by Evie Byrne
“What did it do to you?”
“It made me a ghost.”
“Do ghosts bleed as much as you do?”
She struck low, slicing open his thigh. At the same time, he reached out with his kitchen knife and drew a ragged cut up her arm. They both retreated, nursing their wounds. Mikhail cast around for a better weapon. She probably had them stashed all over her house. He did.
Dancing forward, she swung her scimitar in decorative arcs, showing off. He backed up grimly, watching for any opportunity. As he passed a long, low leather bench, his instincts whispered to him. Sweeping it up, he used it to block her next blow. Her blade sliced the cushion open. But he didn’t want a shield—he wanted to see what was under it, and sure enough, he found a Ruger P89 holstered to the underside.
She rushed him, but he scrambled backward, bringing the pistol to firing position.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” she said, raising her sword.
He shot her in the shoulder. The impact drove her against the wall. Stunned, she dropped to the ground, her hand over the wound. The blood wicked fast through her wet nightgown.
Holding the gun on her, he took a couple of cautious steps forward, kicked the scimitar across the tile, and wondered what the hell he was going to do next.
Long ago he’d lost her because he was too weak to hold her. A show of strength had brought him this far. But he knew in his gut strength couldn’t take him any further. His father said to give her no quarter, but he couldn’t press the gun to her temple and abduct her. It wouldn’t work. Not with her.
Alya Adad wasn’t a willful woman who would respond to a strong hand. There wasn’t a submissive bone in her body. She’d die before she knelt to him. He’d tasted her. He knew.
Echoing his own thoughts, she pointed her chin at the gun. “Finish it.”
“No.”
“I never loved you, you know.”
He tightened his grip on the gun. “You’re lying. I was there. Remember?”
“And they call women sentimental.” She scooted along the wall, trying to escape him even though she couldn’t walk. “I never did. I never will.”
He didn’t listen. He couldn’t afford doubt. If they were destined to be together, then there was a path to follow. But the way was perilous, and the thread of hope fine as a spider’s web. Holding the gun behind his back, he squatted down in front of her. With his free hand he swiped the extinguisher foam off her cheeks.
“Alya, I shouldn’t have bit…”
She caught him with an upward jab. His head snapped back and his teeth cracked together.
“Damn it!” He struck out instinctively, slapping her cheek so hard that his hand went numb to the wrist, but she slapped him right back, a stinging blow to his ear.
He took that one, and she gave him another. And another. She hit him until his face burned and his ears rang. He took all of her blows, paying for her blood, letting her fury spend itself. Even coated in powder foam and bleeding—bleeding from the gunshot he’d inflicted on her—she was full of grace, quick and bright as a flame.
God help me, I think I’ve gone insane. A bit of tooth floated under his tongue. He was wonderfully, obscurely happy.
When her blows slowed, he spat out the broken tooth and said, quite truthfully, “I could do this all night.”
Eyes snapping with fury, she slapped him extra hard for that. “Fuck you. What are you doing here? Is this your idea of revenge?”
“You think this is my idea?”
“You’re in my house, asshole. Holding the gun you shot me with.”
There was that. Mikhail emptied the semi-automatic in front of her, releasing the magazine and tossing it onto the sofa and carefully ejecting the loaded round.
If he were Alex, he’d say something charming and give her a lopsided grin. Gregor would…well, he didn’t understand what women saw in Gregor, actually. But whatever it was, he didn’t have it. Mikhail knew he was cold and dry and unappealing to women, and he didn’t have any experience at courtship.
All he could be was practical.
Chapter Six
Mikhail’s fair skin flamed with her handprints, and his eyes were filled with some unholy brightness. He said, “Your shoulder—is there an exit wound?”
In answer she glanced at the bullet hole in the wall above her. The bullet had passed just under her clavicle, but she could still move her arm, so the damage couldn’t be that bad.
“May I see your back?”
Blood loss must be getting to her, because the way he spoke almost made her laugh. Such a caring, considerate home invader he was. She’d been shot before, as had he, by his scars. Both of them knew she would live. It took a lot to kill a vamp.
“Stop playing doctor. That’s not why you came here.”
“I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“Really? It didn’t seem like that when you were slamming my head against the ventilation shaft.”
Mikhail considered this. “That’s true.” He nodded, absolutely serious. “I enjoyed that.”
The blood loss won out—she laughed. He blinked at her, confused.
“But I promise, it’s out of my system now.”
She laughed harder, covering her face with her hands. This was one conversation she’d never, ever imagined herself having.
From between her fingers she saw Mikhail’s brow crease with concern. “Please, let me see your back.”
Alya stopped laughing abruptly. She didn’t like turning her back on anyone, and she liked people looking at her back even less.
He held up his empty hands. “I just want to see if it’s a clean wound.”
Grimacing with pain, she hitched her shoulder forward, just enough that he could see the wound, but not her whole back.
Gently, he poked her shoulder in a few places. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“It’s not too bad. I suspect your scapula is nicked, but not broken.” His fingers traced away from the wound, following a line toward her spine. “What made these scars?”
