Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  “It’s not such a bad job,” he told Kolya with a wink. “Definitely worth it.”

  Kolya grinned at him, just for a moment, spare and with obvious effort. And then his face went slowly slack again. He took a breath, and a furrow appeared on his brow; his gaze drew inward, and he reached up to massage his forehead.

  “Do you have a headache?” Sasha asked, alarmed suddenly. Did it physically hut? The cascade of returning memories? Was the strain too great?

  “No. It’s…it feels normal, almost. For a bit. Like it’s still then, and I didn’t miss anything. Like I know you.” His gaze, when he lifted it, implored Sasha to understand. “But then…I don’t, again. I don’t…it’s hard to explain.”

  “I think you’re explaining just fine,” Sasha said.

  The fridge door finally shut with a quiet clap, and Nik’s footfalls retreated to the bedroom. That door shut, too, a moment later.

  Sasha took a deep breath and forced a smile on the exhale. “Come on and I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

  ~*~

  Nikita wasn’t proud of himself. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been, really, but tonight felt like a new low.

  He lay on his side on the bed, the vodka untouched on the nightstand, struggling to draw a deep breath, fighting the black spots that crowded at the edges of his vision. He shivered, cold down to his bones. If he sat up, he thought he might be sick or pass out.

  He listened to the low murmur of voices in the room next door as Sasha showed Kolya where to sleep, and where to find clean towels in the bathroom, and offered him some old sweats. Asked if he wanted a glass of water to put beside his bed.

  Sasha was being so good about this. Was being a proper host, and a friend. Wasn’t falling apart, shaking and sweating and unable to even stand upright.

  Back on the roof, it had been numb disbelief; the detachment had carried him past the necessary declaration that they would take Kolya with them; had gotten them home and in the house. But then it had really started to sink in: Kolya was alive, was in New York, was in their apartment, back from the dead. And Nikita was…

  Nikita was falling apart.

  The last few days had been one shock after the next. The tectonic plates of his foundation had shifted, thoughts spinning too fast, adrenaline flooding his system again and again, too fast to tamp down, too much to ignore.

  He was going into shock – purely emotional shock – and he was ashamed, but he was also helpless to prevent it.

  He heard shuffling out in the apartment, and the shower cutting on. Sasha’s light step came to the door, and he slipped inside near-silently. Kolya was showering, and that meant they had a few moments of total privacy, for whatever that was worth.

  Sasha undressed – quiet slide of fabric – and came to sit on the side of the bed in his underwear, right by Nik’s head. He raked gentle fingers through Nikita’s hair, and hummed a few low bars of a song Nik probably should have recognized, but didn’t. Sasha was the music lover of the two of them; case after case of old CDs and cassette tapes were stowed under the bed in the other room, rap, and rock, and pop, and big band.

  “Sorry,” Nikita croaked.

  Sasha clucked his tongue and climbed up higher on the bed, so his back was to the headboard. He urged Nikita’s head into his lap, and Nik put an arm around his waist, holding on tight – too tight.

  Sasha didn’t seem to care. He went back to petting his hair, with both hands now. “Don’t be sorry,” he said lightly.

  “I’m not–”

  “I know.” His touch moved down Nikita’s neck, massaging at the tension there. “It’s okay.”

  Nik’s eyes burned, and he pulled in deep breaths, his face mashed to Sasha’s bare leg, breathing in the familiar, comforting, beloved scent of him. He wanted to apologize again; to explain the chaos in his brain, the way it was attacking his body and rendering him useless. He wanted to talk about how unbelievable it was that any of this was happening. He wanted them to discuss what they’d do next, how they’d help Kolya. There were a thousand fears and questions he wanted to voice.

  But all he said was, “I love you.” Voice small and choked.

  “I love you, too,” Sasha said back. Warm, honest, easy. Comforting.

  He kept stroking Nikita’s head and neck, and, finally, blessedly, he fell asleep like that.

  34

  Fulk’s hand on the door prevented Val from shutting it. The baron’s face was a too-thin, too-tight mask of conflicting emotions, and he’d settled on anger to serve as the façade for all of them, dark brows slanted over sparking eyes.

