by Kresley Cole
He couldn’t always be there to protect her. Though he’d tried to use the chain as little as possible, he’d whispered to her as she slept that she would no longer have these weaknesses.
Wroth would have been content to hear only about her, but she’d been surprisingly curious about his past. He found himself revealing things he never had to anyone, yet feeling unburdened from it.
He’d told her of the pain he and Murdoch had felt to return home and see their other six siblings and their father dying of plague. Myst’s eyes had watered as he’d spoken of the gut-wrenching decision to make them drink. Then came the agonizing vigil as they wondered if their family would be reborn, any of them. In the end, they’d lost their father and sisters, but regained their two brothers.
The night he himself had “died” seemed to fascinate her, and she repeatedly asked him to tell her the story of how he’d made demands of Kristoff. She never failed to tell him how proud she was of him. That comment had made him feel particularly uneasy. These days there wasn’t much he was proud about. He avoided Kristoff, telling him little when they did meet. He was coercing his Bride to stay with him, and he suspected that if, at the end of the two weeks, she wanted to leave him, he’d break his vow to her in a heartbeat’s time.
He sought any hint that might tell him how she felt and what she might decide. At times he was optimistic. When they fought mock battles with a game based on military strategy, she seemed to enjoy herself—and to like the fact that he always beat her. She wasn’t a strategist, she’d explained to him. She was “front-line badassness” but she appreciated his talent. One time she had stood and sidled over to straddle him, placing his hands on her breasts. As she slid down his shaft, she whispered in his ear, “My wise warlord. You make my toes curl you’re so good.” He’d shuddered violently and had to fight not to come in an instant.
In fact she seemed to delight in every reminder that he’d fought and warred. She’d admired his sword, eyes widening at the considerable weight of it, only to narrow on him and grow silver with want. Her eyes had only to flicker silver and he went hard as iron.
And last night, as they lay spent in bed, he’d finally asked her, “What do you find attractive about me?” That could possibly compete against a demigod with a “mind-shattering kiss.”
Without hesitation, she answered, “Your scars.”
His brows drew together in surprise. “What? Why?”
“They’re evidence of the pain you’ve survived. Pain survived builds strength.” She traced down his stomach. “This is the one that killed you?”
“Yes.”
“Then this one I admire the most.” She brushed her lips so tenderly over it. “It brought you to me.”
But his contentment was never whole. He’d never been in love, didn’t believe he’d even slept with the same woman twice, yet now he wanted everything from this pagan immortal, was sick with wanting her. He wanted to strip her soul bare and make her give all of herself, all of what she’d been in the beginning before time twisted her.
His dreams reminded him of her past, preventing him from falling for her completely. Though he’d thankfully never seen her making love to another—and for some reason, he believed he never would—he drove himself mad with the mere idea of the lovers she’d taken into her body. He made himself crazed wondering how he compared to them. Each wicked thing she did to him that had him staring at the ceiling in an agony of pleasure and shock had him wondering later where she’d learned it.
How many had she had? She was two thousand years old. One bedmate a year? Two a year? One lover a month…?
And how could he compete with gods for her? She was a creature so passionate and beautiful, it was clear she’d been made to be loved by them alone.
The dreams kept him from believing and falling into the life they could share—the life he wanted so badly he could taste it.
He dreaded sleep and took no succor from it, growing weary with each day though her blood built his muscle, making him physically stronger than he’d ever imagined. Each sunset, he treated her coldly, so she asked about his dreams. But he lied.
She would accept his reassurance, smiling over at him from her window seat. Her smile could bring down an army. Probably had.
How had he thought he was a match for it?
My apologies, Myst thought as she gazed down at Wroth, rolling her hips on him, but she was enjoying the hell out of her vampire.
His eyes were so fierce, his gorgeous, sculpted muscles rigid beneath her claws as she leaned forward to cup her breast to his mouth. He suckled and groaned around her nipple as he tensed to come, and when she exploded, he shot hotly inside her. She fell limp on top of him, loving it when he put his arms around her and clenched her into his chest as he shuddered for long moments afterward.
When he finally let her go with a kiss so he could dress and leave for Oblak, she said, “Okay. I’m down with being your dirty little secret out here—for now. But I can’t just sit in this room for hours when you leave.”
“What do you need, love?” he asked, piling her curls atop her head. He seemed fascinated by her hair, always touching it.
Wait, he’d called her love ? Cool. “Do you know what an Xbox is? No? Well, your Bride has a teeny little addiction to it….”
She wrote down the model of the console and the games she wanted as he showered and dressed. Just before he traced, she took his hands and gazed up at him solemnly. “Bring this back and you might as well have slayed a dragon for me.”
As she waited, she painted her toenails—Valkyrie loved painting their nails since it was the only way they could semi-permanently alter their appearance—and reflected on how easily she’d settled in here.
In fact, there were only three things that prevented her from being truly comfortable in this situation. The first? Though they traveled most nights, he wouldn’t take her to meet his friends and family and wouldn’t let her see hers either. He’d explained that he wanted her undivided attention for these two weeks.
