Return of the Assassin (All the King's Men) (25 page)

Apostle left the dining hall and headed toward his room. As he passed a mirror in the hallway, he stopped and stared in astonishment to see that the cigarette burn on his cheek had already healed.

God, he was a freak of nature now. No longer dreck. Not a vampire. A fucking freak.

He looked away from the mirror and kept his head down as he walked the rest of the way to his room and shut the door behind him.

The writing was on the wall. His time here was limited. If he didn't get out on his own, he would end up dead. He could feel it. Maybe Bishop was the genius, and maybe Deacon had been the progressive thinker, but Apostle had always been the warrior. His instincts were finely honed from centuries on the front lines while Bishop and Deacon had stayed safely tucked in the background. Consequently, he could smell danger from a hundred miles away. And right now, danger came with the scent of smoke from a brown, gold-tipped cigarette.

And who were these ancients he spoke of? Searcy and Vaydon? All Apostle really needed to know was that they were vampires, and vampires were not to be trusted. As far as Apostle was concerned, forming an alliance with vampires, no matter how aligned their motives were with theirs, was just another form of going against Mother Nature. He refused to partner with vampires. Screw Bishop and his whack-job ideas.

What Apostle needed was an escape plan.

He sat down at the small round table that held his laptop and rubbed his palms over his face as he exhaled heavily. He needed to go. It wasn't safe here, anymore. If he stayed, either he would become a creature he didn't want to be, or Bishop would kill him.

It was time to choose a new name, a new face, and to begin liquefying his assets.

And then he could disappear.

For the first time in what felt like a millennium, Brak stepped outside, into open air. He was free. Finally, blessedly free.

After killing his keepers and coming back to his body to vomit all over himself—which he always did after expending his energy to kill—Cynthia had cleaned him up as she always did. Then he had fallen into a heavy sleep for several hours, totally drained. When he awoke, his things were already packed, and she told them they were leaving. At first, he didn't understand. Freedom had become such a foreign concept that the knowledge didn't fully register that he no longer needed to stay imprisoned. That basement enclosure had been his home for so long that the idea he could leave and make a new home somewhere else didn't sink in until Cynthia pulled him toward the small door she used to exit his chamber.

He ducked and followed her through to emerge into a wide hallway that led to a set of stairs. Panicked voices echoed down the stairwell, a lot of shouting, along with hurried footsteps.

"The staff is arriving," Cynthia explained.

Once upstairs, he found Jacob and Haslet where he slaughtered them. He had been this close to his physical body when he killed them. Somehow, knowing that felt strangely surreal.

Those in the room—guards and caretakers, perhaps—froze when they saw him. Terrified didn't begin to describe the fear that gripped their expressions. They all seemed to know who and what he was.

"I'm leaving." His deep voice was a compassionate rumble. His vocal chords were still raw from how violently ill he had become after returning to his body. "You're all free now."

Then he had turned and followed Cynthia to the door.

Now he stood outside, face turned skyward, a smile spread across his mouth, eyes closed.

A soft breeze blew over his skin, and he sighed. Something so simple to those who lived with the freedom to enjoy it every day was the epitome of pleasure to him. A small miracle created to hold him rapt as air swirled and caressed him. He opened his eyes and glanced down at the ends of his long hair as they lifted and swayed gently in the breeze. As he glanced toward Cynthia, a gust of chilled air tickled his skin with goose bumps, and he laughed as he lifted his forearms and stared in awe at his prickled flesh.

"What's so funny?" Cynthia smiled.

He showed her his arms and grinned from ear to ear. "Goose flesh."

She glanced at his arms then met his gaze again, one eyebrow arched, her face screwed into an amused expression. "Okay, Brak. No more fresh air for you."

He laughed and leaped off the porch. His guitar, which was slung by its strap across his back, bounced against him, and he spun around to drink in his surroundings.

The house sat on a hill that overlooked a tree-filled valley to the east, and the glow of coming dawn yellowed the horizon. To the west was another valley, filled with more trees, and the waning moon hung low in the sky.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"West Virginia." Cynthia joined him and slid her hand inside his. Her kind, brown eyes dazzled with delight as she watched him. "You're like a big kid discovering Oz in the middle of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory."

He had seen those movies and grinned. "Yes, this is all very fantastical to me." He inhaled deeply. "And fascinating."

"Just wait until you see the city."

Excitement shot down his spine, and goose bumps erupted again all over his body. "Will it be like I've seen on the Internet?"

She laughed. "Better. And worse."

"Worse?" He sounded taken aback.

With a squeeze of his hand, she smiled up at him. "You'll see."

The door opened behind him and they turned to see one of the home's caretakers dart out. She carried a suitcase, duffel bag, and an umbrella. When she saw them, she faltered then stopped. "Thank you, sir. Thank you." She bowed her head, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then hurried off to a small car parked in a row beside the house.

"What was that about?" he said.

Cynthia caressed his arm. "She's grateful to you. You freed her."