Damn. Of course he’d notice them. Of course he’d ask about them. She never told anyone the truth, but she decided to tell it to him. Maybe because she was too exhausted to lie. Maybe because it was part of his story, too.
“My father gave me those.”
He sat back on his heels, so he faced her. “For what?”
“For you.” She couldn’t help but smile at the idea. It was an uncomfortable smile. “For leaving you. Well, really, for running away with Jean. When my father found us, Jean handed me over without a fight. But I fought. I tried to get away. When he caught me, he pinned me down on the boot of the car, snapped off the aerial and lashed me with it.”
“He beat you until you couldn’t fight back.” Those Russian eyes of his did sad so well, and they did it now, turning into dark wells.
She nodded. After the beating, he’d flown her home from Louisiana to Marrakech and locked her up in the old cistern in their basement, where the water was ankle deep and the walls crawled with bugs. He didn’t let her out until she’d agreed to a quickly arranged marriage to some pudgy Albanian excuse-for-a-prince, a marriage intended to salvage the family’s reputation. She “agreed” to this arrangement while her brother, Driss, sat on her chest and her other brother, Sami, hobbled her ankles.
Of course she bolted at her first opportunity: directly from the altar. Her father vowed to kill her. She ran all the way to China and threw herself on the mercy of Sun Bin, the Prince of Hong Kong. They’d met briefly in New York the summer before, and she’d remembered how he’d looked at her.
Sun began her lessons in power. All their lessons took place in the bedroom. He wouldn’t deal with a female on any other level. That was true of all princes, she learned as the years passed. All of her lovers back then were princes, because no one else could protect her from her father.
Princes were the crème de la crème of vampire kind. No prince rose to that title through heredity or corrup
tion alone—though both helped. A prince wasn’t a prince unless he had the strength, will and wits to hold his position against all challengers. The vampire race was not made up of pacifists. The men who controlled it wielded their power with a fine blend of brutality and precision, and as Alya learned, the innate dominance of a prince found its most creative expression through sex.
Every prince she met wanted her. Not because she was young and attractive––they had their pick of women––but because they could sense her latent power, which made bringing her to heel more satisfying. And she was literally brought to heel, again and again. She’d even worn a golden leash for one of them.
None of them imagined she would ever be a threat. She didn’t even imagine she would be. At first, all she wanted was protection. And for many years, she resigned herself to sexual submission, though it did not come naturally to her. That was the price you paid to sleep in a prince’s bed. Some of her princes were sadistic thugs. Others were accomplished doms who taught her well. But none of them understood how closely she listened to and watched what they did outside the bedroom.
She became a commodity of sorts, a treasure that switched hands. Usually she managed to engineer her transfers, but sometimes she was outmaneuvered and ended up in bad places. But no matter where she went, she kept learning. As arm candy, she had almost unlimited access to their lives. She sucked their cocks while they strategized with their lieutenants. She hung in cuffs while they carved out businesses empires.
By the time she broke out on her own, she understood perhaps better than any other vamp the tangled strings of power and influence that governed their world––because she’d seen it from every side.
Using that knowledge, she’d won the privileges of a prince, including the right of dominance in the bedroom. She’d not give over this hard-won power to anyone, for any price.
Mikhail might sympathize with her for a few moments. Once they’d been equals—friends—and in that he was different from any prince she’d ever known. But if he married her, he would expect her to submit, just like all the others. He’d arrived making imperious demands, armed with a rope that had been used to tame brides for centuries. The Faustins were nothing if not Old School.
Mikhail said, "I don’t want to give you more scars.”
She cocked her head at him, confused.
“I want to heal your shoulder.”
She held his gaze, trying to read his intentions. He stared back steadily, pushing at her with his will. If he were a lieutenant of hers, she’d throw him to the ground for staring at her like that.
Yes, vampire saliva healed. It had evolved to close wounds on humans, but it worked well enough on vamps too. But he wasn’t proposing to close a tiny puncture wound—he wanted to suck on her torn-up flesh. The idea turned her stomach. But at the same time, she had to admit that the prospect of him tonguing her skin made her a little hot. I’m injured worse than I know. I’ve gone delusional.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Really? How did that happen?”
She drew her knees tight against her chest. Her body temperature was dropping. What she needed to do was move. Go to her room. Get warm. Clean up. Call her doctor. But she couldn’t move.
“I know, it’s my fault.” He pried one of her hands off her knees and pressed her fingers between his own. “You’re cold.”
She yanked her hand from his. “That’s what everyone says.”
“Admit you need help.”
“Tell me, is cannibalism an inherited or an acquired trait?”
The muscles in his jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed at her. She realized she kind of liked pushing his buttons. He said, “First, you and I are meant to feed on each other, whether you believe that or not. Second, we have to stop your bleeding. Now.”
Raising his hand slowly to show her he meant no harm, he lowered his fingertips to the crest of her shoulder. He didn’t move, just let his fingertips rest there. She couldn’t draw breath and he seemed to be holding his.
Turning his hand over, he hooked one finger under the strap of her nightgown—or what remained of her nightgown. “Let’s call a temporary truce.”
