by M. R. Noble
No. Not him. Never again. “You.”
His grip tightened, and he jerked me against his chest. “Me?” His breathing raced, with his ribs flattening into me with each inhale.
“Yes.”
His lips touched my cheek, then traced the streaks of tears on my skin. His hands swept across the muscles of my back, gripping me like I’d slip through his fingers. “I’m sorry.” He kissed underneath my jaw, his tongue sliding to my neck, and the heat I felt transferred to pleasure.
“Me too.” I found the sweet spot behind his ear and sucked.
He heaved me up onto the countertop, entwining us together. His mouth crawled to mine, kissing me hard. My fangs slid into my mouth, just grazing his tongue. A drop of blood in my mouth swelled with the burning flavor of brandy. Ţuică. It was a Romanian plum brandy, but the flavor of Roman’s blood was stronger—fiery—with the sweetness of a mouthful of brown sugar.
I sighed against his mouth and shivered with the taste. He withdrew from me, and my heart lurched. I was always afraid of what he’d think of my fangs, and it was no different now.
His eyes were glossy, in a haze from the small cut of my fang. He wiped a smear of blood from my lip with his thumb.
“Where’s the bedroom?”
“Upstairs.”
He scooped me up and carried me to the stairs. Midway, he shifted my weight onto his shoulder and turned the dial of the nearby music player. We passed through the office into the bedroom as the radio host introduced a song. The beat of the music thumped to the rhythm of my heartbeat as he tossed me onto the bed.
Roman’s body followed, starting from my feet. He pulled off my socks and tugged at my jeans. Hovering over me, he removed my clothing one article at a time, making his way up my body. When his lips grazed my mouth, he was lifting my shirt over my head.
I shuddered as I yanked his shirt from his shoulders, not having the control or finesse he had with undressing me. I ran my hands over his skin, and let my mouth find his as we finished taking off the last articles of clothing. Then there was the smooth feeling of his skin.
My fangs slipped deep into Roman’s shoulder muscle.
He cried out, not in pain but in pleasure. The euphoria which Andre had worn when I drank from him hit Roman’s face tenfold.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” I backed away, but he gripped me and turned on his back, positioning me into a straddle above him.
“Shushhh. It’s okay.” His words slurred together. “You can’t hurt me. Werewolf, remember.” He guided my head down into another kiss. The sweet burning flavor of his blood rolled over my mouth and I was rigid with hunger. Temptation tugged on me. Roman’s strength was unfathomable, it was true. “But it won’t stop me from draining you dry.”
“Karo.” His hands ran up my body, placing my cheek on his shoulder. “You can’t overpower me.” The warmth of his mouth was on my skin again. “I’ll stop you before you take too much. Let go, Karo.”
The heat of him moving against me, the wet of his mouth and touch of his skin were all too much to ignore. I did as he said and let go.
Eventually, in the turn of our bodies, I tore my face from his bloody shoulder. I nibbled a finger, letting my blood dribble into his mouth to heal him. But the euphoria surging through him wasn’t over, and he took over the dominant role I had played with.
“You’re mine,” he breathed.
I spoke between gasps. “I’m yours.”
****
The sun hung low now, and Roman was still entwined in the sheets of my bed, passed out for a total of two hours from the ecstasy of my bite. I looked at the clock. At first, I was afraid he wouldn’t wake up, but I relaxed when I considered he was at least breathing. By now it was apparent my bite affected him more than it would another vampire. He wasn’t waking up until he had slept off the effects, and I was tired of waiting.
I got dressed and walked downstairs, telling myself I could make the whole spy thing work while still being Roman’s girlfriend. My half-empty beer was still on the coffee table where I’d left it, and it was a welcomed treat to my lips. Heading to the balcony to watch the last tip of the sun go down, I stubbed my toe on a massive black box along the terrace and almost fell over.
It was a hot tub. This whole arrangement seemed like a really bad joke, or B-list episode pilot. A woman, a vampire gypsy, and a wolf all hang out in the hot tub—cue the opening scene.
