Frost (Queens of Hell Book 1)

by Liza James

  I know what she’s asking, and her hand suddenly reaches around from behind and slides over my jaw. Her thumb slips up, over my lower lip as she traces the gentle line and then moves into my mouth. She drags me against her form, pulling me tightly over her chest as her mouth falls down to the soft crease of my neck. Her nose drags along my skin and up into my hair. I can hear her breathing in, devouring my scent and I roll my tongue over her thumb.

  She pulls out of me in the next moment though, bringing her lips back against my ear and revealing her intentions. “Ahh,” she whispers. Her fingers suddenly tightening around my waist as her spine straightens and the air freezes around us. “He won’t touch you again, Skilla. I’ll rip every limb from his pathetic, lifeless body before I let him get his hands on you.”

  My tongue. Her ability to gain vague knowledge of my thoughts and emotions through any water-based substance. How she touched me, even though overflowing with sexual tension and desire, was intentional in her attempt to understand my concerns and fears. The way her body presses against mine, in the hold she keeps on my frame as she urges me up the staircase, are all reassuring reminders of how she’s integrated herself into my life.

  In spaces where I’ve hated her, where I’ve been afraid and angry. I realize she shows small pieces of her vulnerability more often now, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m slowly breaking through those walls she’s built so highly around herself.

  Remembering the small comments she makes every so often, words that catch me off guard and are laced with such a deep, esoteric emotion lingering underneath. Those are the moments I crave from her.

  With being this close, she so clearly protecting me like this causes my stomach to flip and my heart to beat with the connection flowing between us.

  I want to believe her when she says this is different.

  But if I admitted to that, it would change everything. My plans for escape. My will to fight against her. Hell, it’s already crumbling, but I can’t let go of that completely just yet.

  “I know,” I reply quietly as I breach the top of the staircase, replying to her easy and confident threat of Rowan. A part of me wants everything she promised in those words, and a wave of guilt runs over me briefly at the sick idea of wanting him dead.

  It’s quickly forgotten however when I round the corner and my eyes fall to newly replaced door to my room. The holes in which he splintered the wood and beat it with his fists are now gone. The blood smearing those places, the doorknob caked with his fingerprints, the very obvious and terrifying relics of what he was planning on doing to me that night are completely erased.

  Rage flashes under my skin and boils my blood. Of fucking course he would change the door out. Sure, it could purely be for aesthetic purposes, who wants to look at a broken, bloodied door for days on end? But I know the truth, I know him far better than to think he didn’t replace that door right away in order to avoid the images of what he was capable of.

  He knows he’s a fucking monster.

  And he enjoys every moment of it.

  I push forward, intentionally avoiding the feelings building inside of me and open the door to step into my room. Everything is the same, completely untouched, and I try not to let that bother me even more. Such a perfect little illusion he must enjoy living in.

  In the next moment, I jump at the loud of sound of something cracking behind me. When my head snaps back, I find Na’amah, her fingers white knuckling the door as she rips it from it’s hinges and drops it on the ground outside my room. The door frame splinters, the gold hinges hanging lopsided off the edge with broken screws having fallen to the ground below.

  I watch her in silence, and she doesn’t say a word either. She casually brushes her hands down the front of her thighs as she looks at the broken door with a smug expression crossing her face. When she finally turns back around to face me, she pauses, her shoulders squared my direction and her cold eyes showing nothing but absolute impassiveness. As if there isn’t a single thing wrong with her breaking doors and damaging property.

  It’s a good thing I tend to agree.

  I nod my head slightly, an unspoken thank you passing between us before I turn again and begin rummaging through my dresser. “What do I need for the event tomorrow?” I ask without glancing behind me, searching for anything remotely upscale I can wear. Thankfully, I have several dresses in my closet; my mother loved extravagant clothing whether I wore it or not.

  “You’ll wear what I’ve picked for you,” Na’amah replies flatly as she moves to the nightstand beside my bed and pulls open the drawer. It’s only full of junk and small trinkets, but she begins digging through it none the less.

