by Liz Meldon
Malachi exhaled harshly behind her, jaw clenched around the black leather gag shoved deep between his lips. He’d known this was the story they needed to sell, but for a fleeting moment, he actually looked affronted by it. She pursed her lips at him, a flicker of her eyebrow settling the chaos demon. He tugged at his leash defiantly, then narrowed his eyes.
“Excellent.” Serafino’s lips thinned into a dangerous grin, and he rubbed his hands together, practically drooling. “You’re as resourceful as I’d hoped… We’ll bleed him dry together, my love, my little vixen.”
Ella swallowed her incredulous snort, opting for a phony smile instead, one she hoped looked riddled with adoration, with surrender. “Sounds great, my, er, master.”
Yup, that sealed it. Serafino exhaled a breathy chuckle, golden fangs exposed, his eyes manic like he couldn’t believe his ears. Had Malachi not been in character, she suspected he would have let out a harsh, barking laugh, the sound judgmental as hell.
“What a beautiful gift you’ve given me,” the vampire murmured as he gave the chaos demon a slower, more purposeful once-over. “But I’m afraid he’ll need stronger chains. Those…” His eyes narrowed. “Apron strings certainly won’t hold him. Did you drug him? Is that why he’s so docile?”
“His cousin keeps a sleeping draught on hand,” she said hastily. “I laced his drink with a bit of it, but I’m not sure I got the dose right. It’s like drugging a fucking elephant.”
“Good girl.” Serafino stalked back to the altar, tossing the red silk overlay aside, fake candles clattering to the ground, and lifted the concrete lid. He rooted about inside what looked like an enormous stone coffin, deep and full, before straightening with a set of delicate chains in hand. “These were forged in the pits of Hell… nigh unbreakable.”
Ella swallowed thickly, her head bobbing like she thought he was the most brilliant man alive. Undead. Whatever.
“Bind him properly, my bella.”
“Yeah, sure, definitely.” Fuuuuuck. The plan was sort of contingent on Malachi’s brute strength, but they could work around that. Hopefully. She kept her right arm stiff, shielding the stake up her roomy sleeve, and accepted the new bindings with her left. Serafino watched, his glee tempered; this was a test. She had passed all the others so far, but this—this would really cement things between them.
“On your knees,” she ordered, kicking Malachi’s shin as hard she could. He went down with a grunt, falling heavy, slamming to the stone floor and swaying a bit for dramatic effect. Ella released the bike chain and hastily wrapped his wrists in the new chains, and as soon as the two ends met, they connected as if by magic, forging to one. Right. No need for a lock. Awesome. She winced when she gave the bindings an experimental tug, finding no give in either direction.
While there was no hope at separating his hands, Ella had a backup plan in mind: the apron strings were still the only restraints constricting his arms to his body. He could do some serious damage with those biceps.
Hopefully.
“We’ll need to work on your binding technique,” Serafino mused from behind her. She could practically hear his twisted, satisfied grin. “But there will be plenty of time for that.”
Nodding, she ordered Malachi back up, then dragged him deeper into the musty room by the newly added chains. His stumbling almost made her laugh and break character, but she schooled her features when she faced Serafino again, leaning into his caress as he grazed his knuckles over her cheek.
“I’ve waited so long to find my perfect bride,” he whispered, toying with her hair, plucking at her lower lip. Ella let him, disgust churning in her belly at the gross revelation, incensed heat creeping up her spine, fueled by Malachi’s furious aura snapping and snarling behind her. Serafino seemed not to notice, too busy touching her, stroking her, exploring her against her will. “Someone with spirit, with fight. Someone beautiful. Your initial resistance was such a treat, my treasure. It confirmed we were destined, that you are the bride to helm my armies. We will lead the race of vampire from the shadows… We will drive them into the black and make all demons bow before us. Angels too, when I’m through with them. Embrace me, my bella, and we can begin eternity together.”
Ella peeked up at him shyly through her lashes, releasing Malachi as she stepped into Serafino’s arms. This close, he smelled like death, like rotten meat and twisted dreams and broken promises. But she looked into his eyes, her features soft, maybe even wanting, and snuggled into his chest—then dropped the stake down her arm, into her hand, and drove it hard into his heart.
