by Joey W. Hill
He'd understood her trust couldn't be easily won. He'd said he'd expected her to fight, and to keep fighting. He'd also told her she had to give herself permission to make the leap. He didn't seem to feel those three things were necessarily in conflict, though they left her feeling confused. He wasn't, however. She saw that in his eyes, along with something else that had her pulse fluttering a different way. But at his direct order, she found her fingers on his throat loosening.
The other strap of her nightgown had tumbled. He caught it on his thumb, tugging it down, her jutting nipple catching the fabric before it dropped, leaving her naked from the waist up. Cinching his arm around her waist, he lifted and pulled her over to straddle his lap. His cock pressed between her legs. Then he did the unthinkable, something so ill-advised yet so ballsy she knew it had to be deliberate. Digging his fingers into her hair, he jerked her head back, and set his teeth to her throat.
All vampires had a visceral level, one that was so far beyond civility a rabid wolf would seem tame in comparison. Every one of them had to learn how to stay above that level, because to fall into that pit meant full blown bloodlust. Combined with all the other drastic changes she'd experienced today, Garron sinking his teeth into her throat triggered it.
She shoved off the floor, taking him with her, and heaved him up against the dresser. The upward thrust bounced him down hard on the surface, knocked him back against the mirror. The glass shattered behind him. She followed him right behind her throw, was up on the dresser with him, her knee planted between his legs, against his testicles. Before he could react, her fangs were buried a half inch in his throat, her hand dug into the hard muscle over his heart like talons, as if she could plunge through his chest wall to take his heart.
She could.
She swallowed the first ecstatic mouthful of blood, such a generous draught it escaped her lips, trickling into the pocket of his collar bone. She had her other hand clamped on the back of his skull, his flesh firm and smooth beneath her palm, except where the scars were. Her nose was against the scar that started under his jaw, where someone had obviously tried to slice his throat and damn near succeeded.
The warrior in him had understood her reaction this time was different. He was fighting for his life, trying to break her hold. He'd realize he couldn't. The predator in her shrieked with cold pleasure. After years of control, of grief, hate and rage, she could do as she wished. She could kill and take, and feed, and...
She glimpsed his eyes, fierce and intent. Even during this, he was seeking her gaze, seeking to make a connection. His expression was unrelenting, unsubdued. Still wholly unafraid. At least for himself.
Oh God. Oh...
She let him go so suddenly he rocked forward, pieces of the mirror falling around him on the dresser surface, to the floor. She scrambled with no grace toward the corner, toward the best position to turn and put up a fight, but she couldn't control her own movements. She crashed into the wall, spun against the stone, hands up in defense, fangs bared. Her arousal ran down her legs, dampening the short skirt of the gown. Her nipples were hard and tight, her heart beating high in her throat. Her body throbbed.
She was hissing, a feral noise she also remembered from her first days being turned. Never had she lost control like that...not since she'd been a fledgling. Her sire, Seth, had been there then. Protecting her from herself, protecting others. She'd never thought she'd need that stabilizing influence again. But Garron had awakened something in her so overwhelming, and that, along with that savage bite, had unleashed a primal reaction, the way she'd respond to a threat from another vampire.
Kill him. Destroy it before it destroys you.
What had hold of her now was pure fight or flight, and she didn't do flight. She wasn't a big fan of live-to-fight-another-day. Everything was the sharp, bitter, here and now. She could take him down, keep him down. Kill him. She, who'd dealt with a roomful of fifty vampires, was perceiving this one human Master as a greater threat to her wellbeing.
She wanted what he'd been about to give her, but it was everything attached to it that wasn't simple, the significance of all of it. Damn Theodosius Vardalos. Had he thought about the risks to Garron? Though the Master of Eden seemed to know so much about vampires, he'd discounted how little human life meant to them.
"No. I can't do this. I'm sorry. You need to leave. Now. I'll hurt you if you stay."