  “Absolutely not. Knowing you, you’ll probably dress me in a paper bag.” I quip sarcastically, knowing she’ll use any opportunity to make me uncomfortable.

  “I would never dress you in a paper bag and hinder everyone’s ability to see you. That’s ridiculous.” She responds as if my comment is absolutely absurd. “However, we do need to discuss a few things in regard to what will happen tomorrow evening.” This time, her voice quiets slightly, and shockingly warms the space between us. It surprises me so greatly that I pause with a small gathering of loosely fitted tank tops and crops, and turn to face her.

  She’s watching me intently, no longer rummaging through my things but leaning back against my bed and resting with her arms crossed over her chest. I can’t help but notice the way her jeans pull tight across those powerful thighs, or the ways her arms dip and swell with the sharp lines of her muscles. She’s masculine and feminine all at the same time, and I can’t help but acknowledge how attractive I find that. My eyes fall lower, resting on her thick, black boots peaking over her jeans. When I move up again, my gaze scan the white blonde strands of her hair so tightly tied on top of her head, her electric blue eyes powerfully watching me watch her.

  The sharp line of her jaw, the ripple of her lips and the way her tongue slowly slips out and along her bottom one.

  Fuck. That shit was on purpose. “Stop,” I say out loud, knowing exactly what she’s trying to evoke from me. I know I’m right the second one side of her lips rise in a quick, arrogant smile.

  “You’re easy to play with, Kitten.” Her voice is lighter than anticipated, still dripping with a sensuality I’ve never experienced anything like before. “But before I fuck you today, we have serious issues to discuss. Things you won’t understand, but I need you to keep an open mind and listen.”

  My cheeks heat and my chest flushes with the invasion of images in my mind of her doing exactly that—fucking me. But the way she speaks now has my spine straightening and apprehension lingering in my thoughts. I can feel the weight of what she’s approaching and confusion rips at the already strained ideas I’ve already had to grow accustomed to. “Well, ten days ago I didn’t think Vampires or Hell actually existed so, you might as well lay it all on me now.” My words are thick with sarcasm, and I can immediately feel the way it turns her off to this conversation. Her eyes narrow and she leans back just slightly, crossing one leg over the other in silence as she awaits my changed temperament. “Sorry, sarcasm is my defense.” I admit quietly, slightly embarrassed and yet a bit turned on at her immediate authoritative reprimand with just her energy and demeanor.

  “Not today. Today, you’re present, you’re open, and you listen to the words I’m going to speak to you. This is for your knowledge and education just as much as it is for your own safety as well, Kitten. I need you to pay attention.” She uncrosses her arms and runs her palms down her thighs, leaning forward and raising her eyebrows as if she’s urging me to agree and submit.

  “Yes, Alca.” The words falling from my mouth come freely and easily, more so than I anticipate. Even saying that name has my pussy throbbing and wetting as I watch her. Na’amah’s jaw ticks, just once, and her eyes flare briefly at my response.

  I’m affecting her just as strongly as she affects me. My chest swells with pride and the revelation of my ow
n power here.

  I lean back against my own dresser, tucking my small pile of clothes against my chest and softening my eyes as I ready myself for whatever she’s about to say.

  “Our people, our race, have been around for eternity. Fallen Angels, Demons, the Omega, and Arcadia. Every religion derives from a single origin, taking on their own twists and characteristics to make their own. They don’t get everything right, but as you know, my sisters and I—the Queens of Hell—are all Vampires. Have the other girls told you how that came to be?” Her eyes remain stoic, but a flash of nostalgia runs through them and disappears just as quickly.

  “No,” I reply, trying to remember all of the pieces I’ve been given this far. “I don’t know those details.”

