by Reinke, Sara
She gasped at this, stiffening reflexively, then relaxed with a murmur of pleasure as he used his fingers to delve inside her. With his mouth and his hands, he explored her innermost recesses, touching her, tasting her, driving her within moments to a climax that left her writhing on the bed, clutching at his hair.
By this point, his own need had grown so urgent, it was painful. Without bothering to unbutton his shirt, he ripped the front open, then shrugged it loose from his shoulders. She sat up in bed, her hair swept messily about her face, her cheeks flushed and glossy with perspiration. She reached for his belt, the tip of her tongue slipping out of her mouth in a quick, innocent swipe that nearly left him shooting off in his pants like a teenager on prom night.
“God,” he groaned, tilting his head back, closing his eyes as she opened his fly and took him into her mouth. Drawing her tongue in sweeping, concentric circles, she teased him, sliding him fully toward the back of her throat, then out again, leaving him breathless. She moved slowly at first, but when he touched her head, guiding her, gently urging her on, she began to move more quickly, bobbing back and forth, drawing him in deeper and deeper each time. When at last he couldn’t take any more, he uttered a low cry and caught her shoulders, pushing her away from him and down against the mattress, lowering himself atop her.
Karen’s arms encircled his torso, her thighs enveloping his hips, and he let himself sink deeply, fully into her amazing warmth. Sliding in and out of her, slowly so that they could both relish the delicious friction, he kissed her mouth, drawing her tongue against his own. She clutched at his shoulders, then shifted her grip, hooking her fingernails into the meat of his lower back and buttocks, begging him wordlessly to take her harder, faster.
“Don’t stop,” she pleaded when he obliged, increasing the rhythm at which he plunged into her, listening to the slap of skin against skin, the creaking of the bed beneath them, and her fluttering, quickening mewls.
“Don’t stop,” she begged, urging him with her hands, driving him into her. He leaned back, grasping her legs, drawing her ankles up to his shoulders, so that each stroke shuddered through her, spearing deep, filling her completely.
She came hard, knotting her hands in the sheets and arching her back as she cried out his name. Her entire body tightened, and she collapsed around him in fierce, rhythmic spasms that made him come without warning. He fell forward, catching himself with his hands spread to frame her face as waves of intense, unbelievable pleasure rocked through him. In its aftermath, he felt spent, exhausted, and crumpled forward, his forehead landing against her shoulder.
He could feel her heart racing, could smell the ambrosia of her sweat on her skin and the blood just beyond, adrenaline-infused and coursing through her. To his surprise—to his absolute amazement—the awareness of this didn’t stir the bloodlust at all within him.
Human, he thought, with something akin to wonder as he lifted his head and looked down at her. This is what it’s like to be human.
She smiled, radiant, breathtaking, and he brushed a strand of wayward hair back from her cheek.
I could get used to this, I think.
He smiled for her, helpless against her, then leaned down to kiss her lightly, sweetly.
“I love you,” she whispered, her lips dancing against his own, and in that moment, Tristan had no doubt at all in his heart or mind.
I could definitely get used to this.
****
From the darkness, a muffled digital ring drew Tristan from the depths of sleep.
My phone, he thought dimly as his mind made the groggy, reluctant transition from unconsciousness to alert. Beside him, Karen still slept, her body lying in warm, nearly perfect complement against his own. When he sat up, the sheet drooped away, leaving them both exposed from the waist up, and he blinked stupidly around the dark room, trying to find his cell phone.
I had it in my pocket, he remembered, stumbling out of bed and limping around blindly until he found his pants in a rumpled heap halfway across the room.
He heard Karen murmur softly, incoherently; then the mattress creaked, the covers rustling as she sat up, drawing them modestly to cover her breasts. Squatting, he fished in the pocket of his slacks until he found his phone. When he pulled it out, he saw Mason’s number flashing on the caller I.D.
