Stryke (New Vampire Disorder Book 4)

by Marie Johnston

  When Lee had been reduced to nothing but ashes, Stryke fisted his hand and let it drop to his side. Zoey tightened her grip on the bags and went out to meet him.

  “Do you need anything more than these?”

  He shook his head without looking at what she held.

  Zoey waited a few more moments, unsure what to say. Dawn was soon approaching. Stryke wouldn’t be bothered, but she’d depleted her resources once already tonight. Healing from the weak morning rays of the sun wouldn’t be smart.

  But she couldn’t prod Stryke before he was ready. After Mitchell had died, she’d wanted to drag a sleeping mat to the spot he’d perished and camp, just to be close to him. Stryke had lost… what? A friend? A mentee? Whatever Lee had been, Stryke needed another minute.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said, “about Lee.”

  “He was young and stupid.” Stryke’s rough voice was thick. “His parents are still alive and I have no idea when they’ll figure out their son is missing. They’ll probably just be dismayed that they have no one to watch the house. Or relieved that they no longer need to deal with a son they never wanted.” He barked a sarcastic laugh. “Yet I’m the evil one.”

  Zoey’s forehead wrinkled with surprise. Fyra had made similar comments. Before her, Zoey had functioned under the assumption that all demons need to die. But Stryke was right.

  “He didn’t invite me in.” Stryke’s hands were balled into fists. “He was such a sad sack that it was easy to walk into him. It made sense to keep using him as a host, and he listened.” Stryke shook his head. “And he didn’t freak out when he saw me or learned what I was. Just soaked up everything I said. I should’ve left him alone.”

  Stryke rubbed his chest.

  Was he feeling…guilty?

  Zoey cleared her throat, which was suddenly thick with emotion. “Nothing will ease the pain of loss but time. But, from what you’ve said, I don’t know that Lee would’ve changed anything.”

  Stryke spun on her with an incredulous look. “The pain of loss? I’m angry that she took something that was mine!” He pivoted back, grief clear in his features. “I’m not…sad.”

  Uh-huh. The light show earlier was not just him being pissed. “We need to get back. The sky is already brightening.”

  He turned back to her. “Yes, I wouldn’t want you to burn yourself and turn to Creed for comfort.”

  “Dude.” She shoved his belongings into his chest. He was hurt and angry, and it was okay if he directed cutting comments at her to hide his pain, but she had to get one thing straight. “Mating me against my will doesn’t give you authority over me.”

  She flashed back to the compound. The drab, gray exterior softened her anger.

  Stryke arrived a second later. “It’s not you and Creed—”

  She rolled her eyes toward him.

  “Okay, yes. It is. But I’m more perturbed that you won’t tell me what’s wrong that you weaken after such exertion.”

  He’d lost Lee and now her condition was likely bugging him more. She accessed the building and let him in. The door swung shut behind them and she led him to her room.

  She hadn’t informed Demetrius, or anyone else, that she was bringing him back here, didn’t want to face another charged conversation. After Lee’s brutal murder, she couldn’t leave Stryke at his place. If Stryke was the okay-ish demon he claimed to be, then making him find refuge in the underworld where the Circle wanted to breed him didn’t make sense. Not because she didn’t want anything bad to happen. If they succeeded, what would the power from Stryke’s young give them?

  So she asked.

  Stryke’s expression remained placid. “It’s just Hypna’s plan. In a cruel twist of fate I’d enjoy watching, the new Circle member has been after her. I don’t know why, probably to control her in some way.

  Zoey stopped in front of her door. “That’s awful.”

  He shrugged. “Power and control are her only priorities. I could’ve been sacrificed, too, but both my parents already had energy abilities. It would’ve been a waste of effort.” There was a trace of bitterness in his tone. “There’s so few of us, and most are in hiding.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated before answering. “I’m kind of the poster child for why. Desired servant of each one of the thirteen, enslaved for my seed. That’s the norm down there anyway. It’s just worse if you possess a coveted ability.”