  “It began at the very beginning of the Great War, when Lucifer was also an Angel to the Omega. Lilith and Lucifer had a…unique history, one I won’t go into detail regarding. But once the Omega cast Lucifer to Hell, he cursed Lilith as well. My sisters and I stood beside her, fighting by her to remain in Arcadia, but the Omega wouldn’t tolerate what had happened with her and Lucifer. We were all cursed and cast to Hell, our abilities now serving as benefits to what we’ve become. But it wasn’t always like that. We’ve had to learn and hone these powers, control them into ways that help us rather than destroy all around us. This is why Lilith can no longer feed from Lucifer, or other human bloodlines that do not contain celestial blood. That was her greatest curse amongst the others. We’ve always been labeled as what humans call Vampires, even as Angels in Arcadia. But our curses now lie in where we remain, being exiled from Arcadia, and the powers we hold. As well as one other great curse for what we believed the five of us—including Lucifer—held.” She takes a deep breath and pauses, assuming I can have a moment to process what she’s explaining. She speaks so logically, and in that regard, it’s almost easier for me to digest than if it came from someone as theatric and passionate as say, Aggie. I nod for her to continue, struggling to compartmentalize everything I’m hearing but eager to push forward. “There is a type of connection that benefits the Fallen. A tether if you will, between those who are linked to celestial blood, often times Fallen Angels. They are referred to as the Fated, however, it is incredibly rare and these types of connections have not surfaced in decades until very recently.” Her words slow as she enunciates everything clearly, as if this is the most crucial piece of information she’s offered me.

  “Fated. Between Fallen Angels, so you and another Vampire? Or someone else entirely?” My gaze narrows and for some reason, it feels as though a knife is slicing through my stomach and ripping me in two. Is she trying to tell me that she’s Fated to someone? Brielle? Fuck. She isn’t a Fallen Angel, so I don’t think it would be her. But that means it would be someone I’ve never met before.

  “No, see, a Fated connection was also stripped of us when we Fell. The Omega deprived us of this as punishment to our association with Lilith and Lucifer’s wrongdoings. So, none of my sisters nor I have found our Fated’s,” she explains with heavy disappointment weighing down her words. But as relief spreads through my chest, she sighs in what sounds like exasperation and continues speaking. “Until recently. When we realized there was a possibility that we have the ability to unite our Fated bonds.”

  My brows pinch in confusion. What the fuck is she trying to say now? My heart beat quickens and I hold my clothing just a little tighter as I wait in anticipation of what’s coming. How do I remain in that place, in the Underworld, feeling the ways I do about Na’amah and knowing she’s connected to someone else in this way?

  “What are you saying exactly? What does this Fated connection mean?” I ask, surprised by the hesitancy I feel in her energy and body language. She’s leaning back again, her eyes remaining on me but just a bit more detached than usual.

  “Years ago, these were the rulers of our Fallen race. Fated connections are unlike any other. Two souls connected by blood and magic, the ability to feel everything your partner experiences, sense danger in each other. Communicate without words. Heal each other, combined and enhanced abilities once connected. The possibilities are endless. But once wars began breaking out amongst Demons and Fallen Angels, the Fated were wiped out altogether, slaughtered in hiding in order to gain control of an entire race. This is an ongoing war we are still fighting, continuously suffering from. Altogether, the Fated pairings died out entirely, and eventually, stopped surfacing in our race. It was a natural digression, the magic running dry in order to avoid continued murders.” Her words are full of acceptance, as if this grief has already been processed years ago, and is now a sacred piece of their history. I can only assume that because Fated pairings no longer emerged, this portion of their curse wasn’t as significant. Until now, until it’s becoming another aspect to their current reality and the possibility they could experience this for themselves.

  I can only imagine how badly they must want this. I can understand that, being completely owned and aligned with another person. Your other half.

  Knowing you are fully chosen by someone else.

  No rejection.

  No second choices.

  No abandonment.

  My heart hurts for this, craving that connection I so desperately want to experience with someone else.

