‘No, you’ll have to drive through it.’
‘I can’t drive through it.’ His exasperated tone grated on her already fraying nerves. ‘Not if you want the plane to still be air-worthy.’
She planted her hands on her hips. ‘Then I suggest you get out there and open it.’
He smiled like he’d just won a prize. ‘I don’t need to, my sweet. I can do that from right here.’ He thrust out one hand and a ball of black fire danced over his palm.
The tension drained out of her, and she smiled back. At last something was going her way. Mikkel really was worth his weight in blood. She leaned in and planted a quick kiss on his mouth. ‘Then let’s get out of here, darling.’
His hands cupped her backside. ‘What about the old bag?’
‘She’s coming back with us.’ Tatiana nipped his bottom lip, piercing the tender skin. ‘Once her niece returns to Corvinestri to save her aunt, I’ll have the blood whore seized and put on trial.’ She sucked at the wound. ‘I will be Elder before the blood dries on the executioner’s sword.’
Chrysabelle stood at the bedside, staring down at Mal. After two hours of examining the suite, she’d finally given in to her curiosity. There was nothing else as interesting in the room anyway. His claims of not sleeping like he was dead seemed a bit over-reaching. He looked exactly like every sleeping vampire she’d ever seen. Not that those numbers were so high. Vampires typically slept under pretty heavy security, considering the near paralysis daysleep put them in.
She pursed her mouth. He didn’t truly look exactly like every sleeping vampire she’d ever seen. He looked nothing like Algernon, who’d been turned well into his later years and bore the according lines and touches of gray.
No, Mal had been turned at the prime of his manhood. Not a strand of silver tarnished the rich black of his hair, not a wrinkle cracked his treacherously handsome face. His sizable frame wore the thick muscle of a body used to physical labor. Certainly used to guiding a heavy sword through flesh and bone. He must have been something to behold as a human, because the beauty that suffused all vampires at their turning had outdone itself with him.
If the serpent in the garden had looked anything like Mal, Eve’s sin would have been far worse than devouring a single apple.
Chrysabelle’s index finger traced the line of her lower lip. She bent closer to study the mouth that had kissed her and inhaled. Her eyes closed involuntarily. His dark spice whispered promises to her blood, awakening the need she’d worked so hard to temper.
Thump, thump, thump. Her pulse sang in her ears, a demanding anthem all comarré knew. The desire to feed the vampire who claimed her was inborn, but the personal cost of feeding this one outweighed the intrinsic urge. He was not the proper, austere vampire that Algernon had been. Mal didn’t care about rules and propriety. He would not – could not – simply drink from her as if she were nothing more than a vessel. She doubted he would ever be satisfied with taking from the wrist as was the custom with most patrons. No, Mal would want much more intimate access than that.
A cold realization straightened her. He would take and take until he killed her. Or worse, until he possessed her mind, body, and soul. Parts of her had already begun to weaken. Why had she never felt this way about Algernon? Shoring her defenses against Mal had become an hourly job.
And yet, she must sustain him until her life was freely hers again. How long would that take? How long could she keep herself from wanting more? How long before she fell completely into his darkness? Was this how Maris had felt for Dominic?
Already the veins in her wrists grew fat and ripe, the blood thickening with an intoxicating yearning to be spilled. Mal was not the only one with demons.
Oh holy mother, protect me from this creature. Bind my heart in ice. Numb my body. I cannot walk my aunt’s path. Please.
A knock came at the door and she jumped, yelping like a startled child. Mal didn’t move. She flattened a hand over her heart, willing it to slow as she moved away from the bed. The door opened, and a male remnant, hybrid indiscernible, entered carrying a tray laden with covered dishes, a large bottle of water, and a goblet. Behind him, Ronan stood in the hall, arms crossed. He raised his brows over eyes hot with messages she had no desire to read.
‘Shouldn’t you be sleeping?’ She glared back with as much frost as she could manage. How dare that fringe think himself worthy of her? How dare he think himself better than Mal? Her sacre and wrist sheaths, slung over one of the dining chairs, seemed miles away.
