AIMEE BLINKED, tried to focus on where she was, how she’d got here. She was in an apartment, sitting on a couch. Her palm rested on the seat next to her…cool to the touch, leather. She blinked again, her mind processing this bit of information. The room was dimly lit, one lone table lamp given the job of illuminating the entire space. Music floated around her, soft, sultry, something with lots of horns and a seductive beat.
Not the type of music Ben, who preferred the dramatic sounds of opera, would have chosen or the jarring rap Kevin had cranked in his rusted-out compact.
All in all the place was peaceful, tempting. The kind of place that made her want to kick off her shoes and let herself slide down the cushion, just lean back and relax, forget everything bad that was going on in the world, everything she couldn’t fix.
She closed her eyes, considered for a second letting the apartment win her over, ignoring the nagging thoughts that said she shouldn’t be here, but a ping stopped her, caused her to sit up straighter, look around.
The place was an illusion, a snare. Underneath its calm exterior lay a history of dark emotions. No amount of music, stylish furniture or dim lights could hide that from her.
Whoever lived in this apartment must seethe with anger, malice and hate for the disturbing imprint to be so clear. She edged forward on her seat, strained to see past the lamp’s small ring of light into the nearby kitchen.
Someone very troubled lived here.
And she wasn’t alone.
CHAPTER SIX
AIMEE WAS STIRRING.
Drystan had flooded her with every strand of beguilement he could pull from his body, from resources he didn’t know he had, and now he was paying the price. He placed two wineglasses on the granite counter with shaking hands, started to grab the unopened bottle of merlot he had already pulled from the wine rack, but instead reached into the refrigerator for another bottle. One of the bottles he got delivered secretly to his home every Sunday night.
He jerked the cork from the glass neck, started to tip it over his glass, but with a curse pressed it to his lips instead. Blood, thick and heady, rolled down his throat. Even un naturally cold, straight from the refrigerator, he could feel it moving through his system, renewing his depleted energy stores.
The slight crunch of Aimee shifting on his leather couch alerted him she was now awake, aware, but he couldn’t face her yet. He pressed his palms onto the counter top, took a step back and let his head hang for just a second between his out stretched arms. The muscles in his back pulled, relaxing him.
The couch crackled again. His gaze darting from the door to the bottles, he picked up the chilled bottle and filled his glass halfway. After filling Aimee’s with merlot and topping off his own with the wine, he picked up the glasses and strode into the living room.
“I brought your wine.”
Aimee stared at him with round eyes. For a second, he thought his ploy had failed, then she pulled in a breath and slowly collapsed back against the leather sofa.
“Red? I don’t usually drink red,” she said.
“That’s why you wanted to try it.” He leaned down, let his fingers brush hers as he handed her the glass. The contact was tiny, but he hungered for it. A zap of electricity shot through him as his skin touched hers. He turned away to hide the flash of desire that knifed through his body.
“Your apartment is nice.” She took a sip of the wine, then slid it onto the table next to her. “Funny, I don’t remember coming here.” Her gaze was on the glass, her body still.
“I’m sure. You weren’t feeling well. My apartment was close. Seemed a better solution than sending you off in a cab.” He took a drink, letting the red liquid linger on his palate for just a second.
“Oh,” she responded.
He waited, willed her to accept his words.
“I have Garbo now. She couldn’t stay at the hospital.”
Her sudden change in topic threw him off balance. He held his glass to his lips, inhaled the scent of blood and fruit, bought time to trans late what she had said.
“She’s a wonderful dog,” Aimee continued.
“The old man…” Drystan set his glass onto the floor. “Will he get to see her again?”
Glancing around the room, it took Aimee a second to answer. When her eyes found his, they glowed. “I talked to the people who run the home his daughter found for him. He’s leaving for there tomorrow. They said as long as she behaves herself and no one complains, Garbo can visit as much as she wants.”
“No one will complain.” Drystan would make sure of it.
“No, I don’t think they will.”
A moment passed between them. Drystan smiled, content, happy….