  “Okay,” I breathe out, surprising myself at how calm I’m remaining. I stay grounded in the easy sight of Na’amah, of the sound of her voice and feeling of her wintery atmosphere surrounding me. Living in the Underworld for last week has me realizing it may not be so insane to fathom a world with Demons and Angels and other supernatural beings. “So what exactly does this mean? Have one of your sisters found their Fated?” I have a feeling she’s actually talking about herself, but I’m too afraid to ask that directly.

  I don’t want to hear her say yes. Maybe this is why she’s been so distant since we were together.

  “No,” she admits with heavy and drawn out sounds. “My sisters have not experienced their Fated connections.” Her jaw ticks again, her gaze somehow growing even more intense and predatory than it usually is. My heart is racing, and I absently twist my fingers against my skin while biting my lower lip as I try to remain unaffected.

  “Okay,” I start, forcing the words up and through the deranged lump in my throat that continues growing with each tensely passing moment. “So you’ve found your Fated then?” God, that was painful to fucking say, and I want to close my eyes so I don’t have to watch her as she tells me the truth.

  She doesn’t speak at first, but I hear the quiet sounds of her rising from my bed and moving toward me. The slow, heavy footfalls of her boots over my carpeted flooring sound in ways that I feel in my blood and under my skin. In a moment, she’s up against me, and I feel the cold of her skin pressing up against mine as my back is pushed hard into my dresser. My shoulders tremble in energy coursing between us, it’s thick and heavy, disappointment and rejection hovering around me like shadows waiting to come to life.

  I don’t want to fucking hear it. But we’re again, and I’m familiar with this dark space.

  Suddenly, her hands are removing the clothing I’m holding for dear life to my chest. She pulls them out of my hold and I reluctantly release them as she drops the pile to the floor. She moves up against me entirely, her chest pressing hard over mine as I breathe and feel us brush together. She’s fucking powerful, and I keep my eyes closed as her hands move to the strands of my hair. I can feel her running her fingertips over the ends, and I brave a small peek when I see her lift them to her nose and breathe in. She’s watching me, her eyes attentive and wide when she grips my left wrist and slowly drags it up between us. Pressing my palm to her chest, I feel the slow and steady beat to her heart, thumping in a subtle rhythm that somehow sings over my own skin.

  “Do you ever feel anything at all?” I ask, wishing I could hold half the peace and dismissiveness she holds in these moments. My heart is verging on an attack, sputtering out and dying completely when she’s near me.

/>   “I feel everything. All of the time.”

  Her voice takes on a quality I’ve never seen her reveal to me anymore. It’s vulnerable, brimming with revelation and surrender as I slide my hand up over her own jaw. She lets me, and that alone takes me aback. I let my fingers explore, relishing in the cold she emanates, finding comfort and safety in the feeling of her body against my own.

  I don’t want to speak or ask questions, anything that could derail us from this quiet and heavy moment we’re sharing together. My fingertips move gently over her lips, braving the lines and sensation of her breath. I shift up, over her cheek bones and then closer to those eyes alight with her own curiosity. She’s watching me, observing just as intensely as I am with her. My thumb grazes her eyebrows, slipping around the edge of her eyes and then moving back toward her hair.

  Pausing here, I look to her eyes again, gauging her reaction as I run my touch over the soft sides of her head and then up, into the long strands she always wears tied on top. “You never put your hair down?” I ask quietly, hoping this flows easily into our current exchange without disrupting it.

  She doesn’t respond at first, but when she does, I can hear the clear strain in her voice. “It’s my own way of protecting myself, in a sense. Leaving it down felt too vulnerable, made me too approachable in what felt like weakness. I needed to be strong enough to protect my sisters, our Kingdom. I’ve always been the warrior, and letting it down reveals pieces of me I don’t want available for anyone else.”

  I listen to her words, to the soft attribute her tone takes as she towers above me. It’s like I can almost feel her words on another level, something deeper, far more intrinsic than just speaking them out loud. She never gives me this much, and I’m not surprised it’s taken me this level of intimacy in a non-sexual way to feel her practically inside of me like this.