“And you are nothing more than a well maintained bitch who never learned his place.” Oliver snarls, his fist clenching. I find the Vârcolac no more scary than a declawed kitten. He has a bark but no bite if the rumors I’ve heard are true. Even if they aren’t, I won’t stand by and let him insult Everett.
“What did you say, faggot?” My fangs press against my gums as I bare my teeth. Blood rushes through my ears like ocean tides as my anger spikes.
“I’m simply speaking on the fact you would drop to your knees if David Dawson ordered it.” Oliver springs forward, a growl tearing through his throat. Planting my hand against Everett’s chest, I shove him to the side. He stumbles but catches himself just as my fingers curl around Oliver’s wrist, halting the progression of his assault. A growl vibrates through his chest as I lift my arm and swing.
The satisfying crunch of Oliver’s nose is exactly what I desire. Blood bursts from the appendage as I pull my fist back before sending it crashing against the smashed tip again. Oliver howls. It is less than he deserves but all I can deliver before Everett’s fingers curl around my forearm.
“Let’s go home. Please, Thanos. I want to go home. Just take me home.” I look down at Everett and his eyes are wide with fear.
This brawl isn’t one he asked for and one he shouldn’t have been a witness to. Oliver should have never approached us. He did and I responded as necessary. The fight is over, for now. Oliver is holding his already healing nose, blood gushes between his fingers as he glares. Whatever battle he thought there would be, he wasn’t prepared for the reality of it.
“As you desire,” I tell Everett, putting my arm around his shoulder. “It’s getting late anyway.”
Leaning into my side, Everett reaches up and grasps my wrist. Taking one last look at Oliver, he glowers and I know this isn’t over, not by a long shot.
I am done for tonight.
It is time Everett and I go home.
16
Exiting the bathroom with a towel around my waist and one in my hand so I can dry my hair, I pause. Everett sits on the edge of our bed, clenching his sketchbook and pencils. It is well after eleven and I can feel the creeping fingers of exhaustion trail their chill up my spine and across my shoulders. Morning will come early and it is time to sleep.
“I thought you’d be in bed by now.” Everett stands up, the soft patter of his feet follow me toward my dresser. When I glance over my shoulder, he is standing at my back, looking up with the same excitement he had before Oliver intruded on our date. What has him so excited? “Is everything okay?” I question.
“Everything's fine,” he assures me. “I was laying down then I had an idea and I thought . . . maybe, if you’re not too tired, I could sketch you.” Pulling his sketch pad against his chest, he presses his lips together.
“Sketch me?” I ask, my brows pulling together.
He’s sketched me before. I’ve caught him watching me for a new sketch while we sat in my office so I could work or adding detail to a sketch he’d already started while he curled in my lap when I was reading files my father or one of our associates had sent over. He’s never asked before so why now? What is different this time?
“I’ll only need a basic outline,” he rushes to tell me. “It won’t take long, I promise.” It is something simple, something I can easily do and he looks excited at the prospect of sketching me. What is the harm in allowing him this freedom?
“I’m at your disposal,” I tell him and he grins. Reaching out with his free hand, he presses it against my bare chest. The contact is warm and sends a surge of white hot desire down my abdomen. Of course I want him.
He is intelligent, compassionate, humorous and beautiful among other things. I would have to be deaf, blind, and dumb not to notice him, not to desire him. I am none of those things. Nor am I dead. My body is able and he lays against me every night, wiggling and shifting until I am pressing against my pajamas but determined not to take him for senseless pleasure.
“Really?” he asks and I nod my head before dragging the towel through my hair.
“Where do you want me?” I ask.
“In the bed,” Everett says before a bright crimson stain crawls across his cheeks. I laugh softly and he quickly turns away. Reaching out, my fingers snag his arm and I draw him back against my chest. His fingers curl around my forearm.
“How do you want me?” I whisper in his ear. He trembles, swallowing hard.