“Why bother?” Blows would be better than this faux intimacy. He was her enemy. “Just what do you think is going to happen here?”
“I can’t see past five minutes from now.”
Hunger gave his voice a raw edge. Her resolution slipped, and her own voice cracked as she made her last protest. “I can see the future, quite clearly. Even if I let you do this, I’m not going to marry you. We will fight again. I promise you it won’t end well.”
The grim turn of his mouth told her he understood, but he was going to do what he wanted anyway. Of course he would. He was a knyaz.
He peeled her hand off the wound. The pain flooded in with the fresh air. Wincing, she turned her head aside.
“Wait,” she said. “Do you have any blood in your mouth?” No way was she going to end up bonded to him through accidental fluid exchange.
Solemnly he spat into his palm and showed her the clear fluid, then wiped his hand on his trousers.
She turned her face away again.
He bent to her shoulder and dragged his rough tongue across the ragged hole.
Maybe he’d mistake her gasp for pain—she hoped so—but all the pain vanished at the first stroke of his tongue. After that, every precise lap, every gentle, sucking kiss gave her nothing but pleasure. Obscene, shameful, disgusting pleasure.
Jaded as she was, she’d never experienced anything quite so kinky. She closed her eyes and inhaled the mingled scents of blood and gunpowder and chlorine and…Mikhail. His scent had always reminded her of fresh grass and new leaves.
He lifted his head from her shoulder. She gave him her best poker face, so he wouldn’t know she was as perverted as him.
“Your back?” His tone was clipped, but a hint of a growl slipped into it nonetheless. She knew what that growl meant and her body responded. Years of training, years of fulfilling the whims of haughty, dangerous princes taught her to be open and wet when they wanted her.
She gave him her back, but as she did, she slid her hand under the sofa cushion and found the knife she kept stashed there.
He circled the exit wound with his tongue, and the absurd pleasure began all over again. Just as intense. More. As he lapped, his hands inched up her waist, and she let it happen.
Not good. Not good at all, Alya.
She clutched the knife hilt, but sighed as his hands cupped her breasts. All she wanted in the world was for him to thrum her nipples while he sucked at her flesh. And as if by magic, he did exactly what she wished. She could not repress a low moan of pleasure.
“Do you trust me?” he murmured against her skin.
“No. Do you trust me?”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
She could not help but be thrilled by the low timbre of his voice. Or rather, the power that vibrated through it. He swept her hair to one side and kissed her nape. “So, when are you going to use that knife on me?”
“Soon. So soon.”
Pushing his luck, he pulled her onto his lap. She spun in his arms and pressed the point of her knife under his chin. He grinned.
It was the first real smile she’d seen out of him, and what a smile it was: crooked, brilliant, reckless. The smile of a man about to jump out of an airplane. She wanted to kiss him for it. She wished she could be that reckless.
Instead, she twisted the knife in warning. “A prince can’t trust anyone. He sits facing the door. Sleeps with a blade under his pillow.”
“That’s true,” he said.
“A prince can’t even trust those closest to him.”
“I trust my family.”
Figured. Those smug, virtuous Faustins, all Beaver Cleaver cozy in their little Brooklyn brownstone.
He continued. “And I’d trust my wife.”
“Then you’d be a fool.”
They were so close she coul
d see a tiny, star-shaped scar marring the skin under his right eye. So close she could count the sunburst rays of white that surrounded his pupils. Those hoarfrost stripes were what made his eyes uncanny from a distance.
His lips softened and parted, just a little. Electricity crawled thick between them.
This was a dangerous, dangerous desire. Her wound was closed and the pain gone. She didn’t need him anymore. There was no reason to stay this close to him.
And there was no way she could walk away.
Damn it, what’s happening to me?
Her mouth dry, her heart loud in her ears, she eased the point of the knife from his chin, tilted it, and slid the flat of the blade up his cheek. A shiver passed through him and he lowered his eyes, his long silver lashes sweeping his cheeks. In anyone else she’d take it as a gesture of submission, but she guessed he was battling for self-control. A knyaz took what he wanted, when he wanted it. Mikhail was being too good. He was up to something.
His intentions deserved to be tested.
Tilting her head, she brushed her mouth over his. Both of them had bruised, swollen lips. Even a light kiss hurt. Mikhail made a short, pained noise, but drew her closer, threading his fingers through her hair.
Again she kissed him, open mouthed this time. He groaned again. Anguished. He stopped being careful and good. She caught fire. They pressed one another hard, the pleasure of their kiss laced with pain, the pain spurring them on.
Mikhail took her down to the floor. He wedged himself between her legs, his cock pressed exactly where it wanted to be. But there was a problem. She’d gone still.
He raised his head and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide. Fear? Not likely. Anger, maybe. The knife glinted in her hand.
“I won’t. You can’t top me,” she gasped, breathless.
“Top you how?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “That’s cute, Faustin.”
In one slippery move she flipped him on his back and straddled him. He grabbed her wrist, staying her knife. She didn’t fight his grip. All he could focus on was how much he wanted to kiss her.