by Tes Hilaire
She stiffened, her head swiveling toward Roland as her face paled.
Shit. Was Calhoun trying to sabotage his chances of getting along with her? Did he actually want her to be terrified of him? Possibly.
“I thought you said I’d be safe.” Her tone said that she didn’t believe it.
Calhoun casually swiped up his crumbs and tossed his wadded up paper towel into the garbage. “He growls, but rarely does he bite.”
“Logan,” she squeaked.
At the same time Roland let loose a string of swear words, ending with, “You’re an idiot, Calhoun.”
Calhoun looked back at her, finally noticing he’d been scaring the shit out of her, and swore. He rounded the island, bending down so he was level with her. “I wouldn’t leave you here if I didn’t think you’d be perfectly safe. Trust me, Karissa.”
Roland watched, fists clenched, as her brown eyes settled on Calhoun’s slate ones, as if drawing strength from the steady gaze.
Should be me she looks at like that.
After a last, uncertain glance at Roland, she looked back to Calhoun and nodded in acceptance.
Should be me she gives her trust to.
Calhoun straightened, tucked a loose curl behind her ear, then cupped her delicate chin.
Yup, a dead man.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Calhoun said.
Her lips parted, a furrow in her brow, then another jerky nod. “Okay.”
With a reassuring smile and a tip of his head, Calhoun left the apartment.
Roland waited until Calhoun’s presence had not only left the inner door of his windowless prison, but had traveled through the outer barriers and into the elevator to travel down to the lobby forty-eight stories below. Then, and only then, did he step farther into the kitchen and, with measured control, open the cabinet over the refrigerator—the one cabinet door not ajar, completely missing, or hanging by a sole hinge—to dig out the much needed scotch.
“Scotch and Doritos?” she asked, surprising him. He’d expected her to run the moment his back was turned.
He shrugged, setting the scotch and the crystal glass on the island to pour out a measured two fingers. “If you’re going to eat or drink, might as well make it worth it.”
“But Doritos?”
Maybe he was wrong. That was definitely not fear. Her nose was wrinkled up in disgust, the sprinkle of freckles making the expression positively effing adorable. He wanted to kiss the wrinkle away. Instead he smiled, hoping it would further break the ice. Who knew? Maybe they could even make it up to cordial animosity by the time Logan returned. “Everyone’s entitled to their vices.”
The wrinkles straightened, her posture turning stiff. “I thought yours was blood.”
Hell, who was he kidding? As much as he might have wanted otherwise, there would be no reciprocation of feelings on her part.
“Touché.” He tossed back the scotch, poured two more fingers, and swallowed them too.
“And you’re an alcoholic as well,” she snorted in disgust.
He wished. If he were, then maybe he could toss the scotch down fast enough to drown the voice that was still screaming mine in his head.
He gave her a feral smile, making sure to expose his canines. She practically jumped off the stool, her hands clutching the rounded seat as if she were ready to grab it up, smash it, and use the wooden legs as a shield of stakes if he dared so much as to breathe. He took a step back, giving her room as he leaned against the counter by the sink.
“You seem to know much about vampires, I would think you’d know that we can’t become drunks.”
“You don’t have to be drunk all the time to be an alcoholic. It’s a matter of addiction,” she said, eying him warily.
“And you are a woman of technicalities.” And in her limited view he could never be anything more than a monster. He was inclined to agree, but he was also a stubborn bastard. He wouldn’t let himself be a monster, nor would he allow himself to be pegged so neatly into that hole.
He rolled the mostly empty glass in his hand, the dollop of liquid sliding up then down the side of the cut crystal. “Let’s go with this theory of yours, shall we?”
“What theory?”
“Why do people become alcoholics?”
She didn’t look inclined to answer, and made herself busy by scooping up her half-eaten sandwich and bringing it to the trash.
“Escapism, yes? They like how the drink makes them feel. They like that it can make them forget. They have forgotten what life is like without it. A vampire, as you may, or may not, know processes the alcohol almost immediately. Ergo we can’t suffer from the same chemical dependency that an unturned human would. Ergo no addiction.” He looked at her curiously. She hadn’t fled after depositing her trash and now leaned against the island less than a yard away. Brave…and foolish, given her obvious distrust of him; a simple reach and snatch and she could be in his arms. And then…then…his gaze dipped to her mouth.
“So, you drink it for the taste.”
“Of course.” He straightened, heroically keeping his one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around the glass. “Why else?”
She stepped forward, her brown eyes locking on his as she stared him down. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you drink because at one point in time you were human. Maybe you still remember the sweet sting of the alcohol hitting the back of your mouth, the spreading warmth as it burned in your belly, and the lazy waves of indifference that rolled in with it, demolishing all cares or worries. Maybe you were an alcoholic, or had the propensity to be one at least, and now, being what you are, and not being able to escape from it, you are instinctively succumbing to the addiction. In short, you are weak.”
“Weak.” The vile word rolled like a jagged stone in his mouth.
“That’s right.” Her mouth curled up in a saccharine smile, small white teeth flashing as she leaned closer into his personal space. “Weak.”