“Shit,” he said, because it occurred to him that they’d they’d forgotten completely about Mason’s promise to join them once he’d finished talking to Michel on the phone. He glanced over his shoulder at the bedside clock and winced. It was well after midnight; more than three hours had passed since they’d parted company at the restaurant. And we’ve been sleeping this whole time. He’s probably been and left, beating on the door, wondering where the hell we are.
“Shit,” he said again, thumbing the keypad to answer the call. Raking his fingers through his hair to push it out of his eyes, he tried his best to sound dutifully repentant. “I’m really sorry, Mason,” he began.
From the other end of the line, there was nothing but silence. At first. Then, just as he was about to say his uncle’s name again, he heard strange sounds, a dull, flat whap like a side of beef hitting a concrete floor, followed by the distinctive sound of someone groaning—quiet, choked, pained.
“Mason?” Tristan whispered.
“I’m sorry, poppet,” a voice purred in his ear—a voice he recognized from earlier that night. “Mason’s a bit…tied up at the moment.”
Tristan’s brows furrowed, his free hand closing into a sudden, strained fist. All the muscles bridging his shoulders and neck drew instantly taut. “Davenant,” he seethed. “You son of a bitch. Where is he? What have you done with him?”
Jean Luc Davenant chuckled gently into the phone. “I haven’t done anything with him,” he said, with feigned insult in his voice. “It’s what I’ve done to him that should worry you.”
He used to amuse himself by stringing cats upside down from the trees and partially eviscerating them to see how long they could survive, Mason had told Tristan of Jean Luc. And if they’d resort to eating their own guts to do it.
“Where is he?” Tristan snapped. For a moment, Jean Luc did nothing but laugh. Furious now, trembling with rage, Tristan screamed into the phone, “Goddamn you, where’s Mason?”
“Look outside.”
Jean Luc’s reply came flat, cold from the other end. Tristan blinked in surprise, turning to the nearest floor-to-ceiling window.
“That’s right,” Jean Luc said. “Walk to the window, poppet. Let me see that pretty face of yours.”
Turning again, this time to Karen, Tristan cupped his hand over the phone, pinning her with his stare. Don’t move, he mouthed. Pointing to the windows to redirect her gaze momentarily, he then mouthed, He’s watching us.
Her hand darted to her mouth, her face drained of color, the sheet drooping lankly to expose her left breast as she turned it loose.
“Are you there, poppet?” Jean Luc asked.
“Yeah,” Tristan growled, stepping into his pants, pulling them up around his hips and buttoning the fly. He went to the window, standing bare chested, vulnerable in front of the tempered glass, staring at his reflection as it floated, ghostlike, against the colorful backdrop of the Las Vegas cityscape below. Facing him was the second Trésor resort tower, an exact mirror image of the building in which he stood. Tristan panned his gaze, struggling to find any hint of Jean Luc’s position—a wink of light off the lens of a telescope from a window in the far tower, maybe.
Balling his fist again but leaving his middle finger stiffly extended, he raised his hand, shoving it against the window. “Can you see me, motherfucker?”
Jean Luc laughed. “I want you to listen to me carefully, poppet. You and I are going to play a little game.”
“I don’t like games.”
“That’s a shame, because I do. And I’m afraid you’re in no position to turn me down.”
Another pause; then Tristan heard the muffled whaps again, like som
eone punching a damp sandbag—only it wasn’t a sandbag and he knew it. Mason was the one suffering what sounded like a brutal beating and he remained semilucid, enough in any case, to cry out softly, croaking in feeble protest.
“Stop it!” Tristan slapped his hand against the glass, feeling the thick, heavy panel shudder beneath his palm. “Leave him alone! I’ll kill you!”
When Jean Luc returned to the phone, he was chuckling again like a macabre sort of Mrs. Butterworth, filled with grim good humor.
“I’ll kill you,” Tristan promised. “Do you hear me, you sick bastard?”
“Are you ready to play?” Jean Luc asked, unfazed.
“Go fuck yourself.”
This time, there were no sounds of landing blows, but from the other end of the line, Mason began to shriek, his voice ripping up shrill, agonized octaves loud enough for Karen to hear, even from the bed. Tristan could see her reflected horror through the glass, heard the sharp, aghast intake of her breath.
