a little furrow appeared between her bushy brows and her eyes were dark and intent.

  Devlin recognized this as her way of worrying. She was distressed for him, perhaps even frightened.

  The need to comfort her outweighed the pain of his own memories for the moment. He pulled her into his embrace and laid them both back on the bed, her much smaller body curled into his side, her head nestled on his chest, tucked beneath his chin.

  “Who is this Dr. Weisman you keep talking about?” he asked irrelevantly to distract them both. “Is it a man or a woman?”

  “A man,” she answered dutifully, going with the flow of his conversation.

  She would probably never be one of those women who spoke with an agenda. Only if she fixated on something would she pursue a topic like a homing beacon, without artifice or dissemblance. For the most part, she was easily distracted and because of that, unthreatening to talk to. There was never any judgment or presumption in the way she viewed the world.

  “Good looking?”

  “Very.”

  Devlin gave a short huff of laughter. “That was an instant and adamant assertion,” he noted. “Should I be worried?”

  “About what?”

  He looked down at the crown of her head as she snuggled warmly against him.

  “A male often has cause to worry when his female is regularly in the company of a ‘very good looking’ man who is not himself,” he explained, because her question was genuine, not an attempt at coyness.

  She gave a small shrug. “Why should you worry? I’m not attracted to him. I’m only attracted to you.”

  Ah, music to his ears. Devlin was feeling better already.

  Emboldened, he decided to needle her further, “What about all of your previous… partners? I have a feeling I wasn’t the first you recruited for that…” he flipped his hand idly in the air, looking for the least offensive phrase—offensive to his own ears that was, “…two week engagement.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t attracted to any of them,” she quickly replied. “They were bodies that fulfilled a purpose for me.”

  Devlin’s breath stalled.

  Her words hurt more than he could have imagined. Even though she was speaking of other men, he’d been “recruited” for her purpose in much the same way. Was he deluding himself that he meant more to her? And if so, that the attachment would last?

  Perhaps he was a masochist, perhaps he was still too vulnerable from the dream and had forgotten to guard his raw, stumbling heart, but he couldn’t help whispering the question:

  “What about me? What am I to you?”

  Grace took his question very seriously. She propped herself up on her arms to look down into his face, holding his gaze.

  For the longest time she stared at him, in the same intense, unblinking way she did from time to time over the duration of their acquaintance. He wasn’t sure what she saw, or what she was searching for in his eyes. It was as if she’d locked herself in a trance while probing into him with her clear, dark gaze.

  Finally, she said, low and wondering, “I don’t know what you are to me. You make me feel things I’ve never felt before. Feelings I can’t describe. Sometimes I’m afraid of them. Sometimes they make me full to bursting. I think…”

  She cupped his face with one palm and rubbed her thumb across his mouth. Back and forth she caressed him, as if mesmerized by the feel of his lips and the perfect fullness of their shape.

  He waited with baited breath, not wanting to rush her, hanging on her every word. Hoping she’d finish her thought and dreading the rest of her sentence at the same time.

  “I think you’re my drug, Devlin Sinclair,” she murmured reflectively, as if talking more to herself than to him. “You’re my obsession and addiction. A habit I don’t want to form but one I can’t seem to break.”

  Well.

  He wasn’t thrilled with the “don’t want” part of it, but for now he’d settle for the rest of her confession.

  “I want to make love with you, Grace,” he said solemnly, his words carefully chosen.

  She’d never referred to the joining of their bodies as anything remotely resembling love, but for him, it could never be anything else. He wanted her to know what this meant to him, what she meant to him.

  He was putting a stake in the ground.

  A line of concentration appeared between her brows, as if she were trying to puzzle out what he meant.

  “How do we make love?” she asked, “love is a concept, not a product. How do you make it when it’s not real?”

  “We’ll find a way together,” he whispered, drawing her down to him, taking her lips in a slow, soft kiss.

  “I’ve never made love before you,” he breathed into her mouth, “Never truly loved before you.”

  She draped herself, still dressed in one of his long-sleeved shirts, over his naked body, and angled her head to deepen their kiss.

  She was wet from wanting him already and wanted to race toward the climax, but when she tried to push his passion higher, he deftly retreated and came back at her with a simmering warmth, playful and teasing.

  She tried to take control by holding his head in her hands, thrusting her fingers into his thick, wavy hair, thrusting her tongue deeply into his mouth, making him groan with the carnality of it. But even as he let her take the lead, his hands smoothed up and down her sides in a calming motion, gentling her urgency.

  She wanted him now, she wanted him hard and fast. So she tried to capture his erection between her thighs and take it into her naked core.

  At this, he flipped them smoothly so that she was trapped beneath his much heavier frame. He captured her wrists and held them beside her head, leaving her mouth to trail
kisses down her throat, her chest, plumping her small breasts wetly through the fabric of the shirt with gentle sucks.

  Frustrated noises gurgled from Grace’s throat. She didn’t like not being in control. She wanted to be the one to play his body like a harp, to find all his secrets and take him to the edge, hold him prisoner there. She’d never had the same done to herself, because that meant relinquishing command, submitting herself to another’s will.

  “Let me,” he entreated huskily, nuzzling his face against her belly, moving steadily lower to her bare hips, upper thighs and the nest of curls between them.

  Grace writhed helplessly against him, but he held her firm, holding her hands at her sides now, his muscular torso between her spread legs.

  She dug her heels into the mattress trying to gain purchase, trying to take back control of this runaway train, but he was already upon her, his mouth hot and heavenly against her sex, his tongue sweeping along her labia, then paying exquisite homage to her clitoris, swirling and teasing, lapping and gliding.

  “Devlin…” she groaned, frustrated and unbearably aroused. “I want you now, inside…”

  But he ignored her, taking his time with his sweet torture of her, and some distant part of her recognized what he was doing and the difference between what she’d done to him the first night they’d been together.

  He wasn’t analytically and detachedly trying to draw out calculated reactions from her body. His every touch, every kiss, every breath was instinctual, as if his body was an extension of hers and he made it come alive in ways she’d never thought possible.

  She felt her orgasm build relentlessly, but whereas she would have rode it consciously and eagerly started another right on its heels, giving her body the release it craved, she purposely held back this time. She wanted to wait for him to join her. Because, somehow, it mattered.

  Whatever they had, it was more than physical pleasure.