by Keary Taylor
Punishment for the show they created for him.
Punishment for thinking Sevan…my story, would serve as entertainment.
The look in Cyrus’ eyes fills my vision. The brokenness I witnessed in his eyes. The way his hands fisted. The pain of centuries in his gaze. The sob that ripped from his throat when I left him to grieve.
I raise my hands to my chest, holding in the pain I felt for him then.
I may be two people right now, trying to figure out how to be one.
But in this moment, I’m Logan Pierce.
I’m that woman who read his pain. The one who dared speak out against a House of immortal vampires to end the tale that gave the man I love so much pain.
A breath of agony sucks into my chest suddenly. I bite my lower lip to hold in the cry of anguish and pain and longing.
I sit up in the bed and look over at the clock.
11:21.
Please, Logan, Cyrus begged me as he caressed my arm, my body. Don’t make me wait.
Guilty? I had asked him.
The guilt of feeling as if I am betraying my wife, he had whispered to me as I lay there dying. Because when I look at you, Logan…
My hand pulls the door to my bedroom open.
It never ceases to amaze me, every time I Resurrect, just how truly incredible being a vampire is. The absolute sense of balance. The feeling of strength and power that flows through my veins. The perfect clarity of vision. And the crystal clear hearing.
Cyrus is in his bedroom.
I hesitate with my hand on his doorknob for just a moment. I’m a shaking, trembling mess. It’s incredible that emotions can even outweigh my vampiric abilities. Can bring me to my knees.
In this moment, I let go of the past.
In this moment, I close off Sevan. And I’m just Logan Pierce.
I twist the doorknob and push the door open.
It’s dark, but I can see clearly.
He stands beside the window, looking out over the property. But he looks over his shoulder at me, his eyes waiting.
I let my own wander over him. He wears a pair of jeans. His feet are bare. A gray t-shirt hugs his form nicely.
I push her away. The woman who knows every inch of this man. Who has touched every surface of his body.
I don’t want to be in this moment with her experience in my head.
Right now, I just want to be Logan.
Cyrus stares at me, waiting for my cues. But I see it in his eyes, the burning. The embers. The desire—for a lot of things.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
Slowly, I cross the room through the dark. One step at a time I approach Cyrus, holding his eyes the entire time.
He’s silent, but his eyes say a million words. They run up and down me as I cross the space. I wear an oversized shirt that falls halfway to my knees. His eyes take in my legs. Linger on my shoulder where the neck of the shirt has slid off.
I stop just inches from him and let my eyes fall to the space between us. I reach for his hand and lace my fingers into his.
“We may have pretended for a few weeks,” I say quietly. My heart is racing, my blood surging through all the feminine parts in me. “Put on a show. But in the end, it was real for me. It did things to me.”
“The past few weeks-”
“Please don’t say anything,” I say, cutting him off. My eyes wander over him, taking every bit of him in, but never quite meet his eyes. “Please just let me have this.” I pull our hands up, resting them against my chest. “For just this night, please just be with me.”
I know he can feel it, my heart thundering inside of my rib cage. The sensation of his skin, his hand against my chest, it’s overwhelming. I crave his touch. After the past few weeks of longing, of imagining, of fantasizing what it would be like to be touched by Cyrus, here I am.
I asked him not to speak, so he doesn’t.
Instead, he wraps his hand around my waist. He draws me in close and he wraps his other hand behind my neck.
I let my eyes slide closed. I wrap my arms around the man who has done such complicated things to my heart. I run my hands up his back, appreciating every muscle on his body.
His breath warms my neck as it comes out in a big sigh. It sends a wave of goose bumps across my skin and I let my head fall backward as a little sound escapes between my lips.
It’s just a slight brush at first, his bottom lip against my collarbone. So soft I can’t even feel him, only his warmth. But then it happens again, and once more. He shifts, and soon his lips are pressed to the side of my neck, slowly working their way up to the hollow beneath my ear.
I let my hands fall, slowly sliding down, tracing along Cyrus’ sides, until they catch on his belt. Through the dark, my fingers search, until they find the hem of his shirt. They slide under the fabric, and my breath catches when they come in contact with flesh.
A needy groan escapes Cyrus’ mouth when I touch him and the frenzy in me doubles.
I’ve fantasized about this dozens of times over these past few weeks. Wondered what my view would be with his shirt removed. Wondered how he would feel. Wondered how he would smell from this close. Wondered what kinds of sounds I could make him make.
His hand slides down, dips dangerously low on my back.
I continue letting my hands slide up.
Over his stomach. Over rises and falls.
Up over his chest muscles.
And it’s not enough.
In a swift motion, I pull further up, and Cyrus raises his arms, letting me remove his shirt entirely.
I place one hand on his chest, the other slowly sliding up his arm, appreciating his sculpted body.
Possessively, his hands grip the fabric at my hips and pulls mine to his. His lips come to my jaw, moving up. My entire body ignites with electric sparks when he gently pulls at my earlobe with his teeth.
I moan, utterly satisfied and craving a million degrees more of his touch.
