She had to get her shit together, and soon. There was only so much more of this angst she could take in her life. Violet Marchand was the person you went to for help with your problems, not the person who could commiserate with you about your problems because she had so damn many of her own.
“Pull yourself together, woman. You’re losing your damn mind,” she muttered to her reflection before grabbing her bag and swinging the door open.
And right there, waiting for her, leaning back against the wall opposite the ladies’ room, stood the object of her internal war. He pushed away from the wall when he saw her.
And that’s when she lost what little grip on her emotions she had left.
She held up a hand to ward him off. “Please, don’t, Nikolai. I’m in the middle of an existential crisis and I can’t have you looking like—” she gestured to his face and body “—that around me right now.”
He frowned and glanced down at himself, obviously trying to see what was wrong with the way he looked and what had her so twisted in knots. And that twisted her up even more, because there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way he looked. Now he was probably thinking he had parsley struck between his front teeth, given the disgusted way she was glaring at him. He had no way of knowing it was his unholy level of hotness that was wrecking her sanity.
But she was way too far gone down the rat hole of her breakdown to clearly articulate that, so with a disgusted, inarticulate groan, she threw up her hands and walked past him. She’d just made it out the front door of the pub when he grabbed her hand.
“Violet.” Although she stubbornly kept her gaze trained on her car—her last hope of escaping Nikolai’s clutches with her dignity intact—in the parking lot, she let him pull her to a stop. “Violet, look at me.”
Ugh. That was the last thing she should do. If she looked at him, her brain would melt and she wouldn’t be able to think.
His fingers tightened around hers, making her realize she was stuck. He wouldn’t let go until she met his eyes.
You can do this, her brain encouraged. You’re smart and strong.
Locking her jaw, she turned around. Her eyes moved up over his narrow waist, solid chest, broad shoulders, his square jaw, and locked on his gaze.
“Why do you run from me, kotehok?” he asked, his accent a little thicker than usual, his voice sounding completely earnest. “You can trust me. I swear it.”
She swallowed hard, unable to look away. She shouldn’t trust him. Trusting him was terrifying. Like deep sea diving with only a half tank of oxygen in shark-infested waters. Like free-falling out of a plane without checking to see if she’d even packed a parachute.
But God help her, she had so few defenses against the absolute sincerity she heard in his voice.
He tugged her closer, and her body—the traitorous slut—gave in without a fight. “Let me help you.”
The rasp of his voice, the way his warm breath brushed her ear as he spoke, the heat she felt rolling off his skin…it was all so tempting. All she had to do was lean in closer and sink into that heat and take that strength for her own. For once, she wouldn’t have to be the strong one.
Then his words hit her.
Clenching her teeth, she took a step back. “You can’t help me!” she bit out in frustration. “You’re the cause of my breakdown! How dare you stand there—all tall and muscly and crazy hot—and have absolutely no clue that you’re driving me insane!”
His brow furrowed as he processed her ramblings, and after a long moment, one corner of his mouth tipped up in a hint of a self-satisfied smirk. “You think I’m crazy hot?”
She threw her hands up. “Everything I just said and that was your takeaway?”
“Um…yes?”
She glared at him as her desire and anxiety and irritation swirled together in a lava-like cocktail that seemed to be burning its way through her bloodstream. It was official. She didn’t need to worry about the death threats because her bodyguard was going to be the death of her. “You are just so…so…”
“So…what, kotehok?” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Crazy hot?” There was a lilt of humor in his voice she didn’t appreciate at all.
Not. At. All.
A sound that was something like the love child of a shriek and a groan tore from her throat and she started to turn away, fully prepared to flounce—an honest-to-God, full-on Scarlett- O’Hara-level flounce—to her car. But his fingers closed around her wrist, tugging her back to him.
Violet opened her mouth to tell him to back off, but then her gaze clashed with his. All traces of humor and amusement at her expense were gone. The heat and hunger in his eyes made her snap her mouth shut and rooted her in place.
Then his lips were on hers and Violet’s brain gave up the fight.
OK, body and heart. Looks like you win this round.
Chapter Eleven
The first time Violet had kissed Nikolai, he’d been shocked. There’d been an agonizing minute of hesitation on his part that haunted her to this day. She hadn’t even been sure he was going to kiss her back. It’d been utterly mortifying.
But there was no hesitation this time.
It wasn’t a movie-perfect kiss. There was way too much urgency in it for that. But all of the worry and frustration she’d been wallowing in all day melted away under a tidal wave of raw, pure need.
Violet had never been the focus of the kind of intensity Nikolai brought to their kiss. He seemed to be pouring everything he had into driving her out of her mind with want just in case he never got another opportunity to kiss her.
But Violet wasn’t about to let him have all the control, either. She gave as good as she got, going so far as to snag his lower lip between her teeth.
With a growl that bordered on feral, Nikolai slid a hand behind her head and tilted her face a bit so he could deepen their kiss. On and on it went—and it was wonderful.