“Stop,” Tristan cried. “Stop it, stop it, you son of a bitch! Mason!”
The screams cut abruptly short, and somehow that silence was even more terrifying to Tristan. He heard a soft rustle, then an audible click as Jean Luc picked up the phone.
“Did you catch all of that, poppet? I can do some more if you need me to.”
“You touch him again, and I’ll rip your arms out of your goddamn sockets, cram them hand-first up your—”
“Are you ready to play?” Jean Luc interjected mildly.
Tristan blinked at Karen, then turned around again. “Yes,” he whispered, nodding once. “Whatever you want. Just leave Mason alone. All right?” His voice grew strained, and he closed his eyes. “Please. Don’t hurt him anymore.”
“Splendid,” Jean Luc purred, the tone of his voice lending itself to a malicious sort of smile. “Listen closely, then, because I’ll only do this once. You get it right—you be a good little poppet and do exactly as you’re told—and your dear uncle walks out of here with little more than a limp to show for his trouble. Get it wrong—if you even think about fucking with me—then I will remove each of his vital organs forcibly and in turn, using only the crudest of surgical methods and foregoing any benefit of anesthesia. Do you understand?”
Through the glass, Tristan looked at Karen, frozen with fear on the bed. She may not have been privy to the entire conversation, but she’d gleaned enough—primarily from his own reactions—to get the gist of it.
“Yes,” he said, because the son of a bitch hadn’t mentioned her, and Tristan meant to keep it that way; keep Davenant distracted from her for however long it took to make sure she remained safe, out of harm’s way. “Tell me what to do.”
****
“Lock the door behind me,” Tristan told Karen as he stood at the threshold less than ten minutes later, ready to leave. “The deadbolt too. Don’t open it for anyone or any reason. Not until Michel and Naima get here. Do you understand?”
He’d given her instructions to call his grandfather, fill him in on their situation.
“What difference will it make?” she asked, because she’d been trying her damndest to convince him not to go. “It’s like you and Mason both said earlier. They’re seven hours away. They’d have to drive all night and—”
“We don’t have a choice.” Tristan cut her short by pressing his fingertips against her lips. “He’s got Mason,” he said, his eyes round, frightened and pleading. “I can’t sit here and wait for the cavalry while that son of a bitch is up there doing Christ only knows what to him.”
By up there, he meant the rooftop of the opposing Trésor tower. He’d told her that was where Jean Luc Davenant had instructed him to go. There was nothing up there but heating and air-conditioning units, electrical conduits, assorted pipes, and ventilation shafts. It would be isolated and empty, and she was terrified for him.
“Tristan.” Catching him by the arm, she tried to pull him back into the room. “You said you don’t have any powers, remember?”
Because if he’d been able to use his extrasensory abilities, she might not have been so worried. With telekinesis, he had considerably more strength than on his own, even with his naturally enhanced Brethren physiology. She’d seen him move his truck with his mind using the same deliberate ease that he’d use to play Für Elise by rote.
“Hey.” He tried to smile for her, cupping his hand to her face. “You said he doesn’t either. Remember?” Leaning down, he kissed her softly, sweetly against the mouth. “Call Michel. Tell him to get here as fast as he can, however he can. I’ll do my best to leave him some ass-beating leftovers.”
She began to cry, seizing him around the neck in a sudden, fierce embrace, shuddering against his shoulder. “Be careful.”
“I will,” he said, muffled, into her hair. As he drew back, he kissed her again, deeper this time, fervent and desperate.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too.”
She held on to his hand for as long as she could, until only their fingertips lingered, hooked together, then slipped apart. Her arm remained outstretched, her hand reaching for him, her vision blurred with tears as he walked away.
When he was gone, she shut the door, throwing the deadbolt home, as he’d instructed. Except for the bedroom, all the draperies in the suite had been closed, but she still felt as though she was being watched, that somehow even now, Jean Luc was monitoring their every move, hers and Tristan’s, however separate.