He straightened, standing before the dresser. Glancing at the glass scattered over the floor and dresser, he tilted his head, considering the diamond shards littering the shoulders of the T-shirt. Reaching down, he grasped the hem, removed it in a sinuous movement that revealed his lower body to the waist. The man was layers of tough, lean muscle over the large frame. As he turned to drop the shirt on the dresser, she looked at his broad back. There was more scarring there, as well as a stark black and red tattoo between his shoulder blades.
It was a coiled single tail whip, the end split into three barbed tips that spread out in a fan just beneath his left shoulder blade. Inside the coil, between his shoulder blades, was script.
Serve and protect. Master and cherish.
The words were done in red, several of the letters elongated so they looked as if they were dissolving into drops of blood.
He turned to face her again. He had scars on his chest, too. Small, shiny round scars from bullets, more shrapnel scars. Whatever had blown up near him, whoever had shot him, tried to cut his throat--any or all of that should have killed him. She could have killed him minutes ago, because she hadn't been mindful of her strength at all, hanging onto any level of control by a thread. Yet here he stood, as substantial as Atlas or Hercules, as if he would be standing as long as a mountain stood.
Which was foolish thinking, because she knew how fragile human life was. But this man pulsed with life. Life and lust.
Her gaze coursed down from his chest to the ripples of muscle over his abdomen, to the hint of hip bones and lower abdominal muscles that disappeared into his jeans, so her track led her over his groin, and the impressive evidence of virility there. Nothing indicated she'd cowed him in the least. From his reaction, she thought he might have some Viking in him, threats only rousing the warrior in him. Rousing him, period.
She despaired at the wave of red desire that rose in her to match it, fighting with an emotional reaction that was going to drown her. Serve, protect. Master, cherish. He could offer her all those things.
"You need to leave," she said again, moving her gaze to the opposite wall, looking anywhere but at what she hungered to have, the need so overwhelming she didn't think she could move without causing herself greater agony. "I'm not in control."
"No, you're not." He was moving stiffly toward her. She'd put him down hard. She'd be surprised if she hadn't cracked something.
"This isn't going to work. I don't want to hurt you, Garron. Please." She threw up a hand as he drew closer. "Stop. I mean it." She moved to another corner. He couldn't stop her. She was too fast. How could she have ever lost her mind enough to believe she could be successfully dominated by a mere human? She couldn't do this with vampire or human. It was a fantasy that was meant to remain an actual, only-in-her-head fantasy. "I have a blood pack in my things. I'll drink that. Tell Mr. Vardalos I want to go out on the next nighttime plane. I'm sorry. There's nothing wrong with you. This just won't work."
She tensed as he approached again. "Stop. I can hurt you. I can't control that."
"Yeah, you can. Because I say you can."
This time when she lifted her lashes, he was meeting her gaze, and what she saw there didn't let her look away. Ruthless determination, and a passion that couldn't be matched by a roaring fire. He wasn't going to stay away. He was going to dare her to kill him. To defy him. To refuse him.
"You did all that on purpose," she accused. "Have you lost your mind? I could have killed you."
"But you didn't. And you won't. I had to prove that to you. Saves time, don't you think?" He took another step closer.
Though she told herself to move again, she didn't. She sank down against the wall, put her backside on the floor in the hope the physical grounding would help with the mental one. Dropping to his heels, he braced his hand above her shoulder as he reached down, traced her lips, a fang, with the pad of a callused finger.
She closed her eyes, shuddered.
"Theodosius gave me a potion that would make me stronger than you. Faster."
She snorted out a hysterical half laugh. "Tell him to get back whatever price he paid for it. It's not working."
"I didn't take it. I won't be taking it."
She opened her eyes. His touch on her lips was distracting, almost as distracting as his eyes, locked on hers. He leaned in, all heat, pressing against her even though he wasn't physically against her. Yet.
