by Bec McMaster
"Then buy another one."
Am I going to have the chance?
"Just what are you intending to do?" she asked suspiciously. Flirtation or not, she refused to give this bastard a single piece of her. "Because the answer is no."
"Nothing."
He stepped back, allowing her to turn and face him.
"Did you really think it was going to be so easy? That I would soften for your pretty words, for the soft gasp on your lips?"
She'd thought he'd been falling into the smoky lure of her trap, but as he wrenched the dress out from under her, she realized she'd been mistaken. One look at the hard planes of his face told her the truth; she alone had felt the flush of heat through her veins as a need long dormant rose in her.
Obsidian's cold eyes met hers.
He curved his hand around her throat, a faint, threatening caress. "Every word from your lying little mouth only confirms my suspicions. You're manipulative from the top of your head to your toes. Sex is merely a weapon to you. Every word you utter is a lie. Thank you. For reminding me exactly who you are."
She clutched his hand.
They glared at each other, his thumb stroking her throat, and God damn her but she felt it all the way within.
"I'm not the only liar," Gemma spat, feeling like he'd stripped the ground out from under her feet.
For a second her body had betrayed her, desperately wanting his hands on her naked flesh, but it was more than that. Somewhere within the scarred ashes of what remained of her heart, she'd felt something stir.
You're happy he's alive.
And he hates you.
It was more than she could bear in that moment.
His cheek tensed, then he looked away and let her go.
"You won't be going very far without your gown or boots." He hauled the hessian sack toward him, and Gemma's gaze shot to it as something within it clanked.
"What are you doing?"
He withdrew a long chain with a manacle on either end. "You've already proved a simple cell cannot hold you."
Gemma tried to dart to the side, but his arm locked around her waist and he hauled her back against his chest, her stockinged feet kicking helplessly.
He took her down, pinning her to the marble slab in the center of the room. There were a dozen ways she could have gotten away—a thumb to his eye, two sharp fingers stabbed into his throat—but some part of her softened.
To escape right now meant she'd have to seriously injure him, and she wasn't certain she had it in her, especially not after his recent revelations.
Besides. Obsidian was dhampir; she wasn't convinced she could actually flee without somehow killing him.
Better to wait.
He thought stripping her down to her corset made her vulnerable. Ha. More fool him.
"Damn you." She kicked out at him, making a convincing act of protest. It wouldn't do to give in too early. He might grow suspicious.
Capturing her foot, he locked the manacle around her ankle and set the other end through an iron ring at the base of the marble slab.
By the time he pushed to his feet, both of them were panting.
Gemma flinched at the cold marble beneath her and wrapped her shivering arms around herself. "It's freezing in here without my gown."
"You'll survive." He bent to snatch her dress from the floor, balling it into his gloved fists before he threw it into the hallway, far away from the bars.
"You were never cruel."
Anger flushed his face. "That was before you drugged me and set my fucking bed on fire," he snapped.
"What?" Gemma drew back. "No, I didn't."
"The last night we lay together," he growled out. "I was drugged, and you were the one who gave me the glass of wine. I barely managed to escape with my life, but there was no sign of you."
Gemma's mind raced. "Of course, there wasn't." Her breath caught. "I couldn't stay the night. My supposed reputation would have been ruined. But I never.... I didn't drug you. And I certainly didn't set a fire."
I loved you.
Scraping her hands through her hair, she tried to think. It had been seven years ago. Was that why he'd come after her the next day?
Was that why he'd shot her?
Obsidian gave her a thin smile. "We've already established you're not above lying. Sleep well, Miss Townsend. Perhaps this will keep you warm." Tossing the fur cloak toward her, he turned and strode toward the barred gate.
"You say I tried to burn you alive?" she yelled. "You're the one who shot me."
Obsidian froze in the doorway, one hand on the gate. His head half turned toward her, but she couldn't see his face.
Only sense the sudden tension within him.
"That's not the way I remember it."
"Isn't it?" Sudden fury rose up to choke her. She cast his cloak aside. "Well, unlike others, I have proof, damn you."
Tugging open the laces of her shift, she jerked her corset lower, until the flush of her nipples strained to break free. There was none of that delicious heat warming her veins this time, however. Gemma felt cold all the way through, as she cupped her breasts to the sides and showed him the scar between them.
"I was still human when you shot me right through the left lung. The only reason I survived is because I plunged into a frozen river, and it slowed the bleeding and my heart rate enough to give Malloryn a chance to get his blood into me. So call me a liar if you will. Tell me I betrayed you. But you're a hypocrite."
Somehow Obsidian staggered up the stairs toward the small turret tower where his nest of blankets lay.
He'd lost time at some stage, remembering only the clang of the door as he slammed it shut and fled from the woman in the makeshift cell below.
Her words kept hammering at the inside of his head, leaving him near blind in one eye. "You're the one who shot me."
"No," he whispered.
She was an enemy spy.
"She was an enemy spy," he breathed, sinking his fingers into his hair and tugging to ease the sudden sharp pain in his head.
She deliberately seduced you, seeking to use you.
"She deliberately seduced me, seeking to use me."