Ronan nodded toward the bed. ‘You mean like lover boy there?’ He laughed. ‘What a knacker.’ His gaze slipped south of her face. ‘Sleeping’s the last thing I’d be doing with a fancy piece like you in the room.’
A wanton thrill zipped through her belly, but it was not lust for Ronan she felt. ‘You’re right about that. You’d be too busy dying to sleep.’
His gaze snapped back to her face, some of the previous fire snuffed out. ‘You need to learn your place.’
She walked toward him a few steps, unwilling to quench the angry heat nipping at her spine. ‘You mean like those pretenders in the club? I am as different from them as Malkolm is from you, fringe. He and I are superior creatures, not poorly crafted copies or inferior kin.’
‘He is anathema.’ Ronan spat the word like a curse.
‘And yet he is still your better.’ Anathema or not, Mal was still noble.
Ronan’s upper lip curled, showing his fangs.
She laughed softly. ‘Fangs neither impress nor scare me. Noble vampires are capable of a great many things far more terrible than a simple show of teeth.’
Behind her, the remnant who’d brought in the tray cleared his throat. She moved to let him pass, then with a condescending smile closed the door on Ronan. The lock clicked a second after. Her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled through her mouth as the tension in her body melted. That exchange had served no purpose but to antagonize a fringe who already hated Mal, so why had she done it? With a sickening realization, she knew the answer. Because she’d begun to consider Mal’s enemies as her own. The feeling was a symptom of the protectiveness a comarré felt for her patron. Although she’d never felt it that strongly for Algernon.
Foolishness best forgotten.
She tipped her head back to stare at the coffered ceiling. Hard to believe they were underground, but she’d pulled the curtains back from the tall windows. Nothing but brick on the other side. This suite, for all its rich appointments, was nothing more than a glorified cell.
The scent of meat reached her nose, and her stomach growled. She hurried to the table and removed the silver dome from the first plate. Her mouth watered. Pale red juices pooled around a thick porterhouse. A snowy mound of truffle-flecked mashed potatoes and a lattice of slim haricots verts accompanied the steak. She flicked her napkin open, settled it onto her lap, then lifted her knife and fork to the task.
‘Something smells good.’
For the second time in just a few minutes, she jumped. Her knees bumped the table, clattering dishes and glassware. Composing herself, she glanced toward the bed.
Mal lay propped on his side, still wearing his true face. Eyeing her much as she imagined she’d just stared down the slab of beef on her plate.
‘How long have you been awake?’ Concentrating on her food, she pierced the steak with her fork then cut a piece. The meat was so tender the knife was hardly required. She bit down, juice oozing over her tongue. The muscles in her cheek tightened in savory pleasure. Was this what Mal had felt the first time he’d tasted her?
‘Long enough.’
She swallowed and used her fork to trench a valley in her mashed potatoes. Being watched greatly diminished her appetite. For food. ‘If I woke you, I apologize. I shouldn’t have said anything to Ronan—’
‘Don’t apologize for that. Listening to Ronan get his back teeth handed to him by a woman he considers a gourmet meal made my year.’
Her fork stilled. So he had heard that m
uch. ‘Do you think of me that way as well?’
He didn’t answer for a long moment. Finally, she looked at him. The bright light of hunger flared in his eyes like a platinum beacon. She turned back to her plate. Disappointment she had no right to feel clogged her throat. ‘Evidently, you do.’
‘Don’t.’ Need thickened his voice.
‘Don’t what? Don’t state the obvious?’
‘Don’t judge me for what I cannot control.’
At the edge of her peripheral vision, she caught his movement as he sat up. Warmth spread in her veins. She almost laughed at her traitorous body.
He bent his head into his hands. It looked like he was squeezing his temples. ‘I don’t think of you as food, but … ’
She put her fork down to watch him. ‘But if you lost control—’
‘I’d kill you. The voices are begging me to do it now.’ He lifted his head, still cradled in his hands. ‘You’re wrong, you know. I’m not superior to Ronan.’
