Enslaved by the Others (32 page)

He may not have deserved it, but in that moment, he had my pity.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Royce’s lips grazed my temple, a cold breath raising the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. “Now that we’re alone, care to explain how you managed to cure the infection in your blood?”

I frowned up at him. “Really? That’s the first thing you want to ask me about?”

“Far from it, but at the moment I consider it the most pressing issue.”

He grinned, wide and deliberate, so there was no way I could miss the extended fangs inches from my neck. Suppressing a shiver, I huffed and poked his chest. “Mister, you are about two seconds away from being banished to the couch. Or me banishing myself there, since this is your house,” I amended. “Or where you’re staying. Whatever.”

“Really? You don’t want to spend a single night with me to catch up for all that time we were apart?”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .”

With another laugh, he started walking toward a hallway I hadn’t noticed at the far end of the room, carrying me with him. “I thought so. Now, care to answer my question? You smell ... different. Like you did when I first met you. It’s been teasing at me all night but I didn’t want to bring it up in front of the others. Tell me—what happened?”

That sobered me. I bowed my head, not wanting to look at him while I talked about this. “You remember the Other I told you about? The collared one? She healed me. In exchange, I made a promise to return something of hers to someone she called the Sleeper.”

“The Sleeper? Did she give it any other name?”

I shook my head. “No. I know it’s a woman. Or female, whatever it is. If you don’t know where I can find her, maybe Arnold will.”

Royce said nothing, considering this for a time as he navigated the twists and turns of the hallway. At the end of it, he typed a code into a keypad, and a heavy oak door swung open, revealing a stairwell going down. It gave me a bit of vertigo as he carried me down the stairs, so I shut my eyes, suppressing what I knew was a completely irrational worry about being dropped, and a deeper anxiety about being trapped.

Once we reached the bottom, I cracked open an eye, then both, taking in the splendor. It was like a hotel suite. A really posh, nicely appointed, underground hotel suite. There were no windows, but the huge TV hanging on one wall and artwork strategically placed elsewhere made it easy to forget. Unlike upstairs, the furniture here was overstuffed, plush and inviting. Still tasteful, still expensive, but more for everyday use than simple looks.

Being underground again sent a fearful pang through me, but these circumstances were different. So very different. If only my screaming instincts believed that.

Perhaps sensing my growing apprehension, Royce stopped, waiting until I looked up at him to speak. His voice was low, soothing, and he must have been messing with my head because the urge to fight my way out of his arms to flee faded far too quickly. “You are safe. No one can reach you here.”

“You really need to stop that,” I scolded, though there wasn’t any heat to it.

He nodded, but it didn’t stop him from exerting enough control over me to keep me from giving in to the looming panic attack. The worry was still there, but it had lost its substance, like I was separated from it by a great distance. Once he reached his bedroom, he set me down, hands settling on my waist as he leaned in to press a light kiss to my forehead.

“I’ll try to contain myself. And I’m sorry to ask, but I want to make sure the infection is gone and see what else may have changed. I know you trusted Iana, but I would like to be certain. May I?”

Another pang of terror gave me a jolt, but if it meant being sure, I would let him do whatever was necessary. Closing my eyes tight, I nodded.

He drew me close, lips brushing over my cheek until he reached my own, settling into a slow, sensuous kiss that did a great job of taking my mind off what was coming. Clutching his shoulders, I leaned into him, doing my best to forget every last iota of regret and fear and shame that had been haunting me these last few weeks. One of his hands settled at my lower back, the other rubbing lightly up and down my spine.

Once the worst of the tension eased out of my shoulders, he pulled back just a bit, whispering against my lips. “Just a taste. Relax.”

He dipped his head to reach my neck, and I shivered at the delicious stroke of his tongue over my pulse point, pressing closer to him. Though I should have been afraid, even though I knew what he was about to do, my knees still turned to jelly as hot desire burned through my veins.

He nipped my throat, and after a light pinch, the toe-curling pleasure of his bite washed over me. It didn’t last very long, though my interest in tearing his clothes off skyrocketed in the brief time he sucked my blood. Every swipe of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers, every minute bit of pressure he put on my skin, all made my need to drag him to the bed grow nigh unbearable.

