Sweet Love, Survive

by Susan Johnson

  The fingers that manacled her wrist remained firm; the heat and power of his body was searing her, discomfiting her. She could feel him rising into the softness of her hip. “Please, Apollo, don’t,” she whispered, trying to pull away. All she saw in his face was aggression, a madness composed of anger as well as hunger.

  “Please—”

  “Why not?” he said grimly, a need for conquest thundering through him. “You’ve been whoring for the general,” he said with exaggerated reasonableness. “Why not for me?”

  “If you want to rape me, feel free,” Kitty hissed indignantly. “But rest assured, that’s what it’ll be.”

  Apollo laughed softly. “I don’t think you’ve changed that much.” His tawny, half-lidded eyes assessed her with a slow, intimate appraisal, and an insolent smile twitched on his lips. “I’m sure it won’t be rape,” he said quietly.

  All the joy of rescue, all Kitty’s happiness at having found Apollo in the mass hysteria of full retreat, now disappeared before the angry resentment of his accusations. Was self-preservation so terrible? Was she supposed to drink hemlock rather than be dishonored? If that was the case, every man in Russia would be obliged to self-destruct. Stiffening her spine, Kitty lifted her chin and glared at Apollo, hating him for his accusations, hating him for not even knowing or caring that scarcely a single decision in her life had been made since those three days in December without her measuring it against the yardstick of his wishes—as if her life hardly belonged to her any longer. Breathing deeply to steady her fury, Kitty replied with fiercely acid sweetness, “You might as well do whatever you want.” Her voice quivered with venom as she added, “Don’t all men?”

  Green eyes battled gold for a long moment and then abruptly Apollo pushed her away. “I’ll get the key,” he spat, the declaration short, curt, chill, the voice of a stranger—quite unlike the laughing, loving, obliging Apollo of several months past.

  “Very well,” Kitty replied, indifferent. She had learned to make adjustments. It had been unrealistic to expect their relationship to remain immutable. Apollo had come into her life briefly, dazzlingly relighting the dying embers of lost illusions, but the last few weeks with General Beriozov had explicitly reiterated the bald facts concerning the ubiquitous double standard as well as the importance of women in the new revolutionary society. And on occasion, if she had momentarily forgotten her place, the general’s pretty whips were quick to refresh her memory. Apollo now was making the identical affronted male noises she had grown to despise.

  She had decided, a few weeks ago, to survive in this tidal wave of blood, and survive she would, for herself and for her child—and if Apollo or anyone else took issue with her methods … too damn bad!

  Now all she had to do was get this hideous indication of male possessiveness and insecurity unlocked from around her hips and she’d be on her way.

  Apollo came out of the bedroom with the small golden key in his hand, his face a grim mask. Meeting the rock of his anger, Kitty was in no mood to renew the flaming row. With an economy of movement she turned, her back stiff with icy mortification, and lifted the skirt of her gown.

  When Apollo saw again the intricate bands of chased gold shackling Kitty’s hips, he let out a stream of cool, sarcastic invective.

  Kitty was impervious. Let him vent his anger any way he pleased, just so long as she was freed from this bondage and mark of male monopoly. And then her heart froze—for Apollo was making no move to unfasten the lock.

  Why not, he thought, eyeing the delicate medieval device. It was the ultimate symbol of ownership, after all. No one could touch her. He had the key. And wasn’t she his now? A prize of war, as it were.

  Oh, no, not you too, Kitty silently pleaded. Why was it masculine sexual jealousy so naturally turned to constraint and coercion? But she would not beg, never again. Kitty refused to submit to a continuation of the old tyranny. Without turning around, she said simply, “I can’t ride with this on.”

  Her words broke through Apollo’s mesmerized, irrational state. His hand moved silently and swiftly. The girdle of precious metal fell open and dropped to the carpet. Stepping over it without a glance, Kitty walked toward her bedroom. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said impassively, trying to quell the hysteria that was building inside her. “This dress will never do for winter riding.”