‘Of course you are. You’re nobility.’ Perhaps reminding him of that would—
‘You think that means jack to me?’ He scowled and slid off the bed to pace to the far side of the suite. ‘I’m a monster. The sooner you get that, the better.’
So much for the reminder. The thrumming of her pulse once again filled her ears. ‘You don’t have to be a monster.’
He spun and stalked back toward her. ‘My curse says otherwise.’
‘You’re hungry.’ It was like another part of her had spoken those words. Almost cooed them. And laced them with the clear intent of where his sustenance should come from. Holy mother, she was doomed.
He stopped. Took a step toward the door. ‘Dominic has resources.’
Need pushed her to her feet. ‘And let it be known that we are not patron and comarré in truth? You said yourself I was safer if the others believed—’
‘I know what I said.’ But he stayed the same distance from the door.
She rolled her sleeve up, revealing a few inches of gold vines and star-shaped flowers. ‘I need to drain this blood anyway. And you need the strength.’
‘No.’ He shook his head but his gaze was fixed on her wrist and the shadowy blue lines beneath the gold.
Her thumb skipped over the tiny switch on her ring with a nervous tremor. Opening a vein in front of a hungry, erratic vampire wasn’t the wisest thing, no matter what her body felt like doing. ‘Then I’ll just go into the bathroom and drain off the excess into the sink.’
Her foot hadn’t touched the floor after her first step when he responded. ‘Don’t.’ He glanced away, swallowing hard, jaw working like he already had her between his teeth. ‘I’ll drink it.’ He shot her a hard, silvered look. ‘From the glass.’
Nodding, she reached for the goblet, wrapping her fingers around the chilled glass. She rolled it in her palms to warm it. ‘I’ll be right back.’
She strode past him and into the marble and porcelain bath, then shut the door behind her. The glossy-painted wood cooled her fevered skin as she leaned back. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? Without her blood, Mal wouldn’t be strong enough to do the job she needed him for. And if things went well these next few days, she’d never have to see him again. If she could ignore the fact that he technically owned her blood rights.
Setting the goblet onto the counter, she then positioned her wrist over it. Just a few more days. She flipped open the hidden blade in her ring. Two, maybe three more drainings at best.
The blade pricked her skin like a tiny fang. Except it wasn’t a fang. And no fangs meant she’d have to endure another kiss or grow weaker, something she couldn’t risk until her aunt was safe and her life was her own again.
Another kiss. His mouth on hers.
The tremor returned to her hand.
Chapter Twenty-five
D rainherkillherdrainherkill—
Mal grabbed the sheathed blade of Chrysabelle’s sword. Searing heat snarled through the leather and bit his palm, snuffing the voices out like wet fingers on a wick. He released the blade, flexing his stinging hand. Since he’d woken, the voices had pounded his skull. The hunger whipped them into a frenzy. But so did being near Chrysabelle.
And lately, he’d been very near her. Filled with her scent, wary of every shift of her body, every flash of golden light that glinted off her skin and the glow that surrounded her like sunlight. He closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side, trying to listen to the subtle movement of his bones instead of her heartbeat, but it was still there. Always there. Even now he could hear the ethereal softening of her pulse as she bled herself into the goblet.
Drinking her was only going to make things worse. Not if you drink her to death.
His teeth ached, but not as much as other parts of him. He was a fool to pretend he didn’t want her. But a bigger fool to pretend he could have her. That she would want him back. When this was over, she’d be gone. Good. That’s what he wanted. What he’d told her he required if she wanted his help. Alone was what he was most used to anyway. What you deserve. It was the easiest. The safest.
The scent of blood overwhelmed his senses. The goblet must be nearly full by now. He swallowed the saliva pooling under his tongue.
No wonder she thought he viewed her as food. The beast inside him definitely did, but not the tattered remains of the man he’d once been. That infinitesimal part of him recognized her for the woman she was, and then reminded him he’d never been the kind of man any decent woman wanted. This time, the only voice in his head was his own. Not then, not now.