Sitting on the floor, crouched beside the cover of one of the couches, she used her cell phone’s memory function to call Michel. It was late and Michel was obviously asleep; the line rang and rang, and she began to panic, thinking he wouldn’t answer, that it would roll over to voice mail and he wouldn’t realize that she’d called until the following morning.
Oh, please, she thought, closing her eyes as new tears streamed down her cheeks and she pressed her lips tightly together to muffle a miserable sob. Please, please, oh, God, Michel, please pick up.
As if he’d read her mind all the way from the shores of Lake Tahoe, Michel answered the phone. After a loud series of rustles and thuds, his voice croaked over the line, hoarse and sleepy. “Hullo?”
“Michel?” Karen began to weep, loudly, strained, and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Karen?” Recognizing her voice—and obviously alarmed by her tears—he spoke sharply. “Is that you? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“You have to help us,” she begged. “Please, Michel, you have to come. You have to leave right now!”
****
It would have been so much easier if Tristan had been able to use his telepathy. He could have used it to manipulate one of the hotel employees into giving him a passkey to the service entries and exits, just as he’d convinced the pharmacy technician in Lake Tahoe that the name on his driver’s license had been Brandon Noble, not his own.
But because he couldn’t do this, he had to improvise once he’d reached the top floor in the second Trésor tower, then force his way from there through a steel door conspicuously marked EMERGENCY USE ONLY.
He may not have been able to wield his telepathy, but as a Brethren, he was still stronger than the average bear. Glancing quickly around to make sure he was unobserved, he rammed his shoulder forcefully into the door. It took three such attempts before at last, the lock gave way and snapped. The door swung open and he stumbled across the threshold into another shadow-draped stairwell, this one with a simple flight of metal grid stairs leading up to an exterior door.
Getting close, Tristan thought, because he had that peculiar prickling sensation racing along his nerve endings again, that extrasensory awareness of another like himself in his immediate proximity. Stepping into the alcove, he caught the door behind him with his hand, letting it close softly and latch back into proper place.
The posh décor of the resort didn’t extend to this area. The walls were cinderblock, painted an industrial shade of gray. Mounted on one
opposite the staircase was a bright red, square metal case. FIRE BOX had been painted across the front panel in yellow stenciled letters.
Tristan went to the box and tried to open it but found it locked. With a wary look up at the exit door, he hooked his fingers beneath the sharp edge of the panel, gritted his teeth, and gave a mighty yank. The little locking mechanism popped as readily as the door’s had, and the front of the box swung open wide.
“Hot damn,” Tristan whispered, because he’d hoped to find something he could use as a weapon inside. To that point, he’d seen nothing more promising than a house phone or fake
ficus trees in the hotel hallways along his way. But mounted inside of the red fire box was an ax, its long handle painted yellow, its double-sided head—one with a cutting blade, the other with a spike—painted to match the box that housed it.
I bet I can do some damage with this.
With another jerk, Tristan snapped the straps of metal securing it into place and hefted it in hand. It wasn’t much, but it was sharp, potentially lethal, and better than going up against Jean Luc Davenant with his bare hands and a bad attitude.
Carrying the ax, he turned, then started up the metal stairs.
“Come alone. Come quickly,” Jean Luc had told him on the phone. “I’ll be waiting on the roof, but not for very much longer. You have twenty minutes to get here. Run, poppet, run.”
He glanced at his watch. Less than five minutes left. He’d dressed hurriedly back in Karen’s suite, barking directions to her the entire time. She’d been frightened and upset, and he’d struggled against the urge to waste even more precious time than he already had by trying to comfort her. He’d wound up sprinting across the courtyard separating the twin resort buildings. The grand-opening celebration had been in full swing by that point, and he’d shoved his way through a raucous crowd of partygoers and guests to reach the elevators. It felt like it had stopped at every floor in its descent, and exasperated, running out of time, Tristan had finally fought his way off, then raced up the stairs for the remaining floors.