  Apollo’s tanned face was lightly sheened with perspiration, but there was no tremor of emotion in it. He didn’t seem to hear her. Standing where she’d left him, Apollo retrieved the cage of gold from the floor and balanced it for a moment between his strong hands. All padded silk inside. Considerate bastard. What’s this? Sliding latches … ingenious. Apollo’s slender fingers expanded the gilded bands experimentally. The casual slavery of it left a foul taste in his mouth, while the possible need for it made him feel suddenly physically ill. Try as he might, he was far from being detached. For a long moment, thin-skinned and resentful, he did not stir, reason battling violence, then abruptly his powerful fingers convulsed, brutally crushing the expensive trinket in his grip.

  Stripping off her evening gown, Kitty let it fall to the floor. Rummaging through her armoire, she had her hand on a red dress when a deep voice, just a little hoarse with drink, said, “I like the green.”

  Kitty spun around.

  In the doorway, swaying gently, his pale eyes sparkling, stood Apollo. “Just looking,” he observed lazily. “And I must say the view is fine.”

  Kitty naked—all curves, white skin, and slender long legs—was doing dangerous things to Apollo’s ready appetite as well as to his sense of restraint.

  “Do you mind,” Kitty spat, her jaw obstinately set, her full, rounded breasts raised high from the stiffness of her spine.

  “I don’t mind, if you don’t mind,” Apollo drawled, still hanging in the doorway. His voice, amiable in its sarcastic fashion, went on softly. “Is it an invitation you’re giving?”

  “Get out of here!” Kitty cried, stricken and heartsick at Apollo’s callous drawl. “Don’t you dare touch me!” Undone by the events of the horrendous evening, aglow with incredulous fury, and trapped like a cornered animal, she stood erect and furious, gloriously nude, staring at her tormentor. “Don’t you dare!”

  “If you knew me better,” he said in that same lazy way, unabashed, “you’d know I always pick up a challenge.” His voice fell to a hushed resonance. “Always.” His braced arms fell and in one purposeful stride he was on her. His right hand closed like steel on her wrist, and he said with mocking softness, “I dare anything, Katherine.” Her proper name, pronounced as the general had, with a brutal courtesy, conveyed Apollo’s long evening’s worth of frustrated outrage.

  To Kitty, already sensitized by the indignity of a brutal captivity, the words were like a pricking goad. Eyes blazing, she jerked back and with a sweeping movement snatched up with one hand the heavy silver mirror from the boudoir table. She aimed for Apollo’s face just as he reached for her other arm. Miraculously, he twisted out of the way, but barely in time—inebriation slowing his normally fine-tuned reflexes. He dodged again to avoid the mirror’s returning swing, but the blunt edge grazed the top of his head. Kitty was like a sea storm out of control, and it went on for a long while—lunge, feint, thrust, twist, his cruel fingers never relinquishing their harsh grip on her wrist—until finally he was able to tear the mirror from her hand. But he bore more than one bruise from the struggle.

  All the crystal toilette objects went next, hurled with more fury than success, until Apollo’s free hand swept the marble tabletop clean with one mighty stroke. Undeterred, near hysteria, Kitty began striking out blindly. Her hand closed on a lizard belt tossed carelessly over a chair back. In her grasp it became a formidable weapon: the snaking metal buckle cut sharply over Apollo’s shoulder and his grip on her wrist tightened just short of breaking bones. She was splendid in her naked fury but dangerous as hell, and up until the belt laid open his cheekbone, Apollo had constrained himself admirably.
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  That was the end for him.

  The belt was ripped from her hands and landed across the room. “That’s enough,” he said sharply, capturing her other hand, “or I’ll have to hurt you.” Blood was already tracing a path down his lean cheek.

  Flushed, trembling, Kitty stood captive in his steely grip, breathing hard, her eyes flashing fire. “You’ve got your bloody nerve!” she screamed, her breasts heaving from the exertion. “How can you possibly hurt me more than you already have!”

  For a moment Apollo was taken aback by her unexpected violence. Even the distasteful events of the past hours couldn’t provoke that degree of sheer, undisguised hatred. And, discounting this evenings—impossible, he knew, until the day he died, but—theoretically discounting it, their previous acquaintance accounted even less for this bitter animosity.