Leaning against the banister, the wind hit my face, blowing my hair back, but it couldn’t blow away the thoughts trickling back into my head. The pleasure of sex could only keep my mind blank for so long.
I took a swig of beer and stared out at the streets of Ottawa. This is my city. If I called up my senses now, I would hear the mesh of voices and city noises blurred together like a collective consciousness. And it called out to me. I meant the words I said to Roman. I was the last of the Dalcas, the second last of the Albesucs, and heiress to the Nabokov empire, and I’d be damned if Loukin made me betray my home city.
I felt like a super-hero looking out over Ottawa from a tower and swearing to protect it. Helping people was second instinct for a lot of heroes, but there was an aptitude inside me which I loved more. The power of choice. And no amount of manipulation, seduction, or guilt could take it away.
I had a choice—despite what Loukin wanted me to think—and I wouldn’t fall into one of his well-orchestrated traps again. I knew how to use my power now, and I would take down Loukin’s network of spies and protect my country. I would have to learn about the connections around me, and whose side those I encountered belonged to. Any info Loukin requested must have equal importance to the other side. Which meant finding a way to share the Canadian intel with the right people and distorting the message for my Russian contact. It’d be a dangerous play.
The colors of the sun shone coral in the dusk before the coming night, and for a moment I was back on the boat in the Black Sea. Turning my back on the view, not bearing the reminder, I walked inside.
A blinking red light on my answering machine commanded more attention in the quiet room than an air horn. My body glided over to the machine, and the glass beer bottle slipped from my fingers. I looked over my shoulder and listened…to the hum of the refrigerator. Roman was still passed out. With trembling hands, I clicked the button.
An electronic androgynous voice sounded out from the machine.
“Key in sequence.” Three high-pitched beeps rang through the air.
“A—Roma equals R. Mirrored in kind. Product. You. State the missing component.”
Another three beeps hit the air, and I covered my ears.
“A—Roma equals R. Mirrored in kind. Product. You. State the missing component.”
The beeps rang again, and I frantically looked toward the stairs, anticipating Roman to walk down at any moment. What does it want me to say?
“A—Roma equals R. Mirrored in kind. Product. You. State the missing component.”
High pitched noises filled the air this time, and I started to panic.
The machine was set for me. The code had to be one I knew. Something familiar that only my mind would register in a matter of seconds. A—Roma. Ana. Romania. The next part of the message. Mirrored in kind. A and R were to be repeated. A and R would be the missing component.
“A and R,” I said into the machine.
The high-pitched noises grew in intensity. “Incorrect answer. State missing component.”
A and R, A and R. Product me…Aleksandr! I was the product. “Alksander Nabokov,” I said.
“Incorrect answer. State the missing component, or self-destruct sequence to be initiated.”
Ringing sounded through the room and it felt like my ears would bleed.
“A—Aleksandr Russia,” I squealed.
The air in the room silenced.
“Welcome, Dark Eyes.”
I leaned against the table steadying myself. With cold shaking hands, I walked to the couch and sat down to listen, still gettin
g over the fact my condo may have been seconds away from exploding.
“Assignment. Bunny ears. Commencement. Fortnight. Partner operative. Smoke.”
My head hung limp in my hands.
“Stand by for further instruction.”
I didn’t know if it was an hour or ten minutes, but when I finally looked up, the red light on the machine was gone. I was left to the silence and my thoughts. Anyone but him…
A word about the author…
M. R. Noble has played tug-of-war between science and art her whole life, but the rope broke when she wrote the first line of The Dark Eyes Series. Immersed up to her keyboard in paranormal romance and urban fantasy, she enjoys blending the real with the surreal. The only drawback is she misplaces her mug while dreaming up her next scene and soon finds herself six cups overpoured.
Keeping to her Lake Simcoe roots, she is a member of the Writers Community of York Region (WCYR), where her muse is made not found…over a hefty cup of coffee.
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