  What a shitty existence. She let him into her apartment, the act so natural it should disturb her. Stryke was in her home. A stark warrior with exotic eyes roaming her plain, unadorned place.

  “But your parents raised you?” Zoey asked.

  “Parent, not the plural.” Stryke set his bags down and started removing garments and meticulously folding them. Dark clothing was stacked neatly in a pile as he talked. “My sire bonded my mother and stashed her away so she couldn’t be found and killed. That way he couldn’t be used for breeding, either, you see, but still fuck around. My sire was a renegade of sorts.”

  Zoey detected no pride from Stryke, just acceptance.

  Stryke straightened. One bag he’d left untouched, but in his arms was a set of flannel pajamas with cartoon skunks and red lips.

  Her gut tied in a knot. Did he know her secret obsession was cartoons? Of course he did, he’d essentially lived with her when he’d been in Mitchell.

  He caught her coveting his pants and his lips twitched. “I’m going to shower.”

  Make yourself at home. The thought was supposed to be sarcastic but came off as genuine. Snorting to herself in disgust, she went to the kitchen to prepare some food.

  She couldn’t deny she’d missed having a tall, dark male roam her home. But she’d missed her male, and Stryke wasn’t hers, no matter what he claimed.

  Picturing Mitchell in her tiny apartment didn’t come naturally. He would’ve scoffed at such a small dwelling. The kitchen was only big enough for one person to work in at a time, not that Mitchell had ever cooked so much as toast. Zoey had no table. She either propped a hip at the counter while holding her plate or sat on the loveseat and watched the morning news. Her living room was tiny compared to her old digs.

  Zoey preferred her new way of life to how she’d grown up. Now she could walk through the halls and offer standard greetings to those she passed. No bowing and scraping because her grandmother had been on the Vampire Council.

  Her grandmother. Zoey paused as she gathered food from the fridge. Some guilt festered. Her grandmother had walked into the sun after the council had been dissolved.

  Zoey resumed meal prep, browning the sausage, going on with her life now like she had then. Her father had died when she was younger and her mother wanted nothing to do with her, Zoey’s role in the takedown of their former government unforgivable.

  Her team was her new family, had been for decades. Zoey was a hundred and five years old and didn’t miss the old ways at all. The only thing she’d missed was her mate, but her duty saw her through the worst of her loss.

  Piling sausage high on her plate, she chewed her bottom lip. Should she prepare a second plate?

  The shower kicked off.

  She grabbed another dish. Filling two plates felt as natural as before, when she’d been mated. Next, she scrambled a dozen eggs and added diced veggies. Would Stryke say anything about her choice of food?

  Eating like she always did, she leaned against the counter by the sink. She downed a Gatorade when she was done.

  Stryke didn’t show. She couldn’t hear him moving around.

  Rubbing her pocket where she held the band she’d broken off him, she pondered what she’d do with it. She’d report back to Demetrius. Would she tell the Synod that she had a device in her possession capable of controlling a demon?

  They might want it. But Zoey was on the Synod, so technically, they had it.

  Where was Stryke?

  She dropped her dish in the sink and went to the bathroom. Empty.

  She peeked in her spare room,
which was her weapons room. Nothing.

  Facing her bedroom, she gulped. Her bed was around the corner, not visible. She padded inside, harboring a small fear that a naked, six-foot-five demon was going to jump her. Or worse, a partially clothed demon with cartoon designs on his flannel pants.

  When her eyes landed on him, she froze.

  He was sprawled on her bed, but not on the side she slept on. Her side was left empty, like an invitation for her to crawl in. He’d thrown one arm over his eyes and his other over his stomach.

  She crept closer. His chest rose and fell evenly, his soft lips were parted. His swarthy skin was nearly lost in the shadows of the room on her plain, taupe bedding.

