by Bec McMaster
Blood and ashes.
Dmitri!
Gemma nearly fell off the hard bed she lay upon, and then froze. There was no sign of anyone else in the room. Indeed, she could barely see a foot in front of her face. A thin sliver of light cracked through a glass pane high in the roof, revealing a single star, but she suspected the cloud of smothering London smog dulled its light.
Night then.
But what was...? She picked at the thing beneath her, feeling out its soft shape. A fur-lined cloak. And not one of her own.
She'd spent the past month wondering if the face she'd glimpsed in her state of semiconsciousness had been real. He'd saved her life in the museum when one of his comrades tried to kill her, but when she'd woken she'd thought she'd imagined it.
And then she'd been so certain she was being followed. Everywhere she turned Gemma felt him hovering there, like a ghost that haunted her. A glimpse of a face she thought she recognized before it vanished in the crowd. Gemma had wondered if she was going mad, stricken by years of guilt and nightmares. She hadn't dared say anything when someone broke into the COR safe house and killed Zero before she and the Duke of Malloryn could question the dhampir woman.
It was him. It had to be him. I felt him in the house. But Gemma had long since learned Malloryn expected proof. And...
He died in Saint Petersburg. Dmitri died.
One of Malloryn's own spies had confirmed it, saying he'd seen the assassin enter a building just before it exploded.
She'd never dared believe otherwise.
Gemma pressed a hand to her chest, where the scar between her breasts remained. He shot you. He's not the man you thought he was. So don't think this means anything other than danger for you.
But why the hell had he locked her away in here?
Why hadn't he just killed her?
One wall of the room was crafted of steel bars, with an elegant scrolled effect to the iron. Gemma peered through the bars and then rattled them. Solid. Where the hell was she? An orangery? An observatory?
Her skirts scuttled over something dry and rasping on the slate floors. Gemma knelt, the objects crackling into dust in her palms. Leaves. Long-dead leaves. She patted her way up the building, following the trail of dry leaves and finding a gnarled vine that clung to the walls. Rough stone met her palms and the room held the dry, still air of a mausoleum. Her heart started ticking a little faster. What if he'd put her in a crypt?
Wherever they were, she didn't think it was very well-populated. She should have been able to hear something; even in the dead of night London was full of life and sound.
A brief tour of the room revealed it was round and scattered with pots of dead plants. The windows were covered with slim panels of some sort of metal, crafted so expertly there wasn't even a hint of a crack between them through which she could slip her fingernails. The roof soared far above her; though she suspected she might be able to climb the gnarled old vine attached to the wall, her head turned unerringly toward the scrolled iron of the bars caging her in.
When it came to escaping, she'd been in tighter scrapes than this.
And Gemma's rule was simple: take the easy option first.
A good thing she came prepared.
There was no sign of her weapons, lock-pick set, or any of the various other sundry items she carried about her person. He must have patted her down. Even the pins in her hair had vanished, leaving her hair tumbling precariously down her back.
Clever man.
He clearly knew what she was capable of.
Or thought he did.
Reaching down her dress, she tugged the bodice away from her breasts, revealing her corset. A thin slit gaped in between the under layer of the corset and the smooth silk of the exterior, through which she wriggled her finger. Something hard and thin met her touch. There. Got it. Gemma began to tug, drawing the wire out of the seam.
Thin enough to use as a deadly garrote, when she bent it into shape and manipulated it, she found herself with a makeshift lock pick.
Not a sound whispered in the darkness of the hallway beyond.
Gemma knelt and inserted the wire in the lock. She couldn't see a damned thing, but that didn't matter.
Who would have ever guessed her blindfolded lessons as a child would ever come in handy?
"Thank you, Lord Balfour," she whispered into the night as the lock gave a satisfying click. It was the first time she'd ever been grateful for what he'd done to her as a child.
Victory. Gemma's lips curved dangerously.
She stilled, listening for any sound of alarm, but nothing moved in the darkness.
Had he left her here?
Time to find out.
It was not a crypt.
Gemma crept down a winding staircase, catching the odd glimpse of twinkling lights in the distance through the narrow gaps between the boarded-up windows. Close to London then. An enormous empty manor full of dust and dry leaves, and the smell of charred timber. She could barely breathe for the thrill of rushing blood through her veins.
Dmitri was here. Somewhere.
He had to be.
The staircase opened up into a wide hallway, the floors a ripple of shadow. Black and white marble tiles, she guessed, though chipped and pitted and scarred by signs of fire. Wallpaper hung in strips from the walls, and someone had slashed the paintings that still hung there, marring the aristocratic faces she caught a glimpse of.
She slipped into the massive foyer of the mansion, moonlight gleaming through the open panes of the door, reflecting back off the broken shards of glass that hung there. Inch by inch Gemma crept toward freedom, easing her weight forward onto her toes so the faint heel of her boot made no sound.
She was almost there when instinct lifted the hairs along the back of her neck.
"Going somewhere?"
Heart leaping into her throat, Gemma spun around, settling into a defensive stance as her gaze darted through the shadows.
She hadn't heard a damned thing.