Serafino staggered back with a hiss, glaring at the sharpened wooden chair leg wedged into the dead center of his chest. Ella had practiced on Malachi for a few minutes before they left—striking without impaling, just to ensure she actually hit the fucker’s heart on the first try.
Only Serafino didn’t buckle and scream. He didn’t writhe in pain, fold over in agony. There was no delicious moment where Ella could savor his pain.
Serafino laughed instead.
Coldly. Cruelly. Mercilessly.
His hand snapped around her throat, moving faster than even her eyes could track, and hauled her close.
“Fools,” he seethed, face twisted in rage, chuckling with a cold humor that sent her heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach. “This isn’t some horrid human film… A stake cannot kill a hell-born vampire. Apparently you aren’t quite broken enough, my bella—”
“I’m nowhere near broken,” Ella hissed back, pretenses falling away. “And I know a stake can’t kill you.” Although she could have done with a bit of brutal, gory agony—something. Her eyes narrowed. “In fact, we were fucking counting on it.”
She grabbed hold of the stake and shoved it deeper into his body, throwing all her strength into it as she thrust him against the altar. A stake to the heart wouldn’t kill him like it would his offspring, but like any major trauma, it would definitely slow him down.
And that was all they needed.
Malachi was up in flash. He wrenched his arms from his body, ripping clean through the apron strings and racing around the altar. As Ella grappled with her maker, throwing everything she had at him to keep him pinned in place, Malachi threw his bound hands over Serafino’s head. It was a tight fit between the rugged forearms corded in muscle, but he managed to force his way down and lock an arm around the vampire’s neck.
No longer required to keep him in place, Ella leaned across the altar and dug the box cutter out of Malachi’s pocket. Before she could extend the blade, however, Serafino shoved her hard, and she flew clear across the room, landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Dust spiraled up around her, the stonework below unforgiving, but the flicker of sharp pain in her shoulders and hips was nothing. A blip. Ella scrambled to her feet and clicked the box cutter’s razor-sharp blade up four notches. Serafino howled, flailing against Malachi, pounding his fists into the chaos demon’s face, thumbs searching for his eyes to gouge, but Malachi twisted just out of reach, strangling him, trapping him against the altar.
Fuck this guy. Ella sprinted back and climbed her maker’s lithe frame. He had removed the stake at some point, looking like the victim of a mob hit in his blood-soaked white suit. Serafino snarled up at her, saliva clinging to the tips of his golden fangs, his gaze black and furious.
“You can’t—”
“I can,” Ella growled, grinning even as his talons sliced through her beloved FU sweater, straight down to the bone. “And I will.”
Before he could rip her away, she plunged the box cutter into his throat and slashed clean across. A wave of blood spurted in its wake, drenching her. Ella gritted her teeth and hung on for the ride as her maker fought, clawing for his throat. He gargled some incoherent threat up at her, eyes burning with hate. Malachi bore down harder, his unbreakable chains sinking deep into the gushing incision, and then unleashed a muffled roar as he tore Serafino’s head clean off.
The vampire’s body went limp, sa
gging beneath her. His head landed a few feet back, rolling into a dusty corner next to a bookshelf, collecting dirt along the way. A bloody river streamed from his neck, tainting the floors of this abandoned church forever.
And Ella—Ella felt like she was being ripped in two.
She screeched as pain beyond any she had ever experienced scorched through her veins. Her vision blurred to a hazy black that knocked her off balance, and she tumbled from the altar straight to the floor, curling into a ball as agony ravaged her.
“Malachi!”
He thundered to her side, dropping to his knees and pulling her upright as best he could with bound hands.
“It will pass,” he murmured, gag gone, his sword of a tongue free again. Not that she could enjoy him wielding it right now. Ella clenched her eyes shut and whimpered, a thousand tiny claws shredding her heart to pieces. Even his mouth brushing the shell of her ear brought no relief, nor the delicious rumbly baritone of his words. “Ella, I promise it will pass.”