She suspected he was waiting until their relationship was cemented, which he believed would be in three days—the end of what she called the two-week vampire demo. Had it resulted in a sale? She knew it would mean pariah-hood in the Lore and having to give up her family. She could just imagine bringing Wroth to the coven. Her sisters would thank her for the surprise then pounce on him, swords and claws flying with glee.
As twin sister to Furie, Cara alone would fight him to the death simply for what he was. And though Wroth was incredibly powerful, Cara was quick, with thousands of years more experience and the boiling hatred of a separated twin. The two of them together would be like Godzilla versus Mothra, or some serious epic shite.
Her second concern was her worry for him. He often traced to Oblak, and each time she wondered if he would face some faction of the Lore intent on killing him just for being a vampire. She believed him when he told her of Kristoff’s agenda and saw no conflict of interest with her covens, so call her an awful person, but she’d turned informant, teaching him how to protect himself.
Her third beef was that each sunset when they woke he was unbearably surly and curt with her. She feared he’d seen memories of her flirting or even making love—though Nïx had once told her that recipients of visions never saw things they couldn’t recover from and usually only witnessed major, life-changing events. He’d assured her again and again that it was nothing, but Myst had suspicions. Yet she could tolerate his moods because he spent the rest of the night treating her like a queen.
Just when her toenails had dried, he returned with the slayed dragon and its attendant games and set them at her feet. He looked at her with his brows drawn like he’d missed her, and her heart did funky twisty things in her chest. The impulse came to jump him, so she did.
Only after he’d squeezed her up in his arms did she realize she’d run to get within them.
Chapter Ten
Wroth shot up in bed, feeling nauseated, physically
ill from his nightmares.
He’d been lashed by the usual dreams of her gloating at a gravesite, then the Roman stroking himself as she slowly dragged her skirt up her thighs. “I’ll possess Myst the Coveted….”
But details of the memories became more evident each time. This time he’d heard Myst’s amused thoughts at his words—No one possesses me, but in their fantasies. I’ll kill you as easily as kiss you….“And I’ll be yours, only yours,” she purred, though she detested him.
Now he’d seen something new. A different, more recent memory. Myst was smoothing on hose, her foot daintily placed on his bed, as she made a decision to … trick him? To act as though she’d capitulated easily in order to get her chain back.
Play at love and act at surrender.
He gripped his forehead in his hand. Irrationally, he waited for the soft touch of her hand on his back. She was his Bride, his wife, and she offered him no comfort.
Even had she truly had that urge, she couldn’t, since he was still secretly commanding her to sleep throughout the day. So she wouldn’t run away from him and leave him in torment again.
Kill you as easily as kiss you…
He’d thought they’d had a place to start from, to move forward from, but he’d been fooled by her beauty and abandon. She’d seduced him, made sure he “caught” her working her body that same night, knowing he would lose his mind at the sight.
He was as much a fool as the Roman, besotted with a fantasy that didn’t exist. At least that long-dead Roman had suffered no delusions that she could care for him. He’d known that she was incapable of feeling and had wanted possession only.
Wroth had been falling for a fantasy, one that easily manipulated him.
She desired her freedom and she would use whatever means she had available to get it, leaving him as soon as she’d succeeded.
Fool.
When Myst woke, she burrowed down into the covers, feeling relaxed and content to her toes.
Today was D-day—delivery day for the chain—the end of the demo that she realized had resulted in a sale.
She snuggled into his pillow, loving his scent, and considered her new feelings. She’d feared her life as she’d known it had ended the minute he’d vowed to give her the chain back. It was a leap of faith on his part and she’d responded to it. Responded in kind. It was a bit ironic that she’d smugly planned to punk him only to get snared in her own machinations. She’d lasted only a few days playing easy till she went easy, her femme fatale plans culminating in the oh-sonefarious leap into his arms.
She grinned into the pillow. She’d take back her chain, but only because it looked so damned sassy on her.
When she rose and stretched, she found him watching her. Her grin widened, but he didn’t return her smile, just glanced at her bare breasts and snapped, “Put on some clothes.”
She drew her head back, frowning. “Are you angry with me?” He was usually brusque when they woke, but she could tell this was much worse. She was baffled by what could have happened since she’d gone to sleep, tucked against his chest, secure under his heavy arm. His eyes were somehow crazed and bleak at the same time, his face exhausted. Alarm began to build inside her.
“We have a lot to discuss tonight.” He tossed her a robe. “Put it on and sit here.”
She had no choice but to comply. He traced away and was back seconds later, holding the chain fisted in his whitened grip. “Tonight we’re going to make some adjustments between us—or more accurately, in you.”
Her eyes widened. “Wroth, what are you doing?” she asked slowly. “You vowed to give it back today.”
“A woman like you should understand broken vows.”
“What are you talking about? How can you do this to me now?” The evening she’d decided to stay.
His face was crueler than she’d ever seen it. “You mean after the last two weeks? Just because you wanted to be fucked and I complied doesn’t mean I won’t treat you as you deserve.”
