by Tes Hilaire
“So basically it’s a way for a guy and a gal to get to know each other.”
“Somewhat.”
She looked at him sharply. Maybe he did know about the whole Jedi mind trick thing.
He sighed, wringing the blood out of the cloth and setting it on the sink. He didn’t turn around, but he did meet her eyes in the mirror. “The whole getting-to-know-each-other thing only works when both partners have a certain amount of power. Like a vampire blood-tie, a mark done on an ungifted will create a link that can only be read by the Paladin. It was one of the reasons why a Paladin female is so highly sought after. No matter how much a Paladin might love his human wife, she can never understand the true intimacy of their bond.”
Interesting, but if that was the case, then how did Valin figure on controlling her? Wouldn’t she have been able to influence him as well? “So what would have happened if Valin, or say Logan, had marked me?”
He finally turned around, planting his hips against the ledge of the counter and folding his arms over his chest. The look he leveled at her was hidden behind multiple layers of walls and made her inherently leery. “Do you want to be bonded to Logan?”
What? Where had he gotten that? She huffed, throwing her hands up in the air. “I don’t even know what that is! Marking, and now bonding? What’s the difference?”
His lips pulled into a frown as he seemed to mull over his answer before attempting to explain. “Marking is merely a claim, a desire. Like the diamond engagement ring you would wear to show the world you are promised. The Paladin take that promise very seriously and none would interfere with a couple who have gone through the marking ceremony. However, it, like an engagement, can be broken if time shows the pairing is not as compatible as originally thought. A bond…that can never be broken. It takes the pledge of heart, body, and soul and makes it truth. No one can break that bond.”
“And mates?”
He hesitated, but then said, “It is said for every Paladin that the Father will one day send down that Paladin’s true mate. The rest—marking, bonding—are merely formal ceremonies to make a pairing valid in the eyes of the others.”
“Oh.” She sensed he was censoring his answers somewhat, but at the same time she thought all he’d told her was truth. Just as the fantasy she’d glimpsed—and whoa, that had been intense—had struck her as truth. He wanted to be with her, as a Paladin would be with his mate. Did that mean he thought she was his mate? Was that even possible for him anymore?
Yes. Of course it was possible. He may have been irrevocably changed when he was turned, but at his core he was still a Paladin. He might not fight in their ranks anymore, but he fought their war, and he held himself to their codes.
Which meant that he would want the same things they did. He would want the mate, the bond. He wanted her. But was that any different from every other friggin’ Paladin she’d met in the last twenty-four hours? Didn’t they all want her as their mate?
She realized she was tapping the side of the porcelain toilet and forced herself to stop by neatly folding her hands in her lap. “So that is what you were trying to warn me about. That all those men would want to mark me without even knowing if I was their, um, mate. Kind of a hope-for-the-best strategy.”
He nodded, his jaw ticking.
And he’d been trying to protect her. She looked down at her scraped up hands, evidence of her stupidity. She’d not only rejected his help, but then she’d put herself in another deadly situation by running from Haven and forcing him to save her, again. If there were more of those creatures or, God, if more than one Paladin had been there to see him…
Her chest tightened. She had to concentrate hard on breathing deeply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. I thought—”
He turned away and set to the task of washing out the bloodstained washcloth. “It’s okay. No harm, no foul. You’re here. Safe. And unmarked.”
Safe and unmarked. And that’s how she knew it was different with him. Roland would protect her—even from himself. The tension she’d been holding since she’d allowed him to carry her to his apartment flooded out through her feet. In its place spread a tingling warmth, a certainty, a knowledge that this was right. That he was right—for her. He could be hers and she could be his. The potential for the bond was there. Her gut had been trying to tell her from the very beginning, but she’d been too concerned with being logical to believe it. It was confirmed every time he touched her, firing her with greater need. It was there every time he held her with his gaze, the look seeming to sear her to her core. It was there in the way he’d raced to her side to defend her, then cradled her protectively in his arms afterward as he brought her home.
Home. With him she was home. She’d never felt this sort of connection to anyone before and knew instinctively that she never would again. Mates. All they had to do to make that bond true was let it happen. But boy, what a huge leap that was.
And you really are a coward, aren’t you, Karissa?
No. No she wasn’t.
She stood. Her legs wobbled underneath her. It took a moment, but with her destination only a few short feet away she was able to shore up her determination and cross until she stood beside him. She felt him tense, but he otherwise ignored her, sudsing and scrubbing that damn washcloth. Looked like the ball was in her court. Fine.
“What if I don’t want to be?” she asked, forcing her tone to be even, logical. Logical could be good. True that logic was now based off a boatload of guts and intuition, but what she was about to suggest they do was certainly a reasonable application of their feelings. Right?
His head jerked up, their gazes meeting once more in that damn mirror.
Turn around. Look at me. Can’t you see I’m dying of uncertainty here? Her silent plea went unanswered, his eyes measuring her via the impartial barrier of reflective glass.
“You don’t want to be safe?”
She narrowed her eyes but could detect no hint of mockery in his tone, so she explained. “No. Unmarked. What if I don’t want to be unmarked? What if I want the chance for more?”