"She's human." He watched the young woman throw her bags in the car and climb into the front seat.

"Yes." Cynthia sounded sad. "Haslet's blood slave…and slave for other things."

"What other things?" Brak frowned, getting a sense he knew what Haslet had used the pretty human for.

Cynthia paused before speaking, clearly uncomfortable. "Brak, she was his sex slave."

Anger rose within him and darkened his mood. He looked to the trees in the west, up to the moon, and across the lightening sky before dropping his gaze to his booted feet. "It's good I killed them. They did not appreciate what they had."

Cynthia nodded and pulled his gaze around to her with her fingers on his cheek. "Yes, Brak. It's good you killed them. They were evil. Bad, bad people. You've saved lives today. You should be proud."

He looked away. Killing never made him feel proud. He and Trace had been made as yin and yang. Life and death. Give and take. He was life. Trace was death. Together they were a circle, never beginning, never ending. They were two halves made to balance the other, and discovering that Trace still lived filled him with indescribable hope and joy. Apart, he and Trace were black and white, but together they became grey, and more powerful than either could be apart—more powerful than anyone had ever seen. Few knew just how potent they were as one. Trace was the death dealer. He was the giver of life. Together, they became the best and the worst of each other. How Trace had survived this long without him blew his mind, because he carried the more detrimental talent between them. A power that required constant vigil…a function Brak had been made to temper.

But his powers had been abused for decades by those bastards who had held him prisoner. He had been forced to kill, and kill, and kill some more, and each time he did, his soul wept and sickness overcame him. Even now, he still felt weak. If not for the exhilaration of freedom, he would still be passed out in bed, and would remain there for days. And Cynthia knew it, because it was her job to tend to him through his recovery.

"Brak?" She touched his cheek, and he turned his tired, sorrow-filled eyes toward her.

She was his friend. So kind and giving. She had given up her life to tend to his. Just as her mother and grandmother before her.

"Brak," she said again. "I know what you're thinking, but don't. They were bad people. In a way, you gave life today to those who have been held prisoner by them the same way you were held prisoner."

He nodded and took a heavy breath. She was right, but it didn't make him feel better about what he had done. In the heat of the moment, he had thrived on their deaths, greedy for them,
hungry to feel their life squeeze out of their bodies. But now that time had passed and he had returned to normal, what he'd done made him feel like a monster.

"I'm ready to go," he said, his earlier fascination now gone.

She issued a tight nod. "Okay." She led him to another of the cars beside the house, helped him load his guitar and bags into the backseat, and then held the front door open so he could climb inside. It was a tight fit until she bent down, slipped her hands between his knees to the underside of the seat, and did something to make the seat slide back.

"Better?" she said.

"Yes." He looked down and tried to figure out what she'd done to increase his leg room.

She shut the door, and he glanced up and stared out the window at the house. His prison. He would never come back here. This time in his life was over, and it was time to find his brother and father. Rebuild what was left of their family. Catch up on all that had happened.

"Where are we going?" Cynthia asked as she climbed in beside him and started the engine.

"We?" He glanced across the seat at her.

"Yes. I'm going with you."

He shook his head. "I can't take you away from your family, Cynthia."

"It's my choice. Besides, you'll need me. You don't know how to live in this new world."

True. He had learned much from the Internet, but once he reached civilization, he was sure he'd have questions. Lots and lots of questions. He needed a guide. That Cynthia wanted to be that guide warmed his heart. She was a touch of the familiar in a land of strangers, and he was comfortable with her. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome. Now…where are we going?" She worked her feet against the floor of the car and moved a lever, and the car began to move backward.

Riveted by how her movements affected the car's movement, he watched but remembered finding Trace in that dungeon cell.

"Chicago," he said. "I want to go to Chicago."

"Chicago? Why there?" Cynthia shifted the lever raised from the floor between them again, adjusted her legs, and then the car surged forward.

"My brother's there." He clapped one hand down on the inside of the door and gripped his seat with the other. He had never ridden in a car. The only time he had been transported between facilities, he had been drugged and slept through the entire trip.

"Brak? Just calm down. It's okay." She laughed at him. "I'm a good driver. You're safe."

He licked his lips and nodded briskly, but stared wide-eyed out the window.

She laughed again. "You should see yourself. And I'm not even going that fast, yet."

"This isn't fast?" The trees began to blur as she pulled down a long, paved drive.

"No. Just wait until we hit the highway."

"Highway?" Yes, having Cynthia along as his guide was a good thing. He already felt like a bird without wings, and the house he'd called home for the past forever wasn't even out of throwing distance.

And so began his adventure back into the world.

Malek stood in awe of the petite firecracker in front of him. Gina was his. They were together now, and for the first time in forever, he didn't feel half alive. He was whole again.

Tom Cruise's famous line from
Jerry Maguire
ran on a repeating loop through his mind, and he grinned.

"What are you smiling about?" she said as she skimmed a layer of suds from his chest.

"You ever see
Jerry Maguire
?" He enjoyed the feