Fury's Kiss (6 page)

The whole process should have been fascinating. I’d been healed a time or two in the past, but hadn’t been in a state to notice the fine details. And they weren’t getting my full attention now. I was too busy wanting to catch one of those talented fingers between my teeth, to bite down and feel the flesh give, to suck the sting away afterward, to—

To do a lot of stupid stuff that would only make a bad matter worse
, I thought, catching sight of a spill of lustrous pink in the mirror.

The sun was streaming through the sheers over my windows, lighting up dust motes in the air and gleaming
on the extravagant satin confection on my bed. Framed against the faded blue cotton of my comforter, it might as well have been lit in neon.
Damn it.

Why lingerie?
I thought resentfully. Of all the things he could have bought me, why did it have to be—

But of course, I knew why. It was the sort of gift a guy got a girl when he hoped he’d get a chance to see it on her. And then maybe to rip it off her. And that would have been fine; that would have been just dandy. A racy little red number, or a long slinky black thing, something cheap so I wouldn’t care if it ended up in a couple pieces the next day? No problem-o.

But this?

This had expectations written all over it.

Expectations that I was going to fuck up royally because I wasn’t the kind of gal who wore designer nightwear and knew what all the forks were for. I was the kind of gal who thought the nightgown drawer was where old T-shirts went to die and who had only started using forks in the last century. And who frankly still thought them kind of a waste when there were perfectly good knives handy.

Shit.

I swallowed and closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. Maybe because the calloused thumbs were keeping up the slow caress, smoothing over my cheeks and down to my jaw, then back up into the hairline, massaging my throbbing head until the pain gave up and melted away. And then migrating to areas where there was no pain, where there never had been any, as if mapping my features: the arch of my brows, the sweep of my lashes, the bridge of my nose, and back down to catch on my lips.

Which was how I ended up sucking on a vampire’s fingers when it was the last thing I ought to be doing.

How had I gotten myself into this?

Of course, I knew how. He’d caught me in a weak moment. I’d been hurt and he’d been kind, not to mention scorching hot, and for a minute there I’d actually let myself believe that this could sort of maybe kind of work, at least for a little while…maybe.…

Only it couldn’t. Because dhampirs don’t have relationships. Dhampirs have the occasional one-night stand in between bouts of madness, in which they hope their partner doesn’t piss them off and they end up eating his face. I think my max “relationship” had lasted five days, and that had been an aberration. And this one had already lasted longer than that, if relationship was the term for two people who spent most of their time arguing and trying to kill each other.

Not that I was feeling particularly homicidal at the moment. I was feeling weirdly boneless, a strange, warm, drifting feeling, untethered, like I might just float away. Until he gripped my shoulders, grounding me.

When I opened my eyes again, my face was clear, my pupils dark, my skin flushed and my lips red and full. I looked drugged, but I’d been there enough times to know this wasn’t it. This was better.

And it didn’t help when the hands pulled me back against a warm, hard chest. I’d never thought of myself as delicate before I met Louis-Cesare, but I looked it next to six feet four inches of muscle barely contained by a navy sweater and jeans. The dark fabric made my paleness stand out starkly, like a reverse silhouette, and the hard lines of his body caused my curves to look softer, sweeter, strangely vulnerable—

And the record scratched again, because that wasn’t me, that big-eyed waif in the mirror. I wasn’t vulnerable. I never had been. I didn’t need some guy to come along and take care of me, because I was perfectly capable of doing that myself, as I’d been proving for, oh, five centuries now. I didn’t need outrageously expensive nightgowns that didn’t even look like me. That looked completely
un
like me, in fact, like he hadn’t even thought about it, like it hadn’t crossed his mind how ridiculous I would look in a goddamn satin pussy bow and—

I didn’t need
this
.

“What is it?” Louis-Cesare asked as I struggled out of his grasp, reaching for my robe.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you getting dressed?”

“Maybe I don’t like being the only naked one in the room,” I said sarcastically.

And immediately regretted it.