“Just sit against the headboard,” he mutters. I nip at his ear and he exhales heavily before I step away. My towel is already tenting around my waist. If I touch him much more, there will be no way to excuse my excitement.
Does it really need to be excused? Twice now, he has encouraged me. Once before the fire, he climbed into my lap and then again in my childhood bedroom, he slid his fingers up my chest. That time he even went so far as to allow my fingers to curl around his body. He didn’t protest the action. In fact, he’d wanted it as much as I did. Maybe if I reach for him with the same intentions I had last night, he will welcome it.
First, he wants to sketch me so I will ignore my want for him and oblige his desire. Tossing my used towel into a basket, I make sure the one around my hips is secure before moving toward the bed. Sliding onto the mattress, I adjust myself against the headboard before looking up at Everett. His brows pull down as he walks closer.
“Bend your left knee,” he tells me, his voice far more serious than it has ever been. I do as he asks. The towel I wear tightens, sliding up my thigh. If he looks close enough, cares to pay attention, he will have an exciting view. “Rest your arm on your knee.”
I do as he bids. He nods in approval.
“Okay . . . um . . . just relax now.” I arch an eyebrow at him but settle into my position. My shoulders press against the headboard as my arm relaxes, bending at the elbow just slightly. Everett climbs onto the bed next to me after setting his supplies down. Grabbing our pillows, he stuffs them against my side, making my back rise slightly.
Laying a hand on my thigh, Everett balances himself while making minor adjustments to the pillows. The fabric slides higher on my thigh again when he tilts forward, slipping away from my knee and falling to bunch just above exposing me to his observant eyes.
“Having fun?” I ask softly and he jerks back, the color from earlier running across the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry,” he stutters. “You don’t mind . . . do you?” I shake my head, the hand not on my knee moving so I can caress his jaw.
“I’m yours to command, Everett.”
He smiles softly and I lean forward, capturing his mouth. His lips part under mine as I sweep my tongue into the space behind his teeth. Fingers press into my hair and my head tips back as Everett’s tongue tangles with mine. Between us, there is toothpaste and tea, his natural sweet taste and my yearning to have him under me naked and panting.
Withdrawing, Everett’s fingers dance over my forehead, smoothing my brow down. “Am I just as you need me?”
“Perfect,” he mutters and I smile. Shifting away, Everett sits at the foot of our bed. His knees fold as he draws his sketch pad into his lap and settles his pencils beside him.
“Now what?” I ask and he looks up at me, his eyes flicking over my form.
“Now, you hold still.” Relaxing into the position he asked me to maintain, I watch him as he inspects me before setting his pencil against the page.
Glancing up every couple of seconds, his tongue is pressed to the inside of his cheek as he alternates between watching me and watching the paper in front of him. There is something serene about his face, tranquil about his movements as he works. Forty-five minutes pass as I hold my position and let Everett inspect me as if he were hunting for any imperfection.
“Okay,” he finally says, lifting his gaze from the page. “I have my outline.” A smile pulls at his lips as he looks down again.
“May I see?” I question. His fingers spread over the page as he peers at me with wide eyes.<
br />
“Um . . . it’s not done yet, but . . . I suppose.” Climbing up the bed after putting his pencils back in their case, he settles next to me once again. After a moment, he holds the sketchbook out and I take it from his fingers.
It is an outline like he said but I can see the potential in it to become a masterpiece, not because of the subject either. Everett is talented, maybe more so than my own mother. I’ll never say that to her face. There is no harm in telling Everett though.
“This is amazing.” I glance up from the page to find him watching me. “You’re amazing.” His face lights up and I smile as another blush begins to spread across his cheeks.
“Thank you,” he mutters. “I . . . I can show you when it’s done, if you want.” Handing him back the book, I nod my head. He turns for a second to set it on the end table.
“I’d really like that,” I mutter, my fingers spreading across his jaw after he settles beside me. He leans in and I slide my mouth against his again. He opens willingly and I take advantage of his submission, flicking my tongue between his lips as I turn toward him. Pressing his fingers against my chest, Everett leans into my possession, his tongue reaching out to curl with my own.