A cold, shuddering breath against my hypersensitive throat dragged a moan out of me.

“You,” he said, voice thick with desire, “are a modern miracle. The infection is gone. Your blood is clean. And I’ll be damned if you don’t taste delicious. Better than I remember.”

“Alec,” I panted against his skin, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and dragging him closer, “shut the fuck up and kiss me.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest, vibrating against my skin as he obliged me. He canted his head to one side and his lips slanted over mine, possessive and tasting of salty copper. As my arms slid around his neck, his hands cupped my ass, pulling me up until I was forced to wrap my legs around his waist for balance.

He carried me to the bedroom, easing me down to my feet again. Once I let him go—however reluctantly—he pulled back so he could start taking off my clothes.

A touch of fright returned, but it didn’t last long. Once the fabric was in a pile, forgotten by the side of the bed, he reached for my wrist to place my hand on the buttons near his shirt collar. I got the idea quick enough, returning the favor with shaking fingers.

Then a better idea struck, one I’d had earlier, and I inched forward. Gripping his shirt, I pulled him a bit closer and leaned in to bite the buttons off, one by one, working my way down. A pleased growl and his hands buried in my hair made it clear that he liked my plan. Very much.

The moment the last one was gone, he growled out a husky command.

“On the bed. Now.”

The deep rumble of his voice slid over my skin like a touch, making me shiver. I hurried over, feeling his eyes on me as I swung my legs up and sank into the feather-soft mattress. It was a little unexpected after my last experience in his bed—or, more accurately, his hard-as-a-rock futon—but not unappreciated.

He was still undressing, taking his time. Shrugging out of the gaping, buttonless shirt, he tossed it onto the growing pile on the floor, soon followed by his pants and boxers. When I met his gaze from across the room, I didn’t flinch from the embers of red in the depths of his eyes, hinting at the animal hunger inside. Once the last piece of clothing was gone, discarded and forgotten in a pile on the floor, he stalked over to me, magnificently naked.

Like me, he was flawed, his skin crisscrossed with scars. On me, it was a train wreck. On him, it was a brutal reminder of the savage life he had lived, first as a slave, then later forced to become a soldier in the army Alexander the Great led on to conquer Greece, Egypt, and the Persian Empire. There was something primal and sexy about those marks from failed attempts on his life etched all over his body. Dangerous. Hinting at the contained violence he was capable of unleashing.

He pulled me to him in a quick, demanding kiss, fingers tangling in my hair to hold me in place. Not that I would have pulled away, but the possessiveness of it sent a brief pang of anxiety through me. It was more remembered brutality from Max rather than fear of Royce, but he must have sensed something. He withdrew, eyes narrowing as he looked me over, head to toe. A few cuts, a few bruises, and, oh, let us not forget the shiny new scar from the brand on my hip.

With one hand buried in the curls on my head, he slid a fingertip from the other hand over the brand, tracing the pattern there as the red in his eyes grew. There was a hint of fang behind his words, though his voice remained steady.

“Lifetimes would not be enough time for me to express how sorry I am. If I had any inkling—”

I put a fingertip to his lips, cutting him off. “Don’t. This was Max’s doing. Not yours.”

His teeth grazed my skin, lightly nipping the digit I’d shushed him with. “I should never have sent you away.”

“Regrets won’t change it, Alec. It’s done. He’s dead. I’m not going anywhere.”

Those seeking lips and teeth grazed my skin, working their way along my shoulder and collarbone, finding the familiar spot that nearly made me come off the bed. Panting, I lay back as he crept over me, slow and deliberate, refamiliarizing himself with all the places that made me burn for him. It would have been terrifying if it wasn’t so damned sexy.

As much as I wanted to forget about Max, my desire waxed and waned as flashes of memories of where the psycho fucker had touched and bruised and scarred me popped into my head every time Royce inadvertently brushed against the marks left behind. Which was unspeakably frustrating considering how badly I needed to forget and how much I wanted to live in the moment.