“That is easily remedied,” he told me, and pulled off his sweater. And damn it, that wasn’t what I’d meant.

But Louis-Cesare wasn’t a guy who understood half measures. He was either all in or all out, and it was kind of obvious which side he’d taken on this particular question. Before I could say anything, he’d slipped off his belt, toed off his shoes and somehow managed to peel himself out of those tight-ass jeans—

And proved that it wasn’t only the jeans that were tight. He bent over to drape his clothes across the tub, making my breath catch. It was a mouthwatering view, and then he turned around and gave me a better one. Completely unself-conscious in the way all vampires are after a few years, because when people can hear your every thought, modesty takes on a whole new meaning.

Not that he needed it.

Rumor had it that his father had actually been the Duke of Buckingham, instead of anybody with “de Bourbon” for a last name. This was the Buckingham who had started out as a plain old mister in James I’s reign and ended up a freaking
duke
, the most powerful person in the country outside the royal family, mainly because of the way he filled out a pair of hose. He’d been called the best-looking man in England, something I hadn’t heard until I met Louis-Cesare and started looking a few things up. But I had no trouble believing it.

No trouble at all.

Louis-Cesare was smiling, just a brief twist of his lips, but it was enough to set me off. “Are you listening to my thoughts again?” I demanded, because that was one side effect of fey wine—it tapped into my usually dormant mental abilities.

“No.”

“Liar.”

He stretched in a ripple of muscle, and flashed me an honest-to-God grin. “I don’t need to read your mind when it is all over your face.”

And okay, that’s it
, I decided, and started for the door, only to have him catch my hand and spin me back against him. “I like when it’s on your face,” he murmured.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” I said harshly, trying to drag the damned robe on.

“And why not?”

“You know why! This is a bad idea.”

“Perhaps I like a challenge.”

“Perhaps you’re a glutton for punishment!”

“Perhaps I am in love.”

I stopped knotting the tie of the robe and looked up. And met clear blue eyes, which were suddenly far more serious than I knew how to handle. “That’s…You…” I stopped and licked my lips. “That’s not how this is supposed to go.”

“How is it supposed to go?” He looked genuinely curious.

“We trade witty banter for another minute and then I storm out.”

“Do you wish to storm out?”

“Yes!” And it wasn’t a lie. In that moment, I really, really wanted to get out of there. I wasn’t in the headspace for this battle right now. I wasn’t stupid; I’d known it was coming. But this wasn’t the time. I hadn’t figured out what I wanted to say yet. And I was tired and hurting and confused, and the arms he wrapped around me felt really good, like the hard chest he pulled me against, human warm under my cheek in defiance of all the legends.

“Then at least allow me to finish healing you.”

I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no, either, and when he turned me back toward the mirror, I let him. And when his hands went to the robe, I let him manipulate that, too, unknotting the tie, pulling it out of the loops, parting the soft old velour, but leaving it hanging on my shoulders like a frame for my body.

Somehow that made me look even more nude, and as a barrier, the robe was less than worthless. The velvety folds caught and enhanced the warmth radiating from the body behind me, and the thin material did nothing to camouflage the hard lines of the chest and hips and legs
pressed against mine. If anything, it magnified the differences between us, soft and hard, small and big, cold and oh, so warm.

Damn it, I should have grabbed a towel
, I thought resentfully as big hands slid around my waist.

The darkest bruises lined my rib cage, like somebody had been stomping on it with a boot. And even with everything, it was still amazing to watch the skin change under his fingers, to see the prints they left behind in pale, perfect flesh when he moved them. Power, so like mine but so different, pushed into me with each touch, waves of it, as though he was massaging it straight into my skin. I could feel it mingling with my own, warm and tingling as it sped up a process that should have taken hours or days into bare moments, until he brushed the bruises away like cobwebs.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. Louis-Cesare and I sprang from the same line—kissing cousins, in vampire terms—with his maker being the brother of my sire. And that line had always been known for its healing gifts. Among others, I thought, as those hands moved up the lattice of my ribs to cradle my breasts, to circle my nipples to aching hardness, to push back down my torso and frame my sex.