Wrapping an arm around his waist, I draw him down onto the bed. Pushing his slender fingers into my hair, he draws me closer and I drink from the oasis of his mouth like a man stranded in the desert. Swallowing his small moan, I explore the inner cavern of his mouth, searching for what, I don’t know, but desperate to find it. Everett responds in kind, on a quest of his own.
Withdrawing from him, my lips travel down his jaw and over his neck. He moans softly, arching toward me. Slipping my fingers down his side, I pause to feel the heavy expansions of his ribs beneath my palm. His heart pounds as his own digits pull from my hair and dance over my shoulders. The touch is feather light and curious.
Mine is heavier, more firm as I dip my hand into his pajama bottoms. Everett cries out, arching into my palm as my hand curves around him. His chest rocks as a shallow breath escapes him. Moving between his knees, the hand not around him grasps the side of his shorts and I draw them down. Everett’s eyes widen as he inhales sharply.
I bend down and nip at his mouth lightly while squeezing his shaft again. “Ah . . . Thanos.”
Everett’s hands flatten against my chest as I sit back up. Lifting his hips, Everett sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as I pull the fabric down and over his knees. Discarding them, I look down at him positioned in my palm. Hands come over mine and I look up to find Everett the color of a ripe cherry as he hides himself.
“I . . . I don’t want to be the only one exposed,” he says softly. Grasping his wrist, I pull his fingers away from his body and set them against the edge of my towel. He hesitates before he pulls on the fabric, loosening it around my body. When it falls away, he draws it over himself as a shield. Laughing softly, I pull it away with ease.
“Better?” I ask and he swallows hard, his eyes dropping to my waist.
“Thanos . . . ” Reaching up, he covers his eyes with his hands. “I don’t think I can do this,” he tells me quietly and I inhale sharply. Grabbing his hands, I pull them away from his eyes. My brows pull together as I search his expression. What is wrong?
“What’s the matter, Everett?” Releasing his hands, I lay my palm against his cheek.
Tears well in his eyes and my heart squeezes. I don’t know what but something is wrong and I want to fix it. I want to take the fear from his gaze and replace it with the same joy he’s shown me so many times. How can I do that? I’ll do anything.
“I . . . I do like men but I’ve never . . . been with one, like this,” he tells me, his voice catching. His Adam’s Apple bobs. “It’s not that I’ve never wanted to, it’s just—” a tear spills from the corner of his eye and I catch it on my thumb even as he turns his head away, “—no one approves.”
My mouth parts as my chest shakes. He means his family doesn’t approve.
Everett buries his face in one of the pillows as his shoulders start to tremble. My heart stops for a moment, squeezing so painfully I can feel the ache in my lungs. I open my mouth again but nothing comes out as I peer down at him. How can his blood have destroyed his so thoroughly?
“Everett,” I finally speak. “It’s okay, любимый.” Sliding my arm under his waist, I pull him from the mattress and against my chest. His arms wrap around my neck as I rock him back and forth. Twisting his fingers in my hair, his face presses against my chest as I softly rub his back.
“I want you. I do. I’ve never wanted anyone before as much as I want you, Athanasios. I just,” his nails dig into my nape, “I don’t know anymore. Everything is so confusing.”
“Shh Everett. It’s okay. Really, I don’t care. Your family's opinion can hang. They aren’t a part of our marriage. We can still do this if you want.” Everett exhales, his face and tears hot against my flesh.
“I want to,” he whispers. Pushing him back, I search his face. His cheeks are stained with tears and his eyes are a milky blue as more run free. The sadness in his expression is as deep as any ocean. I know I can’t change his blood’s bad opinion. There is no chasing away their mistreatment but right now, I can offer him comfort and companionship.
“I’ll stop any time you will it,” I tell him softly, lowering him back against the mattress.