He yanked her up against him when her knees threatened to give out, and she would’ve been grateful for the save if she hadn’t been too turned on to think straight.
Violet couldn’t remember ever feeling anything like this.
She couldn’t touch enough of him at once. Her hands slid greedily up his arms, over his shoulders, up through his hair, and back down again.
Nikolai seemed to be having the same problem when it came to touching her. His hands moved over her like it was his job to make her come with nothing more than his mouth on hers and his hands on her body.
And he apparently loved his job.
She let out a shocked gasp, quickly followed by a long, embarrassing groan of pleasure, when he grabbed her hips and pulled her into his body so tightly she felt the hard evidence of just how much he loved his job pressed into her stomach.
The wave of need that hit her was so unexpected she fell into him, knocking them off-balance. Nikolai braced his legs to catch them both, all the while never losing his grip on her. He did it so easily, as if she weighed nothing at all.
And that so wasn’t the case.
He broke their kiss to whisper something in Russian in her ear. There was so much gravel in his voice that the words barely sounded human. A shiver ran through her from head to toe. She had no idea what he’d said, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. Whatever he’d asked her for, he could have it.
“Yes,” she whispered back. “Please.”
He pulled back to look down into her eyes, and the stark, desperate need and desire she’d read in his expression earlier slowly started morphing into something softer and infinitely more dangerous. He brushed his fingertips, feather-soft, over her lips, his eyes moving over her like he was trying to memorize the lines of her face. “Kotehok, I—”
Whatever he was going to say was swallowed up by what sounded like a car backfiring, the sound so loud and so close it threatened to burst her eardrums. A piece of the brick wall behind them shattered and flew up, slicing across her cheekbone.
Before she could catch her breath or figur
e out what was going on, Nikolai yanked her around the corner of the building. He shoved her against the brick and pinned her there with his body, holding her head against his chest. His heart thundered under her ringing ears.
“What the hell’s going on?” she asked, unable to keep a shrill note of panic out of her voice.
“Someone shot at us,” he said.
He didn’t sound like himself, she thought. The tender, passionate man who’d kissed the hell out of her a moment ago had been body snatched by someone else entirely—someone harder, colder.
Violet’s stomach lurched. A bullet had torn into the brick wall right by their heads while they’d been kissing. If they’d moved so much as an inch to the right, one or both of them would be dead.
And it was her fault.
She couldn’t even tell if it was terror or guilt and regret clogging her throat at the moment. Nikolai was literally shielding her with his body so that if any more shots were fired, he’d take the bullet instead of her.
She’d logically known that was the job he’d signed on for, and he’d said he’d be willing to take a bullet for her. But saying it and actually doing it were two entirely different things. And up until this moment, shivering against a brick wall in an alley, every muscle in her body clenching in anticipation of the next gunshot, she hadn’t really believed she was in any real danger.
She knew differently now.
Violet was about to apologize to him when she was interrupted by the sound of police sirens. They got louder and louder, then went silent.
She lifted her chin to glance up at Nikolai. “Do you think the shooter is gone?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away, just stared down at her, scowling fiercely at the cut on her cheek. She brushed her fingers over it and they came away smeared with blood. Maybe it was the rush of adrenaline caused by the fear of dying—and if she was being totally honest, Nikolai’s kiss before the shot was fired—but the slice barely hurt. “It’s nothing,” she told him. “I’m fine.”
His frown didn’t lessen, but he said, “Whoever took the shot is gone. Someone inside must have called the police right away, because it sounds like they’re on the scene already.”
She opened her mouth again to apologize, and this time it wasn’t sirens that interrupted her.
“Why the hell are people always shooting at my friends?” a very disgruntled Harper demanded, stomping around the corner with Riddick in tow. “It’s really starting to piss me off!”
“Tell me someone saw the shooter,” Nikolai growled.
“Benny’s talking to a couple of people who were across the street when the shot was fired,” Riddick said, “but you two were the only ones out in front of the pub.” He shot a disgusted look up toward a street lamp with a busted-out bulb. “And it’s dark as shit out here. We might get lucky and find someone who got a make and model of the getaway car, but I can’t imagine anyone caught a glimpse of the guy, or even a partial plate. I’m not too hopeful at this point.”
Harper snorted. “Are you ever?”
He shot her a disgruntled look. “Sometimes. But mostly, people are completely unobservant and just generally useless.”
She rolled her eyes and smirked at her husband. “That’s inspiring. We should have it stitched on throw pillows for our living room. You always know—”
“This isn’t a fucking joke,” Nikolai interrupted, his tone sharp enough to make Violet flinch.
“I warned you about using that tone with my wife, asshole,” Riddick snarled.
Violet was still two-fisting Nikolai’s shirt and had her head practically buried in his chest, but she still felt his body tense, preparing to dive into whatever battle Riddick wanted to wage.
“Whoa,” Harper said, stepping forward and holding a hand up to each of the hulking dhampyres who looked like they wanted to tear each other apart. “Let’s just chill out, OK? Fighting each other isn’t going to get us anywhere. Nikolai, stay with Violet while the police take your statements, then get her home. Riddick, Benny, and I will take it from there.” Harper shot Violet a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, OK, doc? We’ve got you covered.”