She put the back of her hand to her face as if she’d been struck. He didn’t say “treat you as a whore,” didn’t call her that, but somehow he made her feel it. “As I deserve,” she repeated dumbly.
He grasped her arm, squeezing it hard. “I can’t live like this, Myst. With this.” At her confused expression, he said, “I’ve seen your past. I know what you were, what you are.”
“What I was?” Her frown deepened. She hadn’t lived her life perfectly—there’d been missteps and misjudgments—but she’d done little to be ashamed of. Was the killing too much for him to handle? He’d been a freaking warlord! “If you find me lacking, know that I regret very few of my actions over my long life.”
That seemed to enrage him. “No? What about playing at love and acting at surrender?”
“Wroth, that was—”
“Silence.” He kissed her roughly, harshly, though she struggled against him before he pulled back. “I’ve realized you are heartless.” His eyes appeared tortured, his entire body tight with tension. “But what if I just ordered you to be kinder, then made you forget all the men that came before me? Made you forget all that, forget your vicious sisters who kill without remorse?”
She gasped, eyes watering, but she couldn’t speak after his command. Her hands clenched. She’d never wanted to scream more in her life, and yet her lips parted silently in shock when he said, “I believe I’ll just order you to want me so fiercely that you can’t think of anything or anyone else—”
A voice interrupted from downstairs. “General Wroth, you’re needed at Oblak immediately.”
“What?” he bellowed. She felt his eyes on her as she staggered to the window seat, tears beginning to fall. She curled up, leaning her forehead against the glass.
“Your brother’s been badly injured.”
He pointed at her. “Stay here,” he bit out, then disappeared. She heard him downstairs, locking away her freedom again, then he was gone once more. Stay here? In the room or the manor? He’d been so thrown by the news that he hadn’t elaborated.
So stumbling, clutching at the wall as energy funneled out of her, she finally made her way to his study. She pulled aside the cabinet, finding the safe behind it. When she reached for the lock, her hand veered off course as though pushed by an unseen force. She bit her lip and tried again, fighting to simply brush the metal.
Commanded not to touch it. Just like he would command her to forget who she was, that she even had a family. Lightning cracked outside in time with a sob. He’d been about to do it.
It was true then. Vampires couldn’t be trusted—he’d seemed out of his mind with rage. Why had she gone against all she’d ever learned to be with him?
The years had been weighing on her and she’d been overwhelmed by the yearning to simply lean on someone, just for a while, to have a partner to watch her back and hold her when she needed it. Surely she’d convinced herself to accept him because he was strong and she had grown so weak. No longer.
There were ways she could get around his orders—nimble thinking, creative reasoning. As tears poured from her eyes and the lightning grew to constant furious bolts, she tore at the wall, at the very stone that housed it.
So he would use her? Like a toy. A mindless slave. Adjustments?
Toy, bait, whore … Just because you wanted to be fucked, he’d sneered.
Two millennia of people thinking they could use her. Always using her.
She’d take this safe with her teeth if she had to.
“You should see the other guy,” Murdoch grated from his bed when Wroth traced into his room.
Wroth shuddered to see his brother’s face torn and limbs broken like this even while knowing he couldn’t die from anything short of a beheading or sunlight. He shook himself. “What has happened to you?” he asked, his voice a rasp.
“About to ask you the same. My God, Nikolai, you look worse than I do.”
He thought about how he’d left Myst at the window, crying, staring out at the lightnin
g storm that came from within her. It pained him so much to think of her hurting alone…. “We’ll talk of my problems later. Who has done this to you?”
“Ivo has demons. Demons turned vampires. They are strong—you can’t imagine it. He is looking for someone, but I don’t think it’s your Bride—they mentioned something about a ‘halfling’.”
“How many?”
“There were three in his party—other vampires as well. We took down two of the demons but one remains.” He glanced behind him. “Where’s your Bride?”
After a hesitation, he explained everything, seeking the same unburdening he felt when he spoke with Myst. His brother’s expression grew stark.
Long moments of silence passed before he said incredulously, “Wroth, you took away the free will of a creature that has had it for two thousand years. A good wager says she’s going to want it back.”
“No, you don’t understand. She’s callous. Incapable of love. It eats at me, her deception, because it’s the only thing that makes sense.” More to himself, he muttered, “Why else would she want me?”
Murdoch weakly grabbed Wroth’s wrist. “For all these years I’ve seen you continually choose the best, most rational course, even if it’s the most difficult. I’ve been proud to follow your leadership because you’ve acted with courage and always—always—with rationality. I never thought I would have to inform you that your reason and judgment have failed you, Nikolai. If she’s as bad as you say then you have to…I don’t know, just help her change, but you can’t order this. Get back to her. Explain your fears to her.”
“I don’t think I can. You saw her, Murdoch. Why would she so quickly acquiesce?”
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
Because I don’t want to show her again how craven I’ve become with wanting her.
“And about the other men—this isn’t the sixteen hundreds anymore,” Murdoch said. “This isn’t even the same plane. She’s immortal, not an eighteen-year-old blushing bride straight from a convent. She can’t change these things, so if you want her, you have to adjust.”