His teeth sink into his lip and he lifts his gaze to meet mine before saying, “I . . . I trust you, Thanos.”
I reach for him again. His soft sigh is the only encouragement I need.
17
Before I apologize to Oliver Dawson, I’ll be damned to the eternal fire pits of hell to roast with glee alongside all of my long dead brethren. The lake of gasoline and cigar ash can soak me through before Satan himself lights the blaze with a farewell hackle and free bird middle finger. I’ll toast in return with a proud smile and a middle finger salute.
The end will be a comfort because I know before I die, the rat face mongrel known as Oliver to his mangy friends will suffer. As far as I am concerned, he got off easy with a couple of punches to the face for what he said to Everett, for all the times he’s harassed him in the past.
The bastard should be glad I am not walking across the room, jacking him up by his suit coat and pulling his teeth out with unrestrained glee. If not for Everett’s arm around my waist, I’d have been renewing the war.
Peace be damned. I’d burn this city down around the Vârcolac family and leave their bodies as a bloody trail for anyone to follow straight to the disemboweled body of Oliver. When they find him, he’d still be breathing but long past saving. I’d be there, too, watching him gasp his last breath and become drenched by his own blood.
It might have seemed extreme but . . . something about him rubbed me the wrong way.
“You will apologize,” Father hisses, drawing my attention away from Oliver who laughs with his friends. My jaw clenches.
“I’ll cut my own tongue out before I do any such thing,” I tell Father, a hardness in my voice that is normally never directed at him. His brows pull together as his eyes narrow in an unflinching stare. As a boy, just a look from him would have me scurrying to obey. I am no longer that child. He could only order me around so much.
“Athanasios—”
“If you think you can force me to say sorry, you’re wrong, old man,” I hiss, my voice low so it doesn’t carry to those closest to us as I step forward with my fingers curled into a fist so the tremble doesn’t betray the extent of my anger.
Defying my father is never something I actively participate in but this time, I will remain steadfast in my decision whether he agrees with it or not.
There will be no explanation either as I will not explain myself to my father. There will be no apology as I will not grovel at the feet of a moron, asking his forgiveness when so far as I’m concerned, he only got a tenth of what he deserves.
“Thanos—” Everett starts.
“I said no,” I tell my husband,
my voice just as hard, just as absolute. He of all people should agree with my decision not to utter one word of regret in Oliver’s direction.
“The peace—” a growl tears through my throat as my gaze snaps back to father. He looks stunned at the challenge, at the very idea I would dare rise above him for even a second.
“—can burn for all I care. And if this peace matters to you, you’d better hope I keep my distance.” Father inspects me, his lips pressing into a thin, hard line.
“Since when do you not care about this peace?” he asks.
It is a fair question. In the name of this peace, I married the son of my father’s enemy. I put aside my feelings, my desires for a match of love one day, and swallowed the vows as if they didn’t feel like razors in my throat. I did whatever was necessary to build the foundation that would hold our home on steady ground. It is not something I regret.
The sacrifices I’ve made to stop this city from combusting are great, uncountable, but now . . . it feels as if I sacrificed nothing. I feel as if I would throw it all away at the drop of a single syllable from the mouth of Oliver in Everett’s direction.
“Since I found something more important to care about,” I mutter in response.
I care about Everett. Maybe I don’t love him, maybe I never will, but I consider him a friend of the closest nature. He is my family, a part of the clan I claim. Like all of them, he has my unmeasured loyalty.
Vârcolac or not, Everett has earned his place by my side, my respect as not only my friend but my husband by being nothing more than himself.
Father’s gaze slides to Everett who blazes crimson as he glances toward the ground. Placing my arm over his shoulder, I squeeze him softly. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that I care. We admitted not long ago to feeling fond of one another.
“Marriage agrees with you then?” Father asks and I shrug. Being married at thirty-one isn’t something I ever planned. I thought I would be older, more steady in my oncoming position as head of this family.
After The I Do Page 11