Weak indeed. If he had been a weak man, then every time he went on the hunt he’d let instincts overtake him and succumb to the call of blood pumping through the veins of his prey. Just like a weak man, when faced with a friend’s request to harbor a young innocent that would tempt every aspect of his being, both vampire and Paladin, would have turned his back. If he were weak, he would have continued to deny what he already knew in his heart, in the hollow place that once held his soul: She was his mate. And if he were weak, he would have used that as an excuse to take what he wanted from her, to claim something he had no right to claim.
He was not weak. At least, not completely. Though there were times when he faltered. Like now, looking down into those beautiful brown eyes that were trying to bore a hole in his head. Melted chocolate. He wanted to drink them in, the same as he wanted to taste the full strawberry pink lips that were currently pursed in smug challenge.
She probably didn’t even realize she had thrown down the gauntlet, probably thought she was being defiant, showing her strength by daring to get so close. Stupid woman. Hadn’t anyone ever told her not to play with fire? If her brown eyes were an addiction he could drown in and her lips an edible fruit, then her smooth skin was the fuel of his desire, her crisp floral scent the accelerant. An inch closer and they were both going to go up in flames.
One kiss. One taste. One moment.
He shouldn’t. She was too pure for him. She deserved more than a mate who could only offer her pain. More than a monster who would crave her blood as much as her companionship. He should turn his back on her now and get the hell away from here before he did something they’d both regret.
He shifted into her space.
Her head tipped back, hair slipping down her back, exposing her long neck and the pulse that flitted there. A hand came up as if to ward him off, but she stopped partway, hovering as if with indecision. He watched self-preservation war with something else…something that caused her lips to slacken into an openmouthed “oh” and the hand wavering between them to fall lightl
y upon his chest, curling into the soft material of his shirt.
A pulse of red fire licked at the soft whites, pinks, purples, and yellows of her essence. Roland’s nostrils flared, scenting the concurrent change in her body chemistry: crisp lavender spiked with spicy musk.
She might not want to be, but she was aroused.
Hell.
Straws. Camels. Backs. Everyone had a point when they broke. Turns out his was his mate’s desire.
He closed the distance between them, lacing one hand behind her head in her curls as the other reached to set the empty glass down. It landed with a plunk on the butcher block. At the same time a small gasp of indrawn breath left her lips. Sweet full lips. One taste. Just one.
As he lowered his head, he told himself that if she fought him, if she pushed him back, if she so much as turned her head, he’d stop. He told himself this, but the truth was the desire for this once had become a howling torrent of need racing through his body. He couldn’t stop if he wanted. So it was a damn good thing she didn’t ask him to.
His hand, now free, settled on her lower back, holding her steady as the other dug farther into the silken locks and tipped her head back farther for his attack. He bent closer. Their mouths met. The lingering burn of the scotch mingled with the sweet nectar of her blood that pulsed and plumped up that full, rosy mouth. He thought a simple taste would be enough to quench his thirst, to calm the wild beast of need. He was wrong.
With a growl he tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer, increasing the pressure of his mouth as his tongue stroked a path along the crease of her lips, demanding entrance. As soon as she yielded, her lips parting to allow him in, he knew: One kiss would never be enough. He wanted a lifetime of them with her. No, he wanted forever.
Chapter 5
Roland deepened the kiss, taking everything, soaking up her essence, and giving in return the only thing he could ever offer her: mind-blowing pleasure. He had nothing else. The man he’d been, the Paladin, had been lost long ago. Long before she was born. Long before she was even a thought in her parents’ minds. She must have been in His, though. The One God chose the soul that would perfectly match that of the Paladin during the ceremony that initiated them into the order. Sometimes the bond mate would be revealed soon thereafter, but often it was decades, sometimes centuries, before the mate was sent down to earth for them. Only when the time was right, when the mate was most needed.
But Roland had needed his mate ninety-four years ago. Not now. Talk about a major FUBAR. The Big Man wasn’t known for His mistakes, but as far as mistakes went, this one was colossal.
Anger roiled through him, overshadowing his continuing need. Roland rallied against it, burning through it with the intensity of the kiss. So sweetly she yielded, how hot her tongue was against his, how erotic the little murmurs and gasps that rose in her throat. If he could be addicted to something, it was her.
Mine.
Only she would never be his. A vampire and a Paladin? No one would allow it. The council would do everything in its power to keep him from completing the bond. Like, say, calling again for the end of his existence.
Remember this, remember me when you’re taken from me and the others are fighting over you. Remember and know that none of them can be to you what I am.
She jerked away, her hand flying up to her mouth.
He expected her to run now. Damn. She should run. All he wanted to do was drag her to him again. Instead she stood there, perfectly still but for the slim fingers that traced her swollen lips, as if she couldn’t bear the loss of sensation her abrupt withdrawal had caused. If hers burned with the same need as his did, then she probably couldn’t.
Her chest heaved. Her pupils were wide, their focus flickering between his own eyes and the mouth that had been crushing hers moments before. A pink tongue slipped out, tasted the bow of her top lip, then retreated with a guilty flush to her cheeks.