He shook himself, sat forward in his chair. What was happening? He was slipping…almost as if Aimee were the one with powers…the power to lull him into for get ting who and what he was, the rejection that had made him into this. He clenched his teeth together, focused.
“The wedding’s only a few days away now. Are you getting nervous? Any second thoughts?”
Aimee swirled her wine, seemed to be admiring how the red clung to the side of the glass, then slowly rejoined the rest. She looked up, cocked her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Really?” Drystan waited, but she shook her head and set down her glass again. He took a sip of his wine/blood cocktail, both to cover his frustration and to gain strength, then asked, “You haven’t known the Myhres that long. Does that bother you? Aren’t you worried there are skeletons they might be hiding?”
She pursed her lips; doubt flitted behind her eyes. “Is this for your article?”
The article. “Yes. No. I’m just looking for a new hook. Everyone’s heard the ‘official’ story. I’d like to hear something new, personal.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh, wished he’d thought this through more. He’d imagined telling her his story, the horror in her reaction, then her agreeing to his plan. Or if that failed, her falling for his beguilement. Unfortunately neither seemed likely at this stage. For whatever reason he was having a hard time working the conversation around to the Myhres’ betrayal of him. And while he’d managed to confuse her enough to get her to his apartment, he doubted he could pull on his powers sufficiently to send her on her way convinced she should dump Ben at the altar. It was still days until the wedding. After witnessing her resistance to his spells, he couldn’t risk that the beguilement would hold that long.
“Ben had a brother. His name was Drystan.” She angled her neck, caught Drystan’s gaze, a spark of recognition in her eyes. “I knew your name was familiar.”
“The drug addict?” Drystan reached for his glass. She’d turned the conversation for him, and suddenly he wished she hadn’t. “I’ve heard about him. Are you saying he’s their skeleton?”
“Perhaps. Maureen doesn’t talk about him, but Ben has mentioned him.”
“Has he?” Drystan feigned disinterest, but his fingers pressed against the stem of his glass. With a crack, the stem snapped.
His vamp reflexes saved the drink, his hand cupping to catch the bowl of the glass, the stem falling onto the wood floor with a clatter.
Aimee’s eyebrows lifted.
“Must have been cracked.”
“I guess.” Aimee’s gaze stayed on the glass’s base until it finished its trip rolling across the floor, stopping at her feet. Drystan expected her to pick it up, but she just stared at it, almost as if she were afraid of the one-ounce fragment of glass.
“I think Ben misses him,” she added.
“Really?” The question was sharp.
Aimee’s gaze shot to Drystan’s face, tried to capture his, but he evaded her, staring at a point just left of her head instead.
“I’ve heard the Myhres didn’t treat him very well while he was alive. Used him for media coverage—‘look and see how generous the Myhres are, taking in the poor, discarded child of a drug addict.’ But at the first sign of trouble, of teenage rebellion, they turned their backs on him, di
d their best to make sure everyone knew he wasn’t a Myhre, not really.”
“I hadn’t heard that version.”
Drystan was sure she hadn’t. No one had, no one but he and the Myhres knew the truth. He swallowed the last of his drink, stood and set his glass on the table beside Aimee, ignored it as it rolled back and forth, dangerously close to falling onto the floor and shattering.
He moved to bend over her, his hands on the cushion behind her, trapping her.
“Teenagers, tough as they act, can be fragile. But when this boy needed love the most, what did the Myhres do? They turned their backs on him, walked away.”
“Loving someone isn’t enough. It won’t save them.” Aimee lowered her face, stared at the wineglass still balanced on the edge of the table beside her, then she snapped her gaze to his, pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. “They have to love, too—them selves, even the people they think don’t love them. Do you think this boy did that?”
Heat poured through Drystan, but not from anger. Understanding. She was making him under stand another side of things, a side he didn’t want to understand. He could feel himself weakening, listening to her, as if her hand pressed to his chest, the heat pouring from her, was melting his resentment.