  Val could have sent a hard shove through their bond and forced him away, to his own room. Could have barked a command. But he didn’t want to do that. His wolves sat like comforting weights in the back of his mind, grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected, and Fulk’s anger, he knew, without question – because he could feel his intentions – was all about worry, and even, though he wasn’t ready to admit to it, a kind of love. The love a wolf would feel for a new alpha packmate. The love of a Familiar for a master. He didn’t want to feel it, but it was there all the same, and Val meant to nurture it; to show his new charges that he could be trusted. He could feel the old, badly-healed wounds left by a previous master, and he didn’t want to give Fulk a single reason to feel the same way about him.

  “Sweet Fulk,” he said, and Fulk flinched like he’d been struck. He stood fast, though, hand still braced on the door. “I assure you we’ll be quite alright until morning. Go and seek your bed, and your mate. I’ll see you in the morning.” He softened the words with a smile.

  Fulk’s lips pressed together until they turned white. He breathed out harshly through his nose. He looked very put-out – but his eyes glimmered with true distress. He was warring with himself about this. He didn’t want to feel this kind of responsibility, poor thing.

  Val reached through the gap in the door and touched his face, a gentle brush of knuckles down his cheek. Fulk’s jaw flexed but he didn’t pull away. Val did it again, and then the wolf’s eyes fluttered to half-mast, and he leaned into the slight pressure.

  “It’s alright, darling,” Val murmured. “I know you’re tired. I’ll call for you if I need you.”

  Fulk took another sharp breath…and relaxed all at once on the exhale, shoulders slumping, lips parting. “Alright,” he said softly.

  Val cupped his cheek, one last caress, before he pulled back, and eased the door shut. This time, Fulk let it happen, and a moment later Val heard the door of the neighboring suite open and close.

  He turned around and stood with his back to the door a moment, gaze going to Mia.

  She was fresh from the shower, wearing one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes, bare feet folded beneath her. He loved the glimpse of the red polish on her toes, that hint she was still doing small, domestic things from her previous life, even amidst all this upheaval. He’d seen her sitting with Annabel, taking turns lacquering one another’s nails and talking quietly together. He knew they were fond of each other; he was unspeakably glad that his Familiar had been a package deal, that Mia had a female companion. She’d been so lonely before, when she was human, though she wouldn’t admit that aloud.

  Her hair was damp, and she was braiding it carefully and tightly, just like she’d braided her horse’s tail. Her expression, though, was thoughtful. Wistful. Perhaps sad, even.

  She tied off the braid with one of those clever elastics modern people used, and turned to him, a faint smile touching her mouth. She picked the comb up off the bed beside her. “Want me to do yours?”

  “Please.” He went and sat cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed, a shiver of anticipation moving up his back. He’d always loved having his hair played with; he loved it even more when it was someone he trusted and adored doing it. Mother, Vlad, Arslan, and now his Mia.

  “Any requests?” she asked, dragging the comb through the heavy, damp length of it.

  It still struck him with the
force of a punch sometimes, the knowledge that he could make requests. That he could show a preference; that he could ask for something, even something as small as a particular kind of braid. He shivered again, a giddy thrill, and, whatever you feel like turned to, “French, please. Off my face for sleeping.”

  “Okay,” she said, easily, and started combing it apart into tidy bunches. Her nails scraped gently against his scalp, and her legs were warm and soft where they bracketed his shoulders, and before long, he found his eyes sliding shut, a sound like a purr building deep in his throat.

  She’d been working in silence for a spell, the tight plait along the top of his head providing a kind of pressure on his scalp that could, if he thought about it too much, stir his cock to hardness, when Mia said, “You kissed him.”

  He went cold all over.

  Her hands had stilled, so he pulled gently loose from her grip – he felt the braid begin to slide apart, a slow unraveling – and twisted around to face her, his forearms folded over her thighs. His pulse throbbed a moment, and his breath shivered in his lungs, and he felt like a boy again, standing draped in jewels and silks in front of his brother, when Vlad had first smelled sex and Mehmet on him both at once.