She squirmed out of reach, writhing and twisting, searching for respite and finding none. Just as she tipped over, Malachi steered her head to his lap, holding it between his two enormous hands, silent as she rode out the storm.
Hadn’t she endured enough pain? When would it ever be enough?
As swiftly and fiercely as it had started, it stopped. He hadn’t lied to her—it did pass. A minute later. An hour. It could have been dawn for all she knew, but the pain eventually disappeared without a trace.
Her tightly coiled body unfurled on the floor, every muscle stiff, her teeth chattering, her cheeks stained with blood. Spots danced across her vision but vanished after a few blinks, the ceiling of the awful church basement coming back into focus through the haze. The metallic brine of her own bloody tears mingled with the pools spilled by Serafino, and she wrinkled her nose, throat raw from screaming, her mouth painfully dry.
With her head resting on his muscular thighs, Malachi peered down at her, handsome as ever—but battered. A deep purple bruise marred his left eye. A trail of blood oozed from his right brow. His lower lip had been split down the middle. Wordlessly, she pushed up on her elbows and licked the wound, just enough to get the juices flowing again, her mouth moist, her throat soothed.
“Your master is dead,” he rasped when she settled back down on his lap. With her shoulders and hips pressed firmly to the stone floor below, she felt rather grounded—safe, too, as Malachi worked his fingers into her hair. “The pain was your body severing the final ties to Serafino, ripping itself from his grasp forever.”
Ella pursed her lips, then pinched his nipple, catching the pebbled bud through his shirt with surprising accuracy. Malachi flinched and twisted out of reach, scowling as she shook her head up at him.
“A little fucking heads-up would have been nice, Malachi Saevitia.”
“A thousand apologies, Ella Thomas.” A mischievous grin replaced his handsome scowl, and his thumbs stroked her temples slowly, soothingly. “But now you’re free.”
She wiped at her cheeks, knowing the weight of this newfound freedom wouldn’t hit her until later. For now, Ella reveled in the fact that she would never have to look at Serafino’s smug face again, never hear his disgusting voice crooning my bella in her head.
Never have to glance over her shoulder, wondering if he might be standing there.
Never have to fear that he would hunt her, take her, make her his bride. Ugh.
Pushing herself up on shaky arms, she knelt in front of Malachi and his rumpled suit, his staticky golden mane, his bloody lip, his bruised eye, and ripped his remaining restraints away. The bike chain. The belts around his wrists. Those unbreakable chains from Hell would have to wait, but she couldn’t. Fingers twisting into his shirt, she slammed her mouth to his in a firm, close-lipped kiss. Malachi’s fingers found her belt loops, tugging at them, steering her into his lap. She clambered onto him willingly, happily, knees digging into his thighs, and when Ella broke their kiss, she wrapped her arms around his neck, their foreheads resting together.
“Thank you,” she whispered, blinking back tears as he gazed up at her, black eyes so impossibly warm, so wonderfully full and open that she could lose herself in them forever. “You didn’t have to do any of this, but—”
“Yes, I did,” Malachi murmured, stealing a quick kiss before flashing an impish grin. “Of course I did. When I look into your eyes, when I see your smile, Ella Thomas—I had no other choice.” He cleared his throat, suddenly frowning. “After all, I fear you might stab me again should I ever refuse you—”
She smiled so wide her cheeks ached, but this was the kind of pain she welcomed. When their mouths met again, they came together open and inviting, tongues tangling, teeth gnashing, blood spilling. The moment was sweet and tender, but their kiss wasn’t. It never would be. Always violent, merciless. Always fierce, chaotic.
Always perfect.
Her wandering hands eventually found his belt, but she forced herself to stop. No fucking way was she doing anything that involved less clothing in a shithole like this.
“Now,” Malachi said as she climbed off his lap and helped him up, his voice somewhat strained, his eyes the blackest they had ever been and his pants thoroughly tented, “let us find a way to break unbreakable chains, shall we?”