  Wet hair was slicked off his forehead and over his horns. Her fingers itched to stroke them. Would they be warm, like the rest of his body? Would they be hard, with a smooth finish? Their color blended seamlessly with his coffee-brown hair.

  She’d always wanted to be a coffee drinker; the smell was divine. But she could never risk the depletion to her electrolytes with a diuretic.

  Her gaze wandered leisurely down his body. Demons healed as completely as vampires. His skin wasn’t marred by scars and it emanated a soft sulfur odor. She would’ve thought brimstone in any quantity would be undesirable. Ever since the invention of electricity, vampires had ditched most things fiery. Flammable creatures much preferred to flip a light switch rather than toy with one of the few methods that could permanently destroy them.

  She jumped when his rumble filled the silence. “Are you going to stand there all day or come to bed?”

  ***

  “I thought you were sleeping,” she said.

  He bit back a smug grin at her flustered reply. “I was dozing.”

  Sweeping the arm off his face, he pinned her with his violet stare.

  Her clothes were tattered and dirty from her midnight swim, but she would always be as beautiful as a summer day to him. After the dream he’d had—he’d lied, he’d done more than doze—waking to her over him destroyed any restraint he had. In his sleep, his sire and Lee had taunted him, telling him he was a waste of demon blood and had failed everyone in his life.

  Stryke should have his demon card revoked just for having nightmares like that, for even giving a shit that one of his hosts had died terribly because of him.

  Stryke kneaded his chest. Sometimes, it was like a tiny flame ignited behind his heart and heated it until Stryke wanted to tear it out of his chest.

  What was it about Lee that bothered Stryke so much? He’d been in and out of hosts without much regard whether they lived or died. Maybe a little more concern than a true demon should have. So he’d shown Lee that the kid could better himself, could be more than the loser his parents thought he was.

  Stryke wasn’t going to psychoanalyze the situation. It’s not like Lee had reminded him of… himself or anything. The kid whose parents didn’t want him, thought him unworthy. The kid who’d finally realized his potential and had been working toward it. Stryke had hoped to see the man he’d turn out to be.

  Silly demon. Only humans had weak emotions like that. Stryke had built himself an admirable reputation in the underworld, had even lived to see the tables turned on his sire.

  “You’re thinking about him again.” Zoey hadn’t moved.

  Humiliation burned through Stryke. She wasn’t supposed to witness this weakness, the part of him that mourned life unnecessarily taken. He protected her.

  “I was thinking about a lot of things.” He swung his legs down and sat up. “I don’t like this place, Zoey.”

  Her walls went up immediately, the reaction he wanted. Because he planned to bust them down. “I didn’t design it with you in mind.”

  “You didn’t design it with you in mind, either.”

  She crossed her arms and cocked a hip out.

  He wanted to smile. He’d gotten to her.

  “And what do you know about me?” Oh, the challenge in her eyes.

  “I know that you like bright colors. You like everything you weren’t growing up. You like pants; you’ll never be caught dead in a dress or a ball gown. You like shooting guns and throwing knives better than sewing an inch of ripped seam. I know you resented your family and the role they played victimizing others of your kind, and shifters, even humans. But as for your dwelling, where’s your contemporary art? Where’s your shower curtain with clown fish?” He swept his hand toward the bare wall next to her bed. “Not one Garfield picture. Where’s your portrait of the large, orange, cartoon cat?”

  “Mitchell hated them.”

  “He tolerated them for you. Why are they gone?”

  “How I decorate is none of your business.” Her features were pinched. She was upset with him.

  “Do you even sleep in fun pajamas anymore?”

  Her jaw fell open, but she recovered quickly. “How I sleep is—”

  “None of my business, I get it.” He rose and stalked her. “I saw you in my sleep the other night. You sleep as plainly as you live.”

  Her eyes went wide and her cheeks flamed. Embarrassed or angry, or both?

  “Does your personal invasion know no bounds?” From her mutinous glare, she was ready for a fight.