  But, even though Mia wore a concerned look, brows knitted, she didn’t look like Vlad had – didn’t look contemptuous, or disgusted. Hurt, though. Betrayed, but working hard to keep from showing it.

  He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her up snug against his chest, head tipped back so he could look at her face. “Darling.” He’d always had words for manipulation; honeyed lies to keep from being whipped, to bend his tormentors to his will. But he didn’t know if he had the honest words to explain this to her. “I won’t lie to you.” It hurt to swallow, his throat suddenly tight. “I did. But not as an act of passion.”

  She stared at him, unblinking, expression unchanged.

  He swallowed again, and felt cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. “It was the only – the best – way I could think to show him what I meant. He’s so stubborn and bullheaded about Sasha, and I thought a little nudge…” In hindsight, offering to ride his cock had been a ridiculous embellishment.

  “A nudge,” she echoed, voice flat.

  “Yes, well, I…” His hands curled to fists at the small of her back, and he forced them smooth, swept them back and forth across the little twin dimples in her skin there, palpable even beneath the fabric of the robe.

  Whore, Vlad’s voice said in his mind. His voice as it had been centuries ago, when his lip had curled in a sneer and he’d rejected him out of hand.

  He closed his eyes a moment, and took a deep breath. Vlad had never thought that, he reminded himself. Vlad had pushed him away on purpose, trying to protect him, but he’d never thought Val a whore. Not really…and maybe Mia wouldn’t…

  He felt a touch on his face, and opened his eyes. Mia settled her hand gently against his cheek, and her expression softened. Purely concerned, now. “Sweetie.” Her voice was low and gentle, and he realized, with a start, that it was the voice he’d heard her use with spooked horses. “Vlad said something to me, back at the mansion. Something about – what you’d been through.” The last she put delicately.

  He suppressed a shiver. “What did he tell you? Exactly?”

  “Nothing specific.” A small mercy. “But I got the impression that there was…a lot of stuff…done against your will.” Delicate, again, if awkward.

  “I was raped,” he said, and only afterward heard how coarse it sounded, laying it out like that. He pushed a grin across his face, felt his fangs elongate. He laughed. “Did he tell you that? That I was the favorite pet of a sultan? You should have seen me in all my sapphires and diamonds.” He tossed his head, and the rest of his braid fell out, hair sliding over his shoulders, onto her bare legs.

  He thought she’d recoil – maybe he intended it – but she only frowned.

  “I was glorious,” he went on, his voice going wilder, more dramatic. “The envy of the whole Ottoman court. Even the Romanian princes wanted me – Corvinus. Ha! He wanted to give me two swords, you know, one steel and one flesh.” Another laugh, brittle, too high. His vision was blurring, but he couldn’t stop. She needed to hear this. His mate, he’d introduced her to everyone. And she was, dear, and lovely, and his, and totally ignorant of what he was, what he’d been.

  “It doesn’t matter what a man thinks he prefers,” he said. “Given enough time, the right tilt of a head, the flex of a leg. A little coy look.” He gave her one; the best he could do while bubbling with manic energy, and had to glance away, because her pity threatened to choke him. “Even in captivity – maybe especially, then – I could always lure someone in. Guards, princes, scientists. Everyone but Cicero – but oh, did I try. Gods, I tried. Those early days, when he had me in silver fetters, keeping me in a cave like some kind of animal. If he would just let me go, I told him. All I wanted was to die; I’d even let him swing the sword, and I’d make it worth his while, first. ‘My brother’s cold as a frozen lake,’ I said, ‘but come touch me, I’m warm.’ I thought he might, finally. But he just sobbed all over me, begging me to tell him what I’d done with Vlad. I wouldn’t, of course. Vlad needed to be kept out of the fray for a while, and that stupid wolf would only get him tangled in another war. The torture started in earnest the next morning. I suppose he hated that I’d seen him so vulnerable…”

  He hadn’t thought of Cicero in centuries, but twice now he’d recalled him. His fury, his sorrow. The bite of steel and silver in his own flesh; the awful wetness of his tears, sliding hot beneath Val’s collar.