Ella shrugged. “I dunno. I kind of like you like this… All we need is the gag again and we’re good to go—”
She squealed when he ducked down and threw her over his shoulder, then blitzed out of there, neither of them looking back once as Ella’s giggles filled the stairwell.
Chapter Eighteen
At precisely 4:07 a.m., Hell’s unbreakable chains fell from Malachi’s wrists, landing with an earth-shattering clatter on the dining table. His cousin collapsed into the chair beside him, her forehead split open, a circular wound oozing in each palm, her Aramaic chanting, which had been both melodious and manic, finally falling silent. She had been at it for the last three hours, trying every spell in her arsenal to remove his bindings. The rest of the household had drifted around the first floor, watching, occasionally offering a suggestion or two, but ultimately useless.
Well. Ella was never useless. Freshly showered, she’d hovered nearby with a furrowed brow and her plump lower lip caught between her teeth, a constant companion, a silent support, a beautiful distraction. Farrow’s Hollow had been unnervingly quiet since midnight, save for the occasional wail of sirens. On the drive back to Alaric’s home, they’d spied emergency services ushering humans into rescue vehicles, the sky awash with helicopters and blinding beams of artificial light—not an angel in sight.
No vampires either.
The light that had erupted from the city’s core had come courtesy of Moira’s mentor. By now, all the details had been shared between them, stories exchanged, war wounds slowly healing—Alaric’s SUV beyond rescue. Angelic light had washed Farrow’s Hollow clean of Serafino’s vermin, much like a raging river cuts through mountains and sweeps all in its path out to sea. Black ash marred the snowbanks, his city coated in a dusting of black, and then a new, fresh layer of gentle white, snow descending from the full grey clouds like it was any other winter night.
Initially, and not unexpectedly, Moira had been enraged to discover Malachi had whisked Ella away from the safety of this house. However, upon learning all they had done, the sacrifices he had made, the role he’d played, Malachi suspected he was almost forgiven. Serafino was dead, permanently so, and Ella was safe.
Most of all, she was free.
And she had been glorious in battle. His warrior. His queen. His equal. Steadfast and determined, his little vampire had slit her master’s throat without hesitation. Had she not been immediately struck with blinding pain when the bond between her and Serafino severed for good, he would have mounted her right then and there. Rock hard and wanting, Malachi hadn’t felt a single one of his superficial injuries. The world had fallen away around them, his tunnel vision fixed on Ella, on the splendor of h
er eyes when she vanquished her enemy. He’d been enraptured, bewitched.
A chaos demon in love.
His inner demon had roared victoriously, the sound filling him, emboldening him to fuck and fight and feast. Yet Ella had been plagued by a swift and brutal agony, and so all those urges diminished, tucked away for the near future, his primary concern her well-being.
She had recovered splendidly. A phoenix reborn at his feet, her wings no longer clipped, her presence a fucking marvel. When she’d sat up on her elbows and swept her tongue across his split lip with all the confidence of a great Saevitia matriarch, Malachi had known at long last.
He loved her.
Of course he loved her.
How could he not? This exquisite creature. This vampiric goddess. A warrior woman who had slain her maker, a feat most vampires would never achieve.
Ella Thomas, his little vampire, was everything.
And he would have given her everything the second they walked in the front door had they not been greeted by a house full of people—by a frantic Moira and an exhausted Severus, a panicked Alaric and a profusely bleeding Cordelia, drained from all her spellwork.
There would be no fighting, no fucking, no feasting tonight.
Not that there would have been much of the three with those damn chains wrapped snugly around his wrists, but he could have improvised. Ella seemed to enjoy him restrained, anyway.
Especially the thought of him breaking free from his bonds and thoroughly ravishing her, a promise he’d whispered in her ear as they drove through the emptying streets of Farrow’s Hollow, the chaos long since passed.
Unfortunately, an unbreakable chain forged in the bowels of Hell was just that—unbreakable. No amount of strength had been able to sever the links and free him. Even more infuriating, the bindings had tightened around his wrists the longer he bore them, strangling their quarry. The only option left had been magic, and while the uprising had spent nearly all of his cousin’s reserves, she had stepped up to the task all the same.