She tried to kill you.
"She...."
He saw the scar between her breasts.
Heard again the violent ricochet of a weapon firing. His vision sharpened along the barrel of a smoking pistol, and Hollis came into focus instead.
Red bloomed in the middle of her chest like the painted dot on a target. Hollis jerked back in surprise, her body backlit by the lights in the distance as her arms flung wide, a word on her painted red lips.
"Dmitri—"
Shock painted itself across her face, rippling through her.
She was falling backward. Vanishing right before his eyes. He lowered the smoking weapon, sound rushing back into the world as he blinked out of the semitrance he'd found himself in and realized she was gone.
Sprinting toward the edge of the canal, he gasped in horror as time seemed to slam back into being. Ice slicked the surface of the river, covered in a faint layer of snow, except for the ragged hole right below him. Dark waters churned through the ice, but there was no sign of Hollis. His hand shook, the scent of gunpowder leaving an acrid scent in his nose.
I killed her.
His hands shook.
I shot her, right through the chest.
The pistol fell from nerveless hands, and then the world around him vanished as a harsh voice intruded.
Pain sheared through his knees. Obsidian blinked, and found himself on the floor in the turret room, blood dripping from his nose. What the hell was that? He'd never remembered that before.
"She was an enemy spy."
He knew that voice. Saw the light shining in his eyes as it swung from side to side, binding his gaze to it.
"She tried to kill you."
Those words, branded into his head. He punched the floor, tearing his gloves.
"She betrayed you."
&n
bsp; No.
"She never loved you."
"Remember the fire, Dmitri?"
And he could smell it now, almost feel the heat on his skin as he woke to find the bed canopy alight and flames dripping down the walls, trapping him inside the room where he'd finally made love to her.
"She tried to kill you."
What the hell was the truth?
Because both images felt like actual memories, and suddenly he didn't know which one was real—and which was the lie.
9
"IF YOU THINK you can just kidnap me and leave her here to rot, then you have another think coming!" Gemma snapped, rattling the bars on the cell.
Silence.
Nothing.
"Dmitri?" she yelled.
There was no answer. That bloody rutting bastard. She pushed away from the bars, shaking with a combination of fear and fury. The chain around her ankle scraped over the slate floors, hauling her up just short of the sealed windows. She was still wearing her cursed corset, undergarments, and stockings, and her skin itched as if it wanted to be free of the confining garments. The heavy drape of the fur cloak protected her from the afternoon chill.
No sign of him. She'd spent yesterday calling out to him, but he'd never come. The only hint he hadn't abandoned her entirely was the flask of blood she'd found in her cell when she woke, which was somewhat disconcerting, because she thought she slept lightly.
Be patient, she'd told herself, though the wait grated on her nerves. Gemma knew she wasn't built for patience. She was built for action.
And what would her friends think right now? Would they be looking for her?
What would Malloryn think?
What was going on out there in the world? Were they still hunting the Chameleon? What if the assassin struck now, while she was out of the picture and the queen was vulnerable?
"Damn you to heck," Gemma cursed, glaring through the thin bars.
She had her lock pick still.
The only problem was, she wasn't certain if Obsidian was merely ignoring her, or whether he was no longer in the manor.
You have one chance to escape. Don't you dare waste it on impatience.
He'd ignored her curses.
He'd ignored her yells, and the way she rattled the bars.
But Gemma wasn't about to give up.
Try and ignore me now, you cold-blooded bastard.
She started singing. Loudly. "Oh, there was a young Nighthawk from Matlock...."
Gemma threw herself into the chorus with an obnoxious gusto that would do an opera singer proud. Fourteen verses in, footsteps echoed along the hallway.
Her heart shifted gears and Gemma peered through the bars, trying to see down the narrow corridor. "Obsidian?"
She wasn't going to call him Dmitri. Not anymore. The man she'd once known was dead—he'd told her that himself. All that was left now was the icy facade that wore the same face as the man who'd stolen her heart.
Once, a long time ago.
As if the thought of him conjured him, a dark shape began to take form. Gemma's shoulders slumped in a mixture of relief and frustration. She'd almost thought herself alone. She'd nearly decided to pick the lock, which would have been a disaster, for then he'd know she still carried her pick.
"What the hell is all this racket?" Obsidian demanded.
"I was trying to get your attention."
"Well you got it," he growled. "Along with half the neighborhood. You sound like a strangled cat. Is this some new method of torture?"
Gemma's eyes narrowed on him through the bars. "I'll have you know I have an excellent singing voice."
"If you're trying to convince me you're telling the truth about what happened between us, perhaps you'd best prove you're not an exceptional liar. You said that with a completely straight face."
"I am," she retorted. "I took singing lessons last year. My tutor, Francois, said I had an ear for certain octaves."
"Now that," Obsidian said with glittering eyes, "is a man who knows how to skirt the truth."
Gemma subsided with ill grace.
He watched her pace, his gaze narrowing to thin slits as he caught a glimpse of her pale stockings through the swish of the cloak.
You were the one who stripped me. So you can suffer the consequences.
Far be it from her to blush and shield flashes of her skin like a virgin. She knew men found her form pleasing. She was counting upon it.