A whisper of movement caught her attention. There. In the shadows by the staircase.
"Who are you?" she breathed.
Obsidian, he'd said. But he looked like her Dmitri, and she desperately, desperately needed to know the truth. Had it truly been him? Was her mind playing tricks on her?
The silver gleam of the moon marked a bar of light across the floor, separating the pair of them.
All she could see were shadows rippling as someone moved in the darkness. A mocking laugh breathed into the air. "You pretend not to know me?"
"Step into the light," she whispered, the drum of her heart hammering a pulsing rhythm upon her ribs.
"Why?"
"I want to see you."
Moonlight gleamed off the polished toe of his boots. She caught a glimpse of the wet shine of his leather breeches as the shadow stepped forward.
Gemma held her breath, taking a half step backward.
Light spilled over his tall frame and his sculpted face, delineating the fine arch of his nose and the harsh slash of his cheekbones. He'd always been dangerously handsome; his mouth a touch full, his eyebrows thick and intense, and a faint scar slashing across the corner of his mouth.
It was him.
It was truly him.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the muscled strength in his forearms. His hands were covered in the liquid-black of leather. A trim waistcoat fit him like a glove, nipped in to display that narrow waist, though it strained over the broad planes of his chest. He'd dyed his pale hair and brows brown, as if to try and blend into a crowd of humans, but this man would never be able to fade into the background of a crowd. Not with that face. Those cheekbones. She'd seen his face a thousand times in her dreams, but she'd never truly believed she'd see it in the flesh again.
Gemma's heart skipped a beat as Obsidian tilted his head slightly to the side in a move she'd seen a hundred times before. His hair brushed against his collar. An eyebrow arched mockingly, as if to say, did you
miss me?
There was nothing of the man she'd loved in his cold, arctic gray eyes, but every inch of that gesture pulled at her heart.
"You died," she whispered.
The explosion that rocked the Winter Palace had killed him, according to all of Malloryn's reports.
"Apparently you didn't try hard enough."
A faint frown tugged her brows together, and then Gemma realized what he meant. "I didn't set the explosion. I thought that was your side!"
"Why the hell would we try to destroy the palace of the Tzarina who'd just signed our treaty?"
"Well, someone did. I wasn't even in the country anymore. I was aboard an airship, far to the west."
"Indeed."
She eased back another step, licking her lips nervously.
"Do you truly think you can outrun me?"
No. Gemma lifted her chin in a show of false bravado. "In these skirts and my favorite heeled boots? I doubt it. You've always been faster than I am, even in bare feet." Her options were rapidly narrowing. No weapons. Nowhere to hide. "The question is... do I have reason to run?"
"I don't know." His rough voice sounded dangerous. "You tell me."
"You've been following me."
He took another step through the bar of moonlight.
Gemma took a step back. "You killed that dhampir who attacked me in the museum."
"What dhampir?" The bastard was taunting her.
"And you healed me with your blood," she whispered. "Ava spent days trying to work out what was wrong with me and why my craving virus levels went through the roof then returned to normal. I knew. I knew deep in my heart what you were, and what you'd done. I barely caught a glimpse of your face, but I could feel you there."
"Very good, Gemma. You're almost there."
"What do you want from me?"
Silence.
A tense, prickling silence in which she could almost feel his gaze sliding over her body like a caress. For the first time, she saw hesitation within him. He didn't know himself.
She released a shuddering breath. "If you wanted me dead, then I would be dead. You've had more than enough chances."
"If I wanted you dead, you would be. All I would have had to do was stand aside."
Referring, no doubt, to the dhampir in the museum who'd tried to kill her.
"Perhaps I'm not that easy to kill."
"Perhaps."
Gemma tensed. "So what now?"
"Are you going to come quietly?"
She tipped her chin up. "What do you think?"
The faintest of smiles touched his mouth, but then she blinked and wondered if she'd imagined it.
"Loudly. Quietly. It doesn't matter. You will come in the end."
"Interesting choice of words."
His gaze flattened. "You're not escaping me, Miss Townsend."
We will just see about that. She turned and fled, fists pumping at her sides. Not toward the door, but the window beside it.
Gemma threw herself into a slide, plucking a shard of razor-sharp glass from the windowsill at the bottom. Pain slashed through her fingers and a part of her—the predator part—reared within her at the scent of blood, but she had no time to worry about it.
"You think a piece of glass is going to stop me?" He stalked toward her.
"My apologies," Gemma panted, raking the room for something else she could use as a weapon. "Someone very inconveniently removed all my weapons. I am reduced to this."
Flinging the shard toward Obsidian, she bolted for the dining room in the next room, her fingers wet with blood and the craving virus itching beneath her skin as it sought to heal her.
"Damn you, Gemma." Glass shattered against the wall. He must have smashed it aside.
She'd never beat him on flat ground.
Scrambling under the dining table, Gemma crawled across the floor, shoving chairs out of the way as she tried to flee.
A chair was wrenched from the table and shattered against the wall. Gemma kicked the one in front of her out of the way, and then did an abrupt about-turn in the direction she'd come as Obsidian launched himself toward her decoy.