His grip on my hips tightens and I rise up onto my toes. As if I weighed nothing at all, he lifts me, spinning in one motion. He pins me against the wall, his hips holding me in place, pressing hard into me.
His eyes hold a dim glow of red, but I can tell, mine are brilliant and bright. I can’t hold anything back right now. Can’t think straight to do so in the moment.
My hands return to his chest, relishing in the feeling of my skin against his.
Cyrus takes the hem of my shirt and in one swift motion, pulls it up and over my head and lets it fall to the floor at his feet.
His mouth once more returns to the hollow at the base of my throat and my head falls back against the wall. My hands rise up, fisting in his hair. My fingers lace through its thickness.
Another fantasy fulfilled tonight.
His hands caress my back, rising up, his fingers splayed, as if trying to gain every inch of contact possible. I arch into him, needing more. Craving more of him.
“Logan,” he breathes against my flesh.
And a wave crashes down on top of me, drowning me.
My hands come to either side of his face and his eyes meet mine.
Longing. Lust. Desire.
And I want it to be there. Maybe it is, but I’m too scared it isn’t real:
Love.
“Say it again,” I beg him.
He watches me for a moment, and I know he has to be overanalyzing my request.
But the heat does not diminish in his eyes.
His grip on me tightens, and he steps away from the wall. My legs stay wrapped around his waist and he carries us to the bed in the middle of the room.
Gently he lays me down on it, hovering just above me, his eyes locked on mine. His hands come to my hips, and slowly the right one trails down. His eyes wander. To my stomach. To the black panties I wear. Up, over the bra I wear, over the rise of my breasts.
He dips, pressing his lips to my stomach. “Logan,” he whispers against my flesh.
Once more, my hands
come to fist in his hair. I arch against the bed, anxious and eager for his touch.
“Logan,” he says again. His eyes slide closed and he draws my knee up, holding it against his side.
My eyes flutter closed and every cell in my body is focused on the sensation of his hands exploring my body.
I love you. The words echo in my brain.
But there are too many sides to this. Too many complicated aspects. And the words cannot come past my lips. Not yet.
For now, I can just touch him. I can just exist in this moment, being with Cyrus. Finally.
Finally.
Me and Cyrus. Together.
Chapter 3
I don’t sleep. But eventually I turn on my side, looking out the window. Cyrus curls up behind me, an arm wrapped possessively around my waist. Slowly he breathes against the back of my neck.
He never says anything, as I asked. But we lie there for hours, just existing.
I don’t let him kiss me. He never tried. I have no doubt he was thinking about earlier when I backed away from him. He’s very much going off of my cues. I never try to kiss him directly on the lips. I need to be at peace with both of my selves before I can do that.
And we don’t have sex. There was endless touching. His hands on me, mine all over him. Lips on skin and bodies tangled together. But not sex.
That part is complicated. Again, I need to be at peace with every part of myself. But I’ve also never taken that step. I’ve never been with anyone like that.
Around six in the morning, Cyrus presses a gentle kiss to the back of my neck and rolls out of bed. I watch him walk to the closet. He grabs a button-up shirt and he stands in the doorway, watching me as he buttons it up, slowly.
“Good morning,” he says quietly as he leans against the doorway, sliding his hands into his back pockets.
I don’t say anything. Maybe I manage a small smile. But I’m mostly just watching him.
I see the weight in his expression as he walks forward. He takes my hand and raises it, pressing a kiss to the back of my knuckles. “I’m sure you are thirsty again,” he says quietly. “I’ll bring you something to drink and ask Fredrick to make breakfast.”
I wasn’t. I hadn’t thought about my thirst, but the moment he says it, my throat is burning.
I swallow once, and nod.
He crosses the room and walks out, swinging the door partially closed.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.
Last night was everything I dreamed it would be. Finally touching Cyrus and having him touch me filled a hole I’d recently discovered I had in my chest. Letting him press his lips to nearly every part of my body was the most blissful experience of my life.
But I’d also made a deal with myself.
Just one night.
Just something to hold onto.
Until I figure everything out.
I get up and go change. Comfortable, casual clothes. I braid my hair to the side. Put on some make up.
I look at myself in the mirror just once, before heading out the door.
“How soon can the pilot be ready to depart?”
I hesitate at the top of the stairs when I hear Cyrus’ voice.
“He said he will be ready whenever you are,” Fredrick answers in his heavy accent.
“Excellent,” Cyrus says. I hear him bite into something and chew. “After breakfast, I need you and Mina to pack our things and we’ll be off. I am very anxious to return home and return to our life.”
Crack.
I raise a hand to my chest.
Our life.
I look around, as if searching for answers, to clear solutions, and clear thoughts. But they’re nowhere to be found.
What I know is waiting for me in Roter Himmel, in Austria, doesn’t feel like our life.
I swallow once, and descend the stairs.
I can hear his racing heart before I even turn the stairs. Can smell the sweat on his palms.
And I feel ill for a second. I feel so disgusted with what I am, that this is because of me.
But the moment I see the man, sitting at the dining chair, his hands tied to the arms, a gag in his mouth, I see his pulse in his neck. I can’t think of anything other than the burning inferno in my throat.