  “At the moment,” he stated matter-of-factly, “I think I have more battle damage than you.” He stood looking at her, his gaze traveling down her gleaming body and lingering in an intimate appraisal that caused her to tremble even more. With apparent effort his glance returned to her face. “What do you mean, hurt?” he asked, smiling a little.

  She glared at him. “How typically male,” she said hotly. “Don’t let me overtax your imagination.” Her eyes and her chin defied him and she tried to jerk her hands free. Apollo’s slender brown fingers tightened, but his expression remained equable, only an eyebrow faintly mocked.

  Kitty felt at a distinct disadvantage standing naked before Apollo. He was calm, fully clothed, in control as usual, and that damnable unshaken arrogance only added fuel to her already blazing temper. But her breath felt constricted—and it wasn’t exclusively from the fury inside her. “You come barging in here like Saint George,” she hissed, “doing your knightly duty—saving the lady. It’s all in a day’s work—the big, strong mountain warrior knocking off another little adventure. And, since you’re three parts drunk, why not seduce the lady, too. That role’s second nature to a Kuzan, born to charm women, raised to please them in a hundred ways. You’re just living up to the legend.”

  Apollo’s eyes crinkled. “Thank you,” he said agreeably.

  “It’s not a compliment,” Kitty retorted coldly.

  He tried to look mollified but only managed to look amused.

  “And now that the maiden is rescued I’m supposed to fall gratefully into your arms, is that it? After all your accusations I’m supposed to capitulate cheerfully at the merest glance from your all-too-suggestive eyes?” Even as she spoke, self-hatred fed the flames of her wrath—because that was exactly what she wanted to do.

  Apollo regarded her for a moment, then said lightly, “For my part, the proposal’s tempting. And if you can’t bring yourself to be exactly cheerful, I’ll settle for anything this side of murder.” He smiled this time with his eyes, long-lashed, sensuous, and those pale Eastern eyes—taking her already in their lazy possessive way—reminded her of what he could do to her without half trying; reminded her of a rumpled bed in a flower-filled room, of masculine power and erotic passion.

  No, she wouldn’t give in, wouldn’t allow those thoughts to take over. Damn his arrogance. Damn that confidence he was exuding even now of his power to arouse her. Fighting him, fighting herself, she shouted, “You want a proposal? Rape me then! After the last few weeks I know exactly how it goes.” Her lips curled into a bitter sneer. “You might as well get in line.”

  Each stood quietly taut for a moment, both consumed by self-righteous indignation. Then Apollo’s fingers uncurled from Kitty’s wrists. Smiling thinly, he lifted a hand—ripped by Kitty’s fingernails—to wipe away the blood dripping from his jaw.

  “Sorry,” he growled, her taunting invitation goading his own cold fury. “You’ll have to wait if you want to be raped. Today’s Monday. Tuesday’s my day for rape. On Monday it’s murder. Six this morning, if you recall. Come to think of it, tomorrow may not work out, either. It’s been such an exhausting night—” the tone was recognizably a hundred shades too sweet—“what with all the drinking and …” Apollo looked at Kitty pointedly. “Other things. I don’t know if I can even guarantee you tomorrow. So you’re quite safe. By the way”—Apollo’s eyes raked her insultingly—“I prefer my rape victims quieter. Screams are so distracting. Keep it in mind.” And because Apollo still retained some semblance of decency even under his drunkenness and outrage, he turned and quietly left.

  While Kitty dressed, Apollo entertained himself with the vodka bottle. Sprawled deep in a plush, cushioned chair, he speculated in a very subjective way on the vagaries of females.

  Some minutes later, Kitty walked into the drawing room and Apollo looked up. “Very chic,” he said, his narrowed eyes sweeping her with something very like scorn.

  “It’s warm,” Kitty replied tersely.

  “Sable and purple cashmere is always très élégant,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “So sorry, Countess, I’ve no violets tonight. Sables positively cry for violets. The war has brought its privations, alas.” The golden eyes were half-lidded in vexatious irony.

  “I’m not used to violet corsages, anyway.” Kitty nervously watched him refill his glass.

  “Ah, yes, I forgot,” he drawled, “you’re a simple innocent, rusticating in the country.” On the word innocent, his gaze swung up from the task of pouring and waited for her reaction.