Violet swallowed hard while her relief and guilt battled it out for top billing of her emotional state. Everyone having her covered was exactly what was worrying her the most.
Because it was now 100% clear that anyone covering her was also standing right in front of a bullet.
Chapter Twelve
Nikolai struggled with a great many things during his time with Sentry. He struggled with following orders without question. He fought against policy and procedure that made no sense to him. He questioned if what he was doing for Sentry was right or wrong. The one thing he’d never struggled with was his focus.
Until now.
He’d been so damned focused on Violet—the feel of her body against his, the sweet taste of her on his tongue, the tidal wave of need and want he could feel flowing between them—that he hadn’t noticed the presence of a threat until a shot had been fired.
He could’ve gotten her killed.
Nikolai had experienced his fair share of guilt over the years, but the guilt he felt at having let Violet down was an entirely different animal. Had he not been so wrapped up in her, maybe he would’ve noticed the threat sooner, gotten her to safety faster.
He should’ve let her keep him at arm’s length. It was clearly what she wanted. But he just hadn’t been able to leave her alone. His heart had hurt at the mere thought of it.
Nikolai was pulled out of his solitary pity party by Violet’s deep sigh as she sank down on the sofa. “I didn’t think we were ever going to get out of that police station.”
He sat next to her and rested his elbows on his splayed knees, choosing to remain silent. Violet was being facetious, but in the interrogation room where he’d given his statement with Violet, Nikolai had seriously wondered if the police really would let him leave. They’d had so many questions for Violet about what she was doing with Nikolai that it didn’t take a genius to figure out they suspected him. Maybe he wasn’t a suspect in the shooting, but they clearly thought something he was involved in was creating problems for Violet.
The detective who’d been assigned to the case had even asked him questions about his time with Sentry and what he’d done for them. He’d asked Nikolai why some former Sentry cleaners were referred to as White Death.
It had taken every ounce of restraint—restraint that was already stretched to its limits by the night’s events—to keep from knocking the detective’s teeth down his throat until he choked on them. But Nikolai was certain his Council-appointed PO would frown upon him assaulting police officers, so he’d taken several deep, even breaths before calmly explaining to the small-minded motherfucker exactly what he wanted to know.
Nikolai Aleyev was White Death personified.
Not every Sentry cleaner was qualified to be White Death, which went way beyond simple target elimination and getting rid of evidence. White Death was a fancy name for someone who erased a person’s entire identity, getting rid of everyone they’d ever known, loved, or even met casually. It took years sometimes to complete such an assignment, and could cost hundreds of innocents their lives.
Nikolai had been White Death for more than a few vampires in his time with Sentry. Not even Seven knew that about him.
He’d been White Death for his last assignment with Sentry before its shutdown. He’d wiped out every person who’d ever come in contact with his target except for one.
Because that one happened to be a seven-year-old boy who’d watched Nikolai’s vampire target murder his mother.
Nikolai would never forget the look on that child’s face when White Death came for him. The boy was so young, yet he’d seen so much darkness in his life that having a gun pointed at him hadn’t even scared him. He’d looked resigned. As if he’d known his life couldn’t have ended any other way.
Nikolai knew that feeling. He’d seen that sa
me resigned look staring back at him in the mirror.
Killing the boy wasn’t an option at that point. Instead, he did the only thing he was good at other than killing.
He made the boy disappear.
New family, new identity, new country…not even the most powerful, covert agencies in the world could find that boy now.
His efforts had earned him a three-week stint in reprogramming. They used sleep and sensory deprivation that time, if he remembered correctly. He’d done so much time in reprogramming with so many different methods of torture that sometimes he forgot which stint was which and what he’d done—or refused to do—to earn his time there.
But that didn’t matter now. His past, the torture, the death and destruction that followed him through his life like his own personal storm cloud…it wasn’t important. He’d go through reprogramming a thousand times over if it helped keep Violet safe.
She’d been amazing during their time at the police station. Indignation on his behalf stiffened her spine as she sat in that interrogation room. She’d accused the detective of leading a witch hunt, and demanded to speak to the man’s commanding officer. When that demand was refused, she’d promised to have the man’s badge once she lodged a formal complaint with the Vampire Council on Nikolai’s behalf. She’d been fierce, warrior-like in her defense of his integrity.
It had been a huge turn-on while at the same time, succeeded in gouging the knife of guilt into his heart just a little deeper.
He didn’t deserve to have a woman like Violet defend him.
Violet surprised him out of his brooding by reaching over and grabbing his hand. “That detective had no right to say those things to you,” she said quietly.
As if to further prove he had no control when it came to Violet, his hand turned over and he laced his fingers through hers. Her hand was so small in his, her long, slim fingers pale against his much thicker, inelegant ones. “It was all true,” he said, wondering how long it would be before she pulled away from him. She should. He certainly wouldn’t blame her for it.
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