He pulled back, broke the contact. Placed his own cold hand where her warm palm had been seconds before.
As he moved, she stood; there was intent in her eyes, purpose. “What happened to this boy…man, he was grown when he died…was tragic, but how do you save someone bent on destruction? How do you make someone love himself?” Her hands fisted at her sides. Lines of stress showed in her neck.
She was angry, but Drystan was angry, too, had gone too long holding this anger inside, sharing it with no one.
“Do you know how he died? Not the official story, the real one? You haven’t heard that. He wasn’t the one looking for drugs. He’d given that up years before. No, it was the golden boy, your understanding fiancé. He went looking for a high, ran into a bad group instead, was almost killed—would have been if this Drystan hadn’t shown up, pulled sweet, ignorant Ben from that pit of greed and desperation he could never under stand, had never experienced before. No, sweet Ben, the rich child, who was handed everything in life, playing at being a bad boy, saved by his worthless white-trash adopted brother.
“That’s the real story. Sound anything like the story you heard? I doubt it, because the Myhres left Drystan holding the drug deal, twisted what happened to protect Ben, let the world think Drystan was the problem, got what he deserved.
“But they had no choice, now did they? Ben was alive. Drystan was dead. Why shouldn’t he offer one final sacrifice? Like his life wasn’t enough. Not for the Myhres.” Disgusted, with himself, the Myhres and Aimee for getting him to spill the poison that had been swirling through his veins for a decade, Drystan started to turn, to run away and hide until he could regain control, bring himself to face her again, but she grabbed him by the arm.
“I’m sorry.” And she was. Drystan saw it on her face, felt it in how her fingers pressed into his skin—firm but gentle—as if sharing strength rather than attempting to use it to hold him.
He’d done what he’d hoped or started the process. She’d softened to him, seemed receptive to anything he wanted to tell her now, but all thoughts of swaying her, of convincing her to publicly denounce the Myhres fled from his head. All he could think of was how good it was to feel her touch, to see the understanding in her eyes…and how much he wanted…needed more…from her.
He placed his hand against the curve of her jaw, ran his thumb over her cheek. Her lips parted. He waited for her objection, unsure what he would do when she did. Stop himself or try to pull from his depleted reserves, force her to forget Ben for just a few hours, force her to let Drystan pretend he was something he wasn’t—loved.
SO MUCH HURT. That was all that Aimee could think about—the pain rolling off Drystan. The daimon she had shoved into a dark corner inside her wanted to open to him, sop up the dark emotions inside him like a sponge, but she couldn’t, knew from her experience with Kevin it would do no good. It might even make matters worse.
You couldn’t “fix” a human; they had to do that them selves. Still… She turned her head, pressed a kiss to the palm that caressed her cheek.
He stiffened, shock flashing through his dark eyes—darker than she remembered them being. Then in one forward motion, he pulled her to him and pressed his lips to hers. Something sharp grazed her lower lip, but before she could pull back, analyze what it was, his tongue found hers and her body began to react in the most human of ways.
Daimons didn’t mix with humans—not like this. It was…frowned on. Aimee shoved the thought away, let her hands slip onto Drystan’s shoulders, feel the strength there, the way his muscles moved under his blazer as he pulled her even closer.
Need. He needed her. Nothing could be more seductive.
His lips left her, trailed down her neck. She tilted her head, enjoyed the feel of his mouth pulling at her skin. Something sharp dragged against her throat; her hands tightened on his shoulders and the sensation was gone. Drystan murmured something under his breath, against her skin.
His hands moved to her hips and he pulled her pelvis to his body. His erection pressed into her. She knew what it was, what it meant. She’d seen what the bad humans did in the pursuit of lust, but now caught in the web herself, she couldn’t pull away. Instead she wanted to push forward, discover for herself every thing being human meant…wanted to discover it with Drystan.
Her hand lowered almost by its own accord, skimmed Drystan’s chest, paused to press against his breast bone, feel the slow but steady beat of his heart.