The muscle in the corner of his jaw began to tick again, but other than that he showed no hint of emotion. “With Logan?”
Why the heck did he keep bringing up Logan? Like it was her fault his friend had tried to mark her. Damn, the man was impossible. She rolled her eyes, then, laying her hand on his arm, urged him to turn to face her. He turned, but stiffly. And he didn’t resist either when she took both his hands and linked her fingers through his. It was a casual gesture, but the intimacy of the suggested link helped give her courage. If she was going to jump in feet first, then she wanted to do it with a lifeline.
“No. With you.”
“Karissa…” His fingers tightened around hers, squeezing almost painfully, as if he too needed that lifeline. A quick drop of her shields and she knew she wasn’t far off the mark. He was scared to death. And he wanted her. Hot damn he wanted her. Never had she felt someone else’s pulsing need as she felt his now.
She smiled, feeling empowered. His touch still brought around that drowning loss of control that she’d felt before, but now she knew it was a two-way street. He felt it too. He’d never been trying to enthrall her; it had been their—what was that he’d called it?—compatibility that had been drawing her to him. She was his mate. And he was hers.
She pulled their linked hands around behind her back, stepping close enough to feel the solid length of his erection through his pants, to shiver with delight as her nipples, even through her bra and shirt, rubbed against his chest. He jerked but didn’t pull away, his breath coming in harsh pants as he stared down at her, his eyes glowing red with his hunger.
Oh yeah. She really did like doing that to him.
She licked her lips, letting her eyelids flutter shut then back open, then said in a silky smooth whisper, “Make love to me, Roland.”
Chapter 16
Paperwork. Damon hated paperwork. Bad enough when it was his paperwork, but
now he had to do the front desk’s too. He should have waited until tomorrow to kill the schmuck. Then he would have been off and someone else would have pulled the short straw and ended up filling in for the missing front desk officer. Too bad that hadn’t been an option.
Damon rubbed his temples, staring blankly down at the report in front of him. Damn his luck. Out of all the precincts to infiltrate in the city, he would get the one with a busybody front desk officer who just happened to have the sight. Anyone else would have merely looked at Damon strangely for “talking to himself” while on his smoke break. But the kid saw the demon, and not only saw but heard the demon too. Which meant he heard the demon tell Damon to keep an ear to the ground for any incidents that might be connected to Christos’s renegade vampire who was rumored to know where the woman was hidden.
Damon didn’t mind the killing. He did mind the residual consequences. Two weeks. It was going to take two weeks to get the next rookie over here and fully trained on front desk work. In the meantime, Damon was going to have to tough it out.
The doors to the station swung open. Damon looked up from the stack of paperwork to take in the tall blond bearing down on him. She wore pressed khaki pants and a blouse buttoned to the very top. Prim and proper, except for the fact that the blouse was silk and clung to her generous curves. And the high-heeled sandals? Well, fuck me, indeed.
He sat up straighter in his chair. She stopped, looking over and past him as if searching for someone specifically.
“Can I help you?” he asked, calling her attention to him.
She started for the desk. “I’m looking for—” She stumbled, drawing up five feet back, her eyes wide as she stared at him. Damon was used to the reaction. Eyes as dark as his were unusual and he’d been told how arresting they were, but he had another advantage going on: His mother had been a succubus.
“Who were you looking for?” he prompted.
“Detective Ward,” she stuttered, nervously pulling her gaze away.
He grunted. Mike Ward was another one of those gifted humans—what was up with them and this station house anyway?—but thankfully his gift wasn’t sight and just as thankfully, “Not in right now.”
She squared up her shoulders, as if she could draw in courage from the air of the station. “I’d like to report a crime.”
“Really,” he drawled. “Is that so?” Of course she wanted to report a crime. It was either that or follow up on the status of a case, but since she didn’t have the desperate beaten down look in her eyes yet, he figured the later was unlikely. Cases either got solved fairly quickly or not at all. By mid-morning the waiting area would be full of hopeless victims, or relatives of victims who’d come to plead with the detective in charge to do something, anything, to put the man, woman, or monster—ha, if they only knew how true that actually was—behind bars.
“Yes,” she said firmly, plunking her cell phone down on the podium desk in front of her. “I have a picture of him too.”
“A picture of who, exactly?”
She shuffled from one foot to the other. “I’d rather speak with a detective.”
He leaned forward, putting just a touch of mesmerization behind the intensity of his gaze. “I am a detective.” He gestured at the desk he sat behind. “Just filling in for the time being.”
“Oh…”
Her mouth sure as hell was sexy when it went all slack jawed like that. Maybe working the front desk wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Here.” He pulled out a form, gesturing for her to come back around behind the desk with him. “Why don’t you show me the picture of this man, and tell me exactly what he did.”
“Oh, okay.” She moved around, punching buttons on the cell. “Here he is.”
Damon looked at the picture. Middle-aged white male. Graying temples but otherwise had a healthy brown head of hair. The man was still relatively handsome but not exactly the type he pictured the curvy, young blond to hang out with. He was smiling though, like he’d voluntarily posed for the picture, which suggested there was some sort of relationship between them.