  Kitty refused to respond, so he merely lifted the glass in salute, smiled dazzlingly with his easy, self-assured charm, and tipped the liquid into his mouth. With the carelessness of the inebriated, Apollo set the glass down casually in the vague direction of the table, then heaved himself out of the comfortable armchair and started for the back door in a lazy, rolling stride.

  Having fortified himself with the additional liquor, Apollo’s equanimity was now restored—or if not restored, suitably cozened by alcohol. He had made himself a promise while slouched in the general’s chair, drinking the general’s vodka, and waiting for the general’s paramour. He’d kill him. Not tonight. Not now. But he’d kill Beriozov. And with that comforting thought, Apollo’s mood had mercurially swung to the tinsel light mockery, which Kitty was finding as difficult to deal with as the cool anger. Following him silently, she retreated into muteness and prayed they reached safety. Using the servants’ rear staircase, they left the general’s suite.

  Karaim and Sahin were waiting, saddled and ready in a stable three blocks away.

  “What took so long?” Karaim asked shortly, stamping his feet to restore the circulation, silently taking in Apollo’s cut face and the fingermarks on his hands. Marks of a woman—and in Apollo’s present mood, prudent to disregard.

  “The general’s hospitality was most pressing,” Apollo replied lightly. “I don’t think he likes to drink alone.”

  Karaim could see the brilliant drunken glitter in Apollo’s eyes and, knowing his temper, wondered academically how fast they must ride to stay ahead of pursuit. Apollo sober was someone to be reckoned with; Apollo sodden was a child of danger immune to caution, flirting with death.

  “Did you kill him, then?” Karaim inquired quickly, for if that was the case, their hunters would be unrestrained.

  Dark straight brows were raised and a golden gaze sorrowed. “Do I look that drunk?” a slurred voice said, mildly chagrined. “The day I can’t drink a Siberian peasant under—”

  Karaim didn’t think he had time to hear the entire story. He kept to the point. “Did you kill the general?”

  “He was in the best of health when I left,” Apollo said in an obliging, slurred tone, rocking slightly on his heels. “In fact, I tucked him in myself. Save a roaring headache, and—” a note of contempt crept into his voice and this time he spoke with no slur—“a missing bedpartner, come morning all will be identical in his life.”

  At Apollo’s last, rather rude remark, Karaim’s eyes swung to the lady. Her spine stiffened. Kitty spoke, staring straight at Apollo, cold outrage in her eyes. “Suppose we drop that subject.”
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br />   “The general’s bedpartner, you mean?” Apollo asked tauntingly.

  “That, and the general, and everything to do with him.” It was so quiet her breathing was audible.

  “Wouldn’t that be convenient?” His level denunciation rolled through the silence like a tornado through a ripe wheat-field.

  Kitty’s face burned, but during the last few weeks she had learned to stomach humiliation. Besides, her freedom was worth any price. “If not convenient,” she replied with a terrible smile, “at least it will make our journey bloodless.”

  Knowing Apollo’s unpredictability when drunk, Karaim interrupted before his master could reply. “The sooner we leave—”

  About to say something, Apollo apparently curbed the impulse. “Good idea, Karaim,” he grunted. “I’ve been indecently reasonable all evening, but my control doesn’t last forever in this state. And we must be into Tuesday by now,” he finished nastily. His own dark thoughts obsessed him for a moment; images of Beriozov with Kitty tore at his composure. Stalking toward Leda, he consoled himself with his earlier murderous promise.

  Extending a hand to Kitty, Karaim helped her into her saddle, and the trio followed Apollo out of the stable.

  He rode far ahead of the others, bareheaded, stiffbacked, in a murderous mood. His hair seemed paler than ever in the eerie gray predawn light, and Kitty’s eyes were drawn repeatedly to his rigid shoulders. By the time the first pink streaks of morning sun were lighting the horizon they were twenty miles from Stavropol. By midmorning they were in White territory, so they stopped to rest in the shelter of a deserted barn.

  Karaim and Sahin guarded the entrance, keeping watch on the distant ribbon of road which disappeared into the dip of a river valley. Several miles beyond the point where the road dropped out of sight rose a small plume of smoke—and one never knew if a Red patrol, having broken through the lines, would suddenly appear.