With a low sigh, Royce stopped what he was doing and adjusted his position. Once he was situated on his elbows above me, for the first time, I noticed the lines of sorrow and regret etched in his face. I placed a hand lightly against his cheek, my thumb stroking the crinkles by his eyes.

“Alec, I’m sorry, too,” I said, cutting him off before he could speak. Both of his brows shot up, some of the concern fading. “If it wasn’t for a bunch of stupid, terrible decisions on my part, none of this would have happened. I’m sorry you’re always cleaning up after my messes. I’m sorry I’m a goddamn nutcase, and that you have to put up with me. I wish I could just box up all my crazy and be a normal person and stop worrying all the damned time—but if I’m not worrying you’re going to eat me, then I’m worrying you’re going to mess with my head, or do something vampirey and evil, or wake up and realize that I’m nothing special. Even when I want to rip your clothes off—”

He leaned in, swallowing my ranty protests with a kiss. He kept it up until I stopped mumbling against his lips, then withdrew just enough to make sure he had my full attention.

“Shiarra, as much as I would like you to go on about that part involving ripping off my clothes, I don’t want to hear any more of this business about me doing something to hurt or abandon you. Yes, sending you away was a terrible idea, but I wanted you safe from the White Hats, from the police, and from the war and the werewolves destroying my property. Not to mention a very selfish part of me hoped that the vampire blood in your veins would burn away the Were while you were away from the Sunstrikers’ influence.”

I squirmed a bit to get out from beneath him, moving closer to the headboard so I could grab a pillow to hug to my chest. He frowned, but didn’t try to stop me, only edging closer so he could settle in the pillows beside me.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I know we’ve been over this before, but my head is like a goddamn hamster wheel, spinning around the same crap over and over again. After what I just went through, it’s even harder to let it go.”

He set a hand on my upper thigh, lightly running his fingertips over my skin. His gaze stayed firmly focused on where his hand rested rather than looking me in the eye.

“Your worry is perfectly understandable. Had you not been taken by Max, it would still be forgivable for you to suffer some trepidation considering how little you know of me or my motivations.”

That said, he tilted his head, studying my face as his hand on my leg stilled. The intensity of his depthless black gaze was a bit unnerving, truth be told.

“I want to be worthy of your trust. I want to earn it. You have no idea how pathetic I felt, sending you away, missing you and worrying that you wouldn’t want to come back to me. Being afraid that you wouldn’t miss me, too. Me, the Master of New York, pining like a fool,” he said, with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “All these years spent building a kingdom around a reputation for being the most ruthless, unfeeling, vicious monster in the country, and all it took to rip away that mask was a scared little girl—a frightened mortal who is braver than she’ll ever admit to herself or anyone else—reminding me of the value of freedom and mercy.”

He slid his hand into mine, pulling it to his lips so he could brush a kiss over my knuckles. Speechless, I watched his actions, but didn’t move, trying to process what he had to say.

“If you need more time, you need only say the word. You have tamed the savage beast, little hunter. I am yours to command.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

I thought about it, considering the power that admission gave me over him.

“You know, I’m tired of being scared. I want to trust you. I don’t want to be afraid of you. Not even a little bit. And I’ll be damned if I’ll let my fears or memories of someone else ruin my life. I guess what I’m getting at is just ... be patient with me for a little bit longer while I get my shit together. Please.”

He laughed, patting my leg. “So eloquent. Yes, I can be patient for you. Would you rather sleep alone tonight? I’ll understand if you need more time.”

I sat up straighter, clutching the pillow tighter as my gaze wandered over his sprawled, naked frame, lingering a bit too long at the unmistakable evidence of his arousal. He was all coiled grace and muscle, ready to spring into action if I gave him the word. Yet he was perfectly willing to leash that desire, just for me, to wait as long as I needed to get myself together. It wasn’t fair to make him wait. Not to him, and not to me.

I wanted him. I wanted him so badly I ached. And I wasn’t going to let the ghost of phobias past stop me from having him.