Cursed skirts. Panting hard, she slipped as her knee trapped her skirt beneath her. Gemma shot forward, throwing herself into a roll as she came out from beneath the table. Lace ripped as she launched to her feet, but she sprinted back toward the foyer as a roar of rage bellowed behind her.
"You're not going to escape!"
"We'll see!"
She caught a glimpse of a dusty coat stand out of the corner of her eye and lashed out, throwing it behind her as she bolted past.
A hand locked around her arm before she'd taken three steps, and as he hauled her back toward him, Gemma spun, driving the flat of her palm up into his chin.
Obsidian's head snapped back, and she swept low, taking his feet out from under him. She turned to flee before he'd even hit the floor, but a hand snatched at her skirts and hauled her back. Staggering over the top of him, she went down in a crush of silk, struggling to kick free.
Curse her damned fashion sense. Why had she not worn one of her training outfits today?
A hand slammed between her shoulder blades, pinning her flat to the floor where she got a mouthful of dust. Coughing it out of her lungs, she felt herself being hauled to her feet, an iron shackle of a grip snagging her by the bustle.
Arms as strong as iron bands wrapped around her, hauling her up over his shoulder. Gemma kicked, but Obsidian drove her backward.
Her back slammed against the tabletop, the breath smashing out of her. Gemma cried out, trapping her legs around his thighs, but it was too late. Moonlight flashed off the flat of his blade as he drove it toward her throat—
And held it there.
Gemma froze, heart racing and her chest heaving.
The prick of the tip of the knife pressed against her carotid. Barely a whisper of a threat, but she took it seriously. She didn't dare move. Barely dared breathe.
"Not you." The words broke from her lips.
Not like this.
She captured his gaze, forcing him to look her in the eye. Her chin tipped up. Obsidian's hand curled around her throat, his weight leaning forward, which dragged her skirts up between them.
Look me in the eye and do it. She captured his hand, sliding hers over the iron grip on her throat. Holding it there. Feeling the hatred vibrating from him as the razor-sharp edge of the blade nicked her skin.
Adrenaline hammered through her veins. A certain kind of rush that seemed destructively intimate. The rich, coppery scent of her blood flavored the air, and she knew he smelled it too, for his lashes fluttered, his gaze dipping to her throat.
Suddenly, that restless feeling beneath her skin began to make sense. The hunger roused within her, the predator swimming to the surface. She saw the same stark need in his own eyes.
He was not immune to her.
Gemma squeezed his hand and arched her spine. As if drawn by a magnet, his gaze dropped lower, almost as silky as a caress as it shivered over the upthrust mounds of her breasts, his eyes bleeding to black as the hunger roused within him. Pressed as he was between her thighs, she felt the rising bulge of his cock and stilled again.
Barely three layers of clothing separated her skin from his.
Five years of betrayal and pain.
The skin between her breasts ached, as if the bullet wound there remained like an invisible wound. He'd done that to her. But in some deep, dark part of her, it didn't matter.
Three layers of clothing. Skin on skin. Obsidian's brows drew together, as if he sensed it too. He seemed just as confused by his reaction as she was.
A shocking thought occurred.
She stroked his hand again, and there it was. The flinch. A faint softening of his grip.
It took her breath.
Because she wasn't the only one trapped by need.
By the past.
She couldn't still the rush of thoughts through her head. She couldn't outrun him. Co
uldn't outfight him. But maybe she didn't need to?
Gemma's thighs locked around his narrow hips, and suddenly she could feel every inch of him pressed against her inner thigh.
"You can't kill me," she whispered. "Can you?"
Obsidian shoved away from her, driving the flat of his hand against his brow as if his head ached. He held the knife clenched in his fist and shot her a look of raw fury.
Slowly, she pushed upright from the table and slipped off its surface.
"I ought to," he said coldly. "I want to."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You are mine," he breathed, his hair falling across his face. Every inch of his chest expanded, as if he fought to control some raging beast inside. "That's all you need to know right now."
Sheathing the knife, he turned and strode toward her.
Gemma backed away, tripping over the lip of the rug, but this time she knew trying to escape was pointless.
Obsidian hauled her over his shoulder, and she didn't fight him—didn't resist—as he turned toward the staircase, and her makeshift cell.
Because she knew she was never going to be able to escape him using force.
But maybe she didn't have to?
Chapter 8
Obsidian found a lantern and a hessian sack, and hauled both of them up the stairs with her. The light hurt her eyes as he set her down inside the cell, but Gemma took the chance to study his face.
She didn't know what was going through his mind.
This man....
She didn't know this man.
There was no sign of the Dmitri she'd fallen in love with, the one with his gentle hands and the heated look in his eyes when he glanced at her. Obsidian, he'd called himself, and she realized then the man she'd loved had vanished.
Feeling bruised on the inside, Gemma forced her shoulders to square as this devilish stranger set the lantern aside and dragged the hessian sack forward with a clank. If he thought for one minute he was going to defeat her, then he really didn't know her that well. He might have taken all her knives—all her weapons—but he couldn't take her most dangerous ones.
And she'd already proven he wasn't invulnerable to her most precious asset: her sexuality.