His eyes only widen for a moment as I stand across the great room one moment, and am sinking my fangs into his neck the next. A little muffled scream penetrates my ears for just a second before he grows quiet and limp.
I suck his blood.
I pull it out of his body.
It slips down my throat.
It curls its way into my body.
It hits my stomach with satisfaction.
I moan as I take another pull, cupping him tightly to me so he doesn’t slump in the chair.
One more deep pull, and I release him.
I straighten and wipe the drip of his blood that escaped onto my lip.
The man sways, his eyes heavy, hardly able to stay open.
Cyrus steps forward. And suddenly, with a sharp twist, he snaps the man’s neck.
“Cyrus!” I bellow, stepping forward. But it’s too late. The man falls limply, his head and chest hitting the wooden tabletop. “What…why?”
“You took most, but not all of his blood,” Cyrus says as he walks back to the counter where Fredrick is preparing the food. I hardly even realize he’s looking at me with big, wide eyes. He even takes a big bow, muttering “my Queen.” But my shock, my rage, makes the man invisible. “He would have turned,” Cyrus says evenly.
I look back at the dead man. “Into…into a Bitten.”
Logan places a hint of a question in it. But Sevan knows the truth. Has seen it happen over and over and over again.
“Yes,” Cyrus confirms. “It’s been a recent change. That the creation of any Bitten is outlawed, and punishable by death.”
My eyes snap to Cyrus in surprise, but Logan has heard it before. I didn’t really understand it then. But now, knowing what I do remember, it’s a huge development. “Any and all Bitten? Any accidents? Always?”
Cyrus nods. He dishes up a plate and extends it in my direction. “Things have happened recently. It became necessary to eradicate their kind.”
“They’re all dead?” I gape in horror. “Every Bitten, no matter if they were created by accident?”
Cyrus jaw tightens. He sets my plate down on the table. Hard.
“You have not been here for centuries, Sevan,” he says in a hard tone. “You do not know what they have done in the past two decades!”
I go cold. I stand a little straighter. My fingers curl into fists.
“I told you not to call me that,” I say quietly.
And Cyrus knows he’s pushed things too far, gotten too hot too fast. He looks up at me with knowing eyes. But he doesn’t say anything.
I walk to the table and place my hands on it. I take a moment, because I know as soon as I say the words, I can never take them back, or undo the consequences of them.
“I’m not going back to Roter Himmel with you,” I say, looking up, and finding his forest green eyes.
One beat. Two.
“What?” he says.
I lean further into the table for a moment, gathering my strength. “This isn’t simple, Cyrus. It never is.”
“I know the adjustment is always hard for you, Sev…” he stops himself from saying the name. “Adjusting to multiple lives, reconciling the past and the present and the even deeper past. But doing it apart can do no good.”
He steps forward and I see desperation rising in his eyes. He stops at my side and I see he wants to touch me, to pull me to him. But he doesn’t dare.
I stand, facing him.
“Doing it apart is the only way I can do it,” I say, absolutely calm. Completely even. “Because right now, inside, I am too complicated. Looking at you is too hard. I have to figure some things out, Cyrus. And I cannot do it with you…” I don’t know how to finish the sentence, because there are too man
y aspects to it.
“I need some time on my own,” I say finally.
I knew my words would hurt Cyrus. They would crack him. In my past lives, others have told me stories, given accounts of what Cyrus is like when I am…not with him. He goes mad. He slips into the dark. He does bad things.
So me asking for separation, after what has been 286 years? That feels like a betrayal.
“Go back to Roter Himmel,” I say, making my voice soft. “I will return when I am ready.”
“Sevan,” he whispers. And the name just breaks me further.
I shake my head. And I turn to walk away.
“Where will you go?” he asks. His voice is broken.
I turn back. “I have one item of unfinished business to take care of. The final chip to our bargain.”
“Rath,” he says, immediately understanding.
I nod. “I’m going back to Las Vegas. You can go home, and their security can go back with me. I’ll be well protected with them.”
He hesitates, and he’s at an absolute loss for words.
So I take advantage of the moment, when he’s not arguing with me. I turn, and walk back to my bedroom to get ready.
* * *
There are a million things that I don’t know. Don’t know how to plan for.
I pack nearly every item of clothing I own. I slip the credit card Cyrus gave me weeks ago into my back pocket.
I stand in the middle of my room, looking down at my phone.
“Fredrick,” I say without raising my voice.
A second and a half later, there’s a light knock on my door and it cracks open. A very timid and frightened looking Fredrick looks in at me.
“Yes, my queen?” he says in German.
I understand him. Because I’ve spoken the language for over a thousand years, in all its variations. As well as dozens of others.
“I need you to get me some kind of House…directory,” I say, looking down at my phone again. “I assume you have such a thing.”
Hesitantly, he steps inside. “Yes, your Majesty,” he says as he pulls his own cell phone out. He taps a few things on the screen and indicates for me to hold my phone up. A moment later a notification comes through, and I open it to find dozens of names and numbers.