  He loomed over her. “You’ve been nothing but your job for five years. You’ve shoved everything away in your grief, even yourself. You feel guilty. You got rid of anything that was a point of contention between you and your mate. I’m even surprised you live in such small square footage. You know how much he hated anything less than a palatial expanse of marble and fine art.”

  She slapped him across the face.

  He reeled back. It was no light slap by an incensed woman. She’d put her strength into it, wanted him to hurt.

  She reared up, her finger jabbing his chest. “You think because you were a passenger in my mate that gives you a right to judge me and interpret anything of what I do. I have a job. I work. That’s all I need to worry about.”

  He closed his fist around her finger. She tugged, but he didn’t let go. “I was right. You hate living here because you know he’d hate it, and you’re punishing yourself because of it.”

  Her other arm flew up, but he caught it before it made contact. Bingo. He’d just decoded her. Had she even known she was doing it?

  He held onto her, their arms crossed. He yanked her close and let go of one of her hands to wrap his arm around her waist. “You don’t have to make yourself suffer anymore.”

  He crashed his mouth down on hers.

  Her lips had been open, probably for some angry retort, and he used it to his advantage. He tasted her. Sweet and savory. She’d just eaten and his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t yet, but food could wait. In his arms was all he needed for nourishment.

  A whimper escaped her and he released her other hand. He wound his hand around her neck and tipped her head back.

  She held onto his shoulders as if she was unsure whether to shove him away or hold him close.

  He tightened his grip and dined on her, wanting so badly to take that damn bun out of her hair. It was secured so well he’d likely rip half her hair out and kill the mood.

  He couldn’t risk it. He had his vampire in his arms, in her place, where no one could bother them. No one knew he was here. A spark of self-satisfaction welled up. Had she not told anyone because she wanted him here, too?

  She kissed him back, their tongues clashing, their bodies aligned. She had to feel how much he desired her. Flannel sweats were shit at holding back erections. If she moved away from him, his shaft would follow her like a divining rod.

  His warmth seeped into her. She’d healed from her frigid swim, but her temperature would always be lower than his, thanks to his origins. For an extra dose of heat, he infused his energy into her.

  She shivered and melted into him.

  Was this really going to happen? He’d essentially watched her for months, then monitored her for years from afar. Would she give herself to him, if only physically at fir
st?

  A growl rattled his chest. Just having her physically wasn’t good enough. Then he’d be no more to her than Creed. Stryke wanted her acceptance of him, of them. He wanted her dedicated, like he’d been to her.

  Her hands crept around his neck and she rose to her tiptoes. A sense of victory surged through him. He placed his hands at her waist and released her weapon belt. It thudded to the floor and he tugged her shirt out of her waistband.

  Her breath quickened. He felt it both through her kiss and through his hands. As he skimmed his fingers over her soft, satiny skin, she threaded hers through his hair.

  He tensed as she closed in on his horns. Would they frighten her? Would she be disgusted and run?

  Her fingertips bumped a horn on each side. Their kiss slowed, but they remained fused together as she explored his head.

  The sensation was more than pleasant for him, and she seemed more than curious. Her hands rubbed and massaged his scalp and horns. Did they feel good to her?

  Reassured that she wasn’t going to run off in disgust because she was making out with a demon, he continued his exploration upward. He reached her rib cage, only a few more inches to the soft globes he’d been dying to sink his fangs into.

  He took the chance at breaking their kiss to nibble his way down her neck. Her head tipped back, opening herself to him. Should he bite?

  He wanted to. Instead, he stayed his lips over her fluttering pulse and rocked his hips into her.

  If his eyes weren’t closed, they would’ve crossed. He’d rather be inside of her, but he was so close, his imagination at how good she’d feel was going to kill him.

  Her body echoed his rhythm. She wanted him, too.

  He abandoned her torso and glided his hands down to the clasp of her pants. He had to put some distance between them and he mourned the loss of her proximity.

  A loud pounding at the front door stalled his hand.