  “Val,” Mia said. She touched his face again, turned his head back so their gazes met. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ha! What are you sorry for? It wasn’t you who did any of that.”

  “No, but I’m sorry it happened to you. I’m sorry–” Her breath caught, and she swallowed, and her jaw firmed. Collecting herself. “The first time that we – when we were together. That first night. You seemed–”

  He could feel the way his face blanched.

  “–no, no, baby, it’s not – you seemed nervous, and I just wanted…”

  He laughed again – only it turned into a dry sob, and he laid his face down on her thigh, unable to look at her while she was saying these things.

  She fell silent a moment, and raked her fingers through his hair, nails scratching soothingly along his scalp.

  He had to say something. She was trying, but his past – he – was too awful a subject to be broached by someone who was wholesome and good. Someone who’d never gotten on their knees for a captor in exchange for a little more food.

  “Every time I’ve touched you,” he finally gritted out, “it’s been because I wanted to. I hope you’ll do me the courtesy to at least tell the truth if the same isn’t true for you. Or if you regret what–”

  “Val.” Her hands never wavered, smoothing his hair along his crown, off his face. “I’ve wanted to touch you since the night you appeared in my living room. Everything between us has been consensual. Everything.” She sounded relieved. Leaned down, and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. Just that light brush brought tears to his eyes, and he closed them tight against the burn. “I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. You can always tell me no. You can tell me anything.”

  He nodded.

  “I know things won’t be easy. I didn’t expect them to be.”

  He let out a shaky breath. “I kissed him so he would see. So he would know that there’s a difference between lust and love, and so he’d see which one he feels, that it’s love, and that love isn’t a bad thing.”

  Silence a beat. “Do you think lust is bad?”

  “It can be.” He shifted a fraction, so he could peer up at her face from the corner of his eye. “Does it bother you? That I’ve been with men?”

  “No,” she said immediately, and his belly unclenched a fraction. Her expression was hard to gauge, her gaze indrawn, her lower lip caugh
t between her teeth, point of one fang winking in the lamplight.

  “I’m attracted to men and women equally,” he said. Didn’t add, I’ve been raped by them both equally, too. “Does that bother you?”

  “No,” again. Then: “But…I wonder if…if I’m enough–”

  Val surged to his feet, surprising her, and herded her backward across the bed so he could kneel on the mattress in front of her. Catch her face in both hands and hold her still, hold her gaze to his. “No. Mia. Darling, no, don’t ever think that.” He was trembling, and her eyes were huge. “It isn’t like that. It isn’t a competition.”

  “How could I even compete?” she asked, forlornly. “Everyone here: princes, and soldiers, and historians, and they’re all beautiful, and worldly, and I’m just this poor sick human that you–”

  He kissed her to hush her. A simple press of lips to lips, but he tried to push all of his fervor into it; all his feeling, jumbled and wild as it was. His head was a wreck – but he knew exactly what he felt for Mia, and it was unwavering, incomparable.

  He pulled back, and rested their foreheads together, wanting to be connected in any way possible, her cheeks soft and warm in his palms, their breath mingling. “Mia. My sweet darling. Please don’t think of it like that. I can’t – I’ve never had this before. It’s never been good, and right, and easy like this before. Like I’m drowning, and it’s good, and I want more of it.”

  She pulled back, so he could see her eyes, the tears glimmering checked at their corners. Her smile came lopsided and tremulous. “You could have that with Sasha.”

  “But I don’t want Sasha. Sasha’s like my little brother. Like a son. You are my mate.”

  “I was jealous, today,” she said, lashes sweeping down. “Watching you with him. I shouldn’t have been, I tried not to be…I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t be sorry. You feel what you feel.” They were talking, and even if it was painful, it was wonderful, because he’d never had this, either. This open communication with a lover, admissions and awkwardness and tears. It was glorious. “I’m too affectionate. I’m too free with touching and kissing.”