He shook his head in disgust. Thoughts like that were a disservice to his beautiful Shaya’s memory, rest her soul. She had been a decent woman. Whore. Thief. Cheat. He squeezed his lids together, desperate to ignore the voices. No, she hadn’t been a decent woman by society’s standards, or they wouldn’t have put her on the gallows.
Chrysabelle was a very different woman from Shaya, that much was certain. So different, that deep in that charred, grizzled place that had once held his heart, a speck of longing had taken hold. A hope so small, he refused to acknowledge it. You don’t deserve hope. Why should he? Wasn’t there enough pain in his life? No.
‘Mal?’
He whirled, caught off guard for a rare moment. ‘What? I wasn’t—’ The blood scent hit him hard, tightening his body with white-hot need. The voices leveled to a soft whine.
Chrysabelle stood waiting, goblet in hand. Two punctures marked her wrist. She’d purposefully pierced herself to make it look like he’d done it.
‘I called you twice.’ She met his eyes as she raised the goblet, peering at him like he’d become someone else. ‘It’s going to get cold if you don’t … ’ She shrugged and reached to set it down on the table.
He took it from her, brushing his cold fingertips over her warm ones. The brief contact magnified the cravings already echoing through him. He steeled himself against the need. ‘Thank you.’
Her brows lifted, but she said nothing. Was it such a surprise that he could show gratitude? Perhaps it was. Let it be. The shock was good for her. She shouldn’t grow comfortable around him. That way led to danger.
He lifted the glass to his lips, then stopped and stared back. ‘Do you like watching?’
‘What? No.’ She turned away, but not before the skin on her gilded cheeks colored.
He hadn’t expected her to be shy about this, of all things, and as proof of his depravity, needling her gave him pleasure. She wanted him to drink. She could bear a little suffering for it. Especially since he seemed to be the only one of them struggling with this strange partnership. ‘You can if you want.’
‘I don’t.’ She walked to the bed. Her hands smoothed the bed linens where he’d rested.
‘Why not?’ Even in Doc’s big shirt, the lean, feminine lines of her body were pleasing. Not that Mal cared.
‘Because.’ She fluffed the pillow.
‘That’s not an answer.’ The warmth seeped through the glass into his han
d. Her warmth. He groaned inwardly. For a moment, he forgot which one of them he was torturing.
‘I don’t want to. That’s all.’ She stood by the bed, eyes focused on anything but him.
‘You should.’ He brought the goblet to his nose and inhaled. This time, he couldn’t muzzle the groan. The rattling in his head grew louder.
‘Why?’ That got her to face him. Her jaw was set in a stoniness matched only by her eyes. ‘For what purpose?’
‘You should know what you do to me.’ If he wasn’t already on a slow train to hell, that certainly guaranteed his ticket.
‘I know very well what my blood does to you.’ She rolled her eyes and had the audacity to look amused. ‘Now drink. The flirting isn’t getting you anywhere.’
‘Flirting? Is that what you think I’m doing? Not bloody likely.’ He hadn’t flirted with anyone since he’d given up the vein, and he wasn’t about to start with a woman who’d stated more than once her willingness to kill him. Annoyed, he knocked the glass back, downing the contents in several rapid swallows.
The power of her blood slammed into him like a fist.
Arcing pain shot from joint to joint, flaring through his muscles. He ground his teeth to keep from vocalizing, but the sheer volume of agony doubled him. He went to his knees. The glass slipped from his grasp, spraying red droplets over the Persian carpet. By the time the goblet had stopped rolling, the pain that had come so fast had disappeared. A new clarity invaded him, filling him with invigorating strength. His head cleared of all but his own incredulous thoughts. The voices vanished, buried beneath the rarest of all sounds – the beating of his heart.
Sweat cooled the back of his neck. He lifted his head. Chrysabelle stood directly in front of him, arms crossed, and smirking.
‘Feeling better?’ she asked.
He pressed his hand to his chest. ‘It’s beating. I can’t get used to that.’
‘Here.’ She handed him the bottle of water off the tray.
‘I don’t need that.’ Life, real life, coursed through him.
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