"Why?" She let out a little hiss as he tapped on a fang, caressed the corner of her mouth.
"Same thing I told you earlier. I assume there are plenty of male vampires in your world who could bring you to your knees, master you."
"Control me. Torture me. It's not the same."
"No, it's not." He looked grimly satisfied with her response. "I expect that was part of what just happened, why you reacted to what I did that way. You're a tough bitch. No one's going to make you do what you don't want to do. But what really sets it all off is you're afraid I can master you without ever lifting a hand against you. As afraid as you are of that possibility, you want it more than you want anything. You want to call me Master and mean it."
He paused, gave her a penetrating look. "Yet that's a point of no return, isn't it? When you were fantasizing about it, you never thought it could become reality. If there's a chance it can actually happen, it changes the whole playing field, doesn't it? Affecting things way beyond ten days."
An ache was taking over her throat, spreading out in her chest. "I've had to be on my guard too long, Garron. This is just...I can't believe I came here, let alone let myself believe that something like this could happen. I just don't think I have it in me to trust you enough. As much as we both need me to trust to make this happen."
"Once again, you're taking too much on yourself, my lady." He sat down next to her, drawing up his knees, linking his hands loosely over them, sitting shoulder to shoulder with her. Or, given his height, shoulder to cheek. After the intensity of the past few moments, it was a casual move, almost friendly. She gave him a wary look.
"I know all about Eden seeming too good to be true," he said. "Before I came here, I was having nightmares pretty much every night. Refused to take any drugs, because that just made me feel trapped in the dreams, which was worse. First night I was here, I slept like a baby. That freaked me out more than having the nightmares. It took me awhile to get used to what this place can do, what it all means. Telling you that isn't going to make it any more possible to accept in the ten days you'll be here. Or maybe it will. You seem pretty extraordinary to me. A lot smarter than a big dumbass war veteran with bad PTSD."
He flicked a piece of glass off his knee, laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, as if he had all the time in the world to wait her out. Maybe he did. She studied him for a long pause, then settled back against the wall, putting her shoulder against his biceps.
The quiet companionship helped. She made herself calm down, using the techniques she'd used at the beginning, the things Seth had taught her. She wasn't too proud to treat herself like a fledgling, if the result was not putting the man next to her at greater risk. But after she'd found that center again, the hollowness was there as well. She put her head back against the wall, stared at the broken mirror.
"Have you ever had something you wanted so much that, if you ever did get it and then lost it, you'd want to die? Not the way people say 'I want to die'," she added. "Even when they're down and depressed, there's this line past which the instinct to survive will trump those feelings. Like the person attempting suicide who gets on the ledge, almost falls off by accident and starts screaming for help."
He stayed silent, waiting for her to finish the thought. Waiting for her to answer the question he'd posed, that hung in the air between them. "Yes," she said slowly. "If you're able to give me what I hoped to find here, I think I might meet the sun, rather than do without it again."
He put an arm around her. Said nothing, just held her to his side. Which made it impossible to resist putting her cheek on his shoulder. The broad, rounded expanse was solid and welcoming.
"You know," he said, "when they were putting me back together, and I was going through endless rehab, and surgeries, and more rehab, and more surgeries, I had a lot of days I thought, this just isn't worth it." Garron paused. "I mean, maybe I was meant to die, and these doctors, my buddies and especially me, just needed to accept it. Three of my closest friends were blown up with me. There weren't any pieces of them to put back together. They had to clean some of those pieces off me to make sure they weren't my parts. Some of the guys in my unit made the joke that it was good I didn't have anything amputated, else they might have stuck the wrong pieces on me. Then I really would have been like Frankenstein's monster, right?"
"There's nothing monstrous about you," she said softly. When she lifted her head and met his gaze, a tide of feeling for him swept her. What had just happened, the violence of it, compared to the quiet now, underscored how he was managing the situation. Honestly. He'd shown her anger and humor when he'd felt them, and now insight, giving her a window into a terrible time of his life she could understand. He was treating her as an equal, a confidante, not holding himself away from her, emphasizing that the two of them were bound together in this remarkable situation.