“So,” he nudged the phone, “what did he do?”
“He tried to drug me.”
Damon looked up at her sharply, hearing the quiver in her voice. She was pale as a chameleon and trembling.
“Tried?”
“He put something in my drink.” She hesitated, rubbing her arms. “A date rape drug.”
He narrowed his gaze. If she was telling the truth then her attacker was either really stupid or had been planning on deleting the picture she’d taken after the fact. “So, since you obviously are okay, how do you know that he actually tried to drug you?”
“Because of the witness.”
“Witness?”
She nodded. “I went to the bathroom. He was in my seat when I came back. He must have seen Tom slip the drug into the drink because he told me what Tom had done.”
“All right…” He grabbed up a report paper and a pen. Damn paperwork. “And this witness’s name?”
She didn’t reply. He looked up at her. She squirmed.
“I, uh, didn’t think to ask. I’d, um, had a bit much to drink.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Thinking to ask for details like that was a bit beyond me at that point.”
“Including what he looked like?”
“Now that I remember. About six feet. Almost black hair down to his chin. And these eyes that looked like dark embers from a fire…” She trailed off, a pretty blush staining her cheeks. “Well, that I’m pretty sure I’m not remembering correctly. But they were dark brown, almost black as yours.”
Damon’s heart started to hammer. Yes. Yes! A do-gooder vampire. There weren’t exactly many of those, and if Damon could confirm this woman’s savior to be the one and only Fallen Paladin Roland…Well, he wouldn’t be sitting at this front desk anymore, that was for sure.
With visions of sitting at his father’s right side in his head, he turned toward prying the information he needed out of the idiot blond. And she was an idiot. She’d not only hooked up with a rapist, but didn’t even know the man who’d saved her was actually ten times worse. He almost wished he could tell her she had a narrow escape with a vampire, just to see her reaction. Instead he said, “And you didn’t worry this second man was part of the scam?”
She shook her head adamantly. “No. He was definitely trying to help me. He told me to take a cab home while he took care of Tom.” She gestured back at the picture on the phone.
“Don’t suppose you have a picture of the Good Samaritan?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“So we can try and track him down, get him to collaborate your story. Two witnesses could really nail a case like this shut, otherwise it’s he said she said.”
“Oh.” Her face crumpled, the thought of her would-be attacker getting off scot-free obviously distressing.
“You don’t have a picture,” he guessed.
She shook her head, worrying her lips with her teeth.
“Can you describe him?”
Her eyes lighted. “Better, I was going to go to college for art before I decided to go pre-law. So…I can sketch him.”
***
Make love to me…
Roland trembled. His body sung even as his heart howled. She said them, the words he’d been longing to hear since the moment she opened those big brown eyes. Yet it was a hollow victory given he could never be enough for her.
She was his mate. But he dared not take her. He knew if he did, it would be at the cost of his control. Eighty-nine years he’d managed to hold onto the pulsing needs of his dark nature. By just being near her he felt that thin thread of control fraying. He dared not risk it snapping.
She was his mate. But he could never allow her to bind herself to him. She owned his heart and his body, but she deserved his soul as well. And of that he had none to give.
She was his mate. He had nothing to offer, except to love her, protect her, and…
“Com
e,” he said, tugging her gently toward the door. His body was raging with the need to pull her closer, to tear her jeans from her, to toss her up on the granite counter by the sink and plunge into her moist heat. But even if he were able to give into his body’s needs, that would not be the way or the place to take her. Not for her first time. His Karissa deserved more: wining and dining, flowers and silken sheets. He had none of those but the sheets. Hopefully they would do.
For a moment she hesitated. As if now after the offer was made she was unsure. That uncertainty was both a kick in the gut and a load off his shoulders. If she drew away, he’d let her go. No harm, no foul. Only his mangled heart plopped down in her wake. Then she smiled—a brilliant smile that did nothing but emphasize the light of her soul in comparison to his lack thereof—and squeezing his hands, she twisted around and began to lead him toward his bedroom.
He should tell her this was a bad idea. He should at least remind her of what she was giving herself to. But he was a selfish bastard and wanted this one time, this one taste. Regrets could come later.
He was fully in tune with her body and her reactions: the racing of her heart that far outpaced them down the hall, the slightly hysterical quality to her giggle when she tripped on her overtired legs, and the sharp intake of her breath when he caught her, drawing her against his length.
Their gazes met and held. Her eyes, pools of melted chocolate, searched his face expectantly, her lips flushed and plump with her excitement. She wanted to be kissed. He didn’t dare. Instead he smiled, freeing his hands from hers and sliding them up to her shoulders. Her head tipped back, her lips parting. He slid a hand up the back of her neck and into her hair, then, with his other hand anchored around her lower back, he pulled her up against him. Using his enhanced strength to ease their fall, he laid her out on the bed.
His body burned where he touched her. Having her here, pinned beneath him, her glistening curls spread out against the sheets? Temptation. And that smile, lips turned up tentatively at the corners, the quick dart of her tongue to wet them? Torture.