She knew what she was doing, about to do, was wrong, both as a daimon and a human. Daimons didn’t mix with humans, not like this, and humans didn’t cheat on their fiancés. Wrong. She was about to do something morally, undeniably wrong.
The thought should have stopped her, but strangely it thrust her forward. Doing everything right hadn’t saved Kevin, hadn’t made her the perfect daimon. She couldn’t see how it would make her the perfect anything. Perfection didn’t spring forth fully developed like Athena from Zeus’s forehead. Perfection was created, bit by bit, mistake by mistake.
Maybe doing something wrong was the first step in learning how to do right. Aimee’s hand continued its descent until it rested on Drystan’s groin, until she could feel the hard pulse of him beneath her palm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SCENT, TASTE and feel of Aimee almost overwhelmed Drystan, made it hard to keep his vampire nature hidden, to keep him from plunging his fangs into the blue vein that lay just beneath her porcelain skin. He wrapped his hand around her cascade of curls, pulled them from her throat, brushed his lips up and down the column of her neck. So tempting. So hard to resist.
Her hand was on his stomach, her fingers curling into the white cotton shirt he wore, nails scraping against the material. He licked his lips, willed his mind to slow, not to slip.
Everything about this moment was impossible. He wanted to remember it, savor it.
Then her hand moved, dropped until her fingers pressed against his sex, caressed the hard rod, the visible sign of his need. He almost bit her then, did let his fangs nip against her skin, enough that a tiny taste of blood made its way into his mouth.
Sweet, sizzling…like exploding candies he’d eaten as a child, but better, so much better. One tiny taste wasn’t enough—only made him want more.
Her hand began to move, un zip ping his pants. He shrugged out of his jacket, let it fall to the ground. As his erection sprang forward into her hand, he pulled back, tilted her face to his and stared into her eyes.
“Do you want this?” he asked. Suddenly it was important he knew she was choosing this as clearly as he was. He might make her forget this encounter later, but for now he needed her to want it, to want him, as much as he wanted her.
She answered by rising on her toes and p
ressing a gentle kiss to his lips. Then slowly, surely, she slipped each button of his shirt free, pushed the material away and skimmed her finger tips across his chest—traced each line of muscle, every ridge and indentation.
His sex hardened more with each pass of her fingers, his fangs seemed heavy in his mouth. He had never wanted anything more than he wanted this woman.
He unzipped her dress, watched as she let it slip forward, revealing her breasts as it folded slowly onto the floor. She wore nothing but a bra and panties underneath, no hose or slip to block his view. She stepped out of the circle of fallen silk, her heel catching on the cloth, but her eyes never leaving his face.
She was giving him something, he could feel it, was unsure what it was at first, then it hit him. She trusted him, believed he wouldn’t hurt her. He started to pull away, knowing that was a lie, that this time together could only end in pain—as all things ended with Drystan—but she grabbed both his hands in hers, held them palms up, her thumbs resting on top.
“Do you want this?” she asked.
Damn his soul to hell, he couldn’t lie, not about this. He pulled his hands from hers, thrust them into her hair and pulled her face to his. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”
MAKING LOVE WITH Drystan was no simple physical act. Body parts touching, nerve endings reacting, it was all there—but there was more. Aimee ran her hands down Drystan’s chest, let her warmth flow into his body, breathed in as he blew out, devoured the darkness inside him. It wouldn’t change who he was or have a lasting effect. She wouldn’t lie to herself and say that it would, but for now it felt good, fed the bit of daimon still inside her, made her want more. And Drystan had more, was a never-ending pit of darkness, longing—a truly lost soul who needed Aimee as much as she needed him. She wanted to change to pure spirit and seep inside him, be inside him—closer than two humans ever could be.
But only a daimon who accepted her powers could do that, and Aimee didn’t, wouldn’t. But she would make do with the next best thing. She kicked her dress to the side and slipped her thumbs under the elastic of her bra. It was time to get closer—past time. Her body tingled with the need, outside; inside all of her screamed for Drystan’s touch, for the feel of his bare skin against hers.
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