And suddenly, this wasn’t feeling so soothing anymore.

I tried to turn around—to leave, or maybe to touch him, too, I wasn’t real clear on motives right then—but he wouldn’t let me. He pulled one of my arms around his neck, causing my body to arch outward. His eyes met mine in the mirror, daring me to look away as his fingers smoothed over my stomach, around my navel, and then began to card possessively through my curls.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did I, even though I knew I should stop this. We were looking at a whole world of complicated here, and not just because of my varied hang-ups. I somehow didn’t think the vampire community was going to be too pleased when their former golden boy showed up with a dhampir girlfriend. Not when he was already hanging by a thread.

Until a few weeks ago, Louis-Cesare had been a leading member of the European Senate, one of the ruling bodies for the vampire community, like the North American Senate was for ours. And he hadn’t been just any old member, but their Enforcer, the position that did exactly what its name implied. Powerful, respected, even feared—in vampire terms he’d had it all.

Including a secret that, two weeks ago, brought it all down.

It turned out that the lover he’d had for centuries wasn’t his lover at all. She was a revenant, a woman he had tried to save from an early death by making her a vampire, only to have the process go terribly, tragically wrong. It had left her dangerously mad and him with a legal obligation as her maker to end her life. Instead, wracked by guilt, he had kept her with him, violating one of the most important vampire laws in the process. And when her hatred of her own kind finally led her to try to destroy the Senate, the truth came out, and Louis-Cesare had been in a world of trouble.

A lesser vampire would have probably gotten the ax—literally. Louis-Cesare just got it figuratively, losing his position on the Senate and remaining under a cloud of suspicion. But in vampire terms, that was bad enough, because they aren’t big on third chances. The last thing he needed was another unsuitable lover.

The last thing he needed was me.

But it didn’t look like he saw it that way, judging by how his grip had tightened. A knee spread my legs from behind, and a hand grasped my thigh, pulling it up and draping it over his, laying me open. His eyes darkened, blue shadowed to charcoal to almost black as his fingers began to fondle, to explore, making me watch as he pleasured me until my own eyes closed again in desperation.

The only reason dhampirs weren’t the lowest rung of vampire society was that we weren’t even on the ladder. We weren’t supposed to exist—the whole dead thing playing hell with fertility—and were conceived only through some pretty bizarre circumstances. In my case, my father had been cursed with vampirism, rather than
bitten, and the curse took a few days to complete the transformation. Leaving him plenty of time to sire an abomination that, like the hated revenants, was supposed to be put down as soon as he learned of its existence.

Luckily for me, Mircea had a major family fixation and a bad habit of ignoring rules he found inconvenient. He also had the devil’s own luck at getting away with things others paid dearly for. Others like Louis-Cesare. Who had somehow managed to find the only girlfriend the Senate would hate more than his last one.

His hands slid over me, my breasts, my belly, my mound, moving easily across my sweat-slick skin. His tongue ran up my neck to my ear, hot breath ruffling my brain, teeth tugging on my lobe. He bit down just as his fingers made a move inside me that shot sparks straight up my spine. My body bucked against him, clenching desperately in unwanted pleasure.

I squirmed, my hand tightening in his hair, holding on as the turmoil in my mind and the pleasure in my body tried their best to drive me crazy. I wanted to shove him out the window for his own good; I wanted to drag him to the bed for mine. I wanted to shut the door in his face and never see him again; I wanted to sink my teeth into his neck, scarring him, putting a claim on him that everyone could see. I wanted to scream at him for being stupid, and stubborn, and for not understanding that, yes, it did matter what people thought if those people
could kill you
. That sometimes the rules did apply, even to ex-senators, maybe especially to ex-senators. I wanted to curl up with him under the covers and forget the world existed and whisper stupid shit that didn’t matter because life wasn’t a fucking fairy tale and it never had a goddamn happy ending and—and—

And my thoughts fractured, the room spun, and I came with a sound of pure desperation.