That tide of emotion she was experiencing was gratitude. Even if this didn't work out, she was grateful for the chance to finally connect with someone, talk honestly about herself. And, riding that surge of feeling, she wanted to give him something for that. Immediately.
She'd noted how his brow furrowed as he talked, as she talked, as if he was fighting a faint headache. She could give him something no one else could. It would be temporary, just like his gift to her, but an offering just the same.
Lifting her hand, she touched his ear. He tilted his head, a curious expression on his face as she felt the shape of the hearing aid, figured out how to remove it from his ear. She shifted onto her knees to remove the other one, stretching her body out against his chest. He let her do it, his hands briefly resting on her waist, her side. When she had the small objects cradled in her hand, she braced her forearm on his knee, looked down at them, back up into his face. "It's easier to talk without them, isn't it?"
She knew he could read lips, had seen the way he watched her mouth. He also seemed to pick up just as much of what she was saying from her body language. "My hearing is exceptional," she added. "So when it's just us, you don't have to wear them. You don't have to worry you're not speaking clearly enough, too loud or too soft. You can whisper or mumble, and I'll know what you're saying. It's easier that way, right?"
His gaze softened and he touched her face. "Vampires are supposed to be mean. You're not. Violent, sure. Possibly cruel at times. But mean, no. Not being mean counts for a lot in the world."
"Not in my world."
"Maybe you're worrying about the wrong world."
She shrugged, settled back at his side. Guiding his arm back around her, she put her head against his shoulder once more. She turned her face up to him so he could read her next question, though. She liked the careful way he watched her mouth, her facial expressions. "So what happened to get you out of that dark place, during all the surgeries?"
"One day, I'm in the hospital, feeling a million miles from anyone, and this nurse who mothers everyone on the ward shows up with a picnic basket. Through pieces of our conversations and talks with my buddies, she's figured out what my favorite foods are, and has cooked up the best fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy and apple pie you've ever tasted. So she perches on the edge of my bed, feeds me, listens to me, rea
ches out and touches my face, strokes my cracked and scarred head. When she gets ready to leave, she just puts her arms around me, hugs me against her big Mother Earth breasts, where you feel like everything will be right with the world. Even when your world is a cracked egg with the yolk running all over a dirty floor."
He cleared his throat. "She says 'Son, it's pretty simple. I don't care who you are, there's nothing in the whole world that doesn't feel better after you've had a good meal and the right kind of contact with another human being. You don't have to have the answers. You just have to have the feeling that you can handle them.'"
Garron touched her chin, made her look up at him. As he leaned in, she thought he was offering a kiss, but as her lips parted for that, he bypassed the opportunity, instead sliding closer to hold her, his bare chest and throat against her face, his arms circling her. The nightgown was still tangled at her waist. She hadn't bothered to change its position, even when removing his hearing aids. As a result, she could feel him against her breasts.
He brought them both to their feet, her against the wall. A different level of intrigue took over as he pushed the nightgown all the way off of her before hiking her up and guiding her legs into a locked position around his body.
Once he had her there, he went still, letting her feel his bare shoulders under her hands, his chest against her, his hips spreading her thighs wide for him, his groin pressed firmly to hers, reminding her of the throbbing need between her legs.
He didn't move, didn't stroke her further, just held her like that, looking at her, seeing her, saying nothing. The position emphasized his strength, let her absorb the muscled power of him pressed against her body so fully, pinning her to the wall. His silence, the full contact that suggested so many possible actions, none of which he was immediately executing, making her guess what he'd do next, were incredibly stimulating, resurrecting the weighted, delicious tension between them.
The nameless feeling that bound them, that connection, also resurrected, making her protests and fears die with their two bodies melded together like that.