Yet the sudden heat in his eyes cast her plan back in her face.
Her skin itched from the inside out. "You've barely fed me," she stated. "I've been trying to take small sips, but there's scarcely an inch of blood left in the flask you provided, and my... my hunger is beginning to make itself known."
The color drained out of her vision as if just thinking of it roused the predator within her.
Not. Now. She sucked in a sharp breath. The craving virus stoked the fires of a person's primal self. When the hunger rose, she stopped thinking. All she wanted was blood or sex. Or maybe to kill something.
She wanted his fist in her hair as he tilted her head back, revealing her throat....
Gemma clenched her fist, letting the bite of her nails against her palm distract her. What the devil had that been all about? She wasn't prey; she was the predator.
"Unfortunately, blood's a little short in supply," Obsidian countered. "Someone blew up two of the draining factories last month and poisoned the other three. We're all on rations."
It was Gemma's turn to narrow her eyes. Yes. Focus on this. "Did you have anything to do with that debacle and the Sons of Gilead?"
"I watched. It made a merry bonfire."
This time it was her turn to pace. "Why? Why would you do such a thing? Why try and destroy this fragile peace in London? People will die because you took away the ability to feed most of London's blue bloods. Who are you working for?"
"People already die," Obsidian replied coldly. "And it's a nice attempt, Miss Townsend, but I'm not planning on telling you a damned thing."
"I'd prefer it if you called me Gemma. We are acquainted, after all."
"Are we?" Obsidian slid closer to the bars, not quite daring to step all the way into the light. "Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all."
Of course. He wasn't glaring at her for any particular reason—no doubt the morning sunlight hurt his eyes. If he chanced to step into it, his skin would redden and burn a little. It was the one advantage she owned over him—Obsidian might be stronger and faster, but he couldn't stomach the light of day.
His gaze met hers, and he smiled a little. "But you're not lying about your thirst, at least. Look at it itching all the way through you."
"Bite this," she breathed in pure frustration, biting her clenched fist at him. It was the sort of insult she'd heard among the Echelon, in reference to telling a blue blood he'd find no easy prey here, but a fist instead.
"My preference is something a little softer." Obsidian's eyelids drooped lazily, and she had the flushed sensation he was trying not to glance at her stockinged feet.
Never one to miss a chance, Gemma let the cloak fall open a hint. "If you want something a little softer, then you're going to have to come on this side of the bars."
His face shuttered immediately. "As fascinating as this little conversation is, Miss Townsend, I was trying to sleep. What do you want?"
"Freedom."
"You're wasting my time—and your breath." Obsidian shook his head, and then turned to go.
Gemma rushed the bars, grabbing hold of them. "No, wait!"
He paused.
Half turned his head toward her.
"I want... water to wash with. Hot water. And soap. Preferably something perfumed."
"I'm not certain you understand the predicament you're in." Rattling the bars, he gave her a pointed look. "You're on the wrong side of these. I don't have to take orders from you."
"It's been two days," she growled out. "I am tired, thirsty, and wretchedly cold. I stink."
"I feel like I stink," she growled out. "One is not meant to be laced so tightly for so long."
"Miss Townsend."
"Hot water," she begged. "Even a small bowl of it. I would do anything for a bowl of hot water and soap."
Those dangerous eyes turned sleepy-lidded. "Anything?"
"Anything," she breathed.
"Fine." He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. "Drop the cloak."
Gemma tugged the strings of his cloak loose, letting it slide from her shoulders. The heavy fur-lined fabric pooled around her bare ankles, the sudden biting chill of the air pebbling her skin. "And now, Obsidian?"
"Ghost was right," he said coldly, looking his fill. "You will do anything, stoop to any level, in order to ensnare me."
A game to see how far she would let him push her.
Damn him.
Gemma hauled the cloak up around her shoulders. "Not all of us have the luxury of power. You have something I want. I have nothing to bargain with. If you're hoping to shame me, then please take your smirking face elsewhere. I am done with being shamed. All I wanted was a simple luxury. Clearly, I miscalculated your level of empathy." Somehow she laughed. "The mistake, I believe, was in thinking you had any."
Hauling the warm fur around her bare arms, she retreated to the marble slab she'd been sleeping on and turned away from him before deliberately raising her voice to earsplitting levels. "Oh, there was a young Nighthawk from Matlock—"
"Ghost." She let the word fall into the still air as Obsidian appeared at evening with a fresh flask of blood.
She hadn't been thinking earlier, but trapped in this barred room, all she had was time to think and resurrect every word spoken between them.
The Company of Rogues knew they faced an unknown alliance of dhampir. Created by Dr. Erasmus Cremorne at Falkirk Asylum, according to the information Malloryn had handed her, most of the dhampir patients had died when the asylum burned to the ground.
It wasn't a project the common people of London would have felt easy with; trying to force the evolution of blue bloods that were fated to turn into vampires. Vampires were monstrous entities, capable of tearing entire streets of people to pieces. Back in Georgian times, there'd been a spate of vampire attacks, resulting in the Year of Blood, before the Echelon had brought in strict rules.