He couldn’t help but enjoy her obvious discomfort. If the colors swirling in her essence were any indication, she still didn’t know whether to run or throw herself into his arms again.
Her chin came up, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “What was that?”
God she was beautiful when she was angry.
He was unable to tamp down the smile that curved his lips. “That, my dear Karissa, was me being weak.”
“How dare you.”
Yes, how dare he? It was a good question. He dared because she’d been made for him and him alone. And now that he’d had a taste of the paradise she offered, God help—yup, Him too—anyone who said otherwise. He couldn’t tell her that, though, and she expected an answer. Besides, sometimes the simplest answers were best.
He arched an eyebrow in retort. “You didn’t seem to mind so much.”
Her cheeks went from baby girl pink to lobster red, and she folded her arms across her chest defensively. “I thought we had a deal.”
“Really…I don’t recall making any sort of deal with you.” No. There had been no deal. The only deal he was willing to make was to enjoy as much of each other as possible before he was forced to let her go, which, interestingly enough, he’d decided would be when he was dead.
She took a step back, as if deciding the three feet of space wasn’t enough. She was right.
“With the rooms.” She made a back and forth swishing motion with her hand. “Ships passing in the night and all that.”
He closed the distance, reaching out to finger a curl that had drifted down across her shoulder. Soft, silky. She drew in a quick breath. There was desire in her eyes hidden under the embarrassment, anger, and uncertainty. She couldn’t quite hide the want that made her drink in every plane and angle of his features.
He looped the curl around his index and middle fingers, leaned in, and brought his mouth down so it was mere millimeters from hers. “I think I like it better when our ships meet.”
She yanked her head back, pulling the curl from his fingers with a wince. “I don’t.”
He managed to tamp down his amusement, barely. He could smell her arousal. Whether she wanted it or not, her essence recognized that he was her mate. But he figured it was better not to give her a reason to attack him right now, not when the result would be them rolling around naked on the floor. She deserved a better initiation into the bonding process. Tender kisses, flowers, wine, and silk sheets. He wanted to court her.
If he stayed here, that wasn’t going to happen. Cold shower. Best idea of the hour.
Making a fist with his right hand, he brought his arm up across his body to cover his heart, giving her a formal little bow. She didn’t know what it meant, but he did. The promise of a bonded male to his mate: my heart, my body, my soul, for yours. “Then I shall give you a reprieve…for now.”
With a string of muttered insults and curses following him down the hall, he retreated to the bathroom. The door whooshed open at the touch of his palm, and he stopped short of the threshold. Seemed her tantrum of earlier had extended here.
He stepped gingerly into the bathroom and began to clean the mess. It was with amusement that he gathered up the tossed towels and shredded toilet paper and a wide smile that he began to wipe down the walls. It was there, among the many inventive insults scrawled in soap and shaving cream on the mirror above the sink, that one particular word popped out at him: Killer.
The significance of it and what it would mean to his sweet Karissa ripped him apart, reaching for the place where his soul should have been. Heart, body, soul. A man could not give what he did not have.
***
Tom signaled the bartender for another round. It was his fifth of the evening. The bartender—Greg, wasn’t it?—grabbed the Gentleman Jack from the shelving unit against the wall and with expert ease, he leveled off the shot glass without spilling a drop.
“Should I leave the bottle?”
Tom stared at the remaining four inches of amber liquid. At least five or six more shots left. Better not.
“Nah.”
Lifting the glass, he contemplated what it was that had his craw misaligned. The day had been like any other. He got up that morning out of the same too-big-for-one-person king-sized bed, brushed his teeth and took his shower in the same deco-modern master bath, took the same route to work in his souped up Mustang GT500, and pushed some papers around at the same boring white-collar job at the bank.
It was the bar, he decided, that was not the same. Normally he made a quick stop by his townhouse to change then headed downtown to where the streets were lit not by streetlamps so much as the glowing neon freak-show signs. Tattoo parlors, dance clubs, adult stores…This little sports den was like flat soda compared to the pop and sizzle of the places he was used to frequenting.
There was nothing going on here. No thumping music to show his moves to, no strobing lights to play off his cuff links, no shuffle of Benjamins for little white packets of pure king-of-the-world Xstacy…no pretty coeds to fuck. He should be there. Not here. But he hadn’t felt up to going out to his usual haunts tonight.
And why the hell not?
Because of those eyes. Glowing red eyes that still stared at him from his nightmares. It had to be nightmares. What he’d dreamed had gone down last night was too fucking weirded-out to be real. Sure, there had been a coed and a back alley. And before that there had been some liquor and some powder. But no way in hell had there been a fucking vampire. That shit wasn’t real.
And if it wasn’t real, then why the hell was he in here cowering rather than out doing what he normally did? Was he such a friggin’ pansy ass that he was going to let some impure X put him off his game? And that’s what it had been. Bad X. He should find the dealer who sold it to him and off the branded fucker. Better yet, spread the word that Tattoo Guy was selling inferior products and let someone else off him. Fewer repercussions that way. He needed to put the nightmare behind him, find a new dealer, and get on with his shit. Life was waiting, after all, and at thirty-nine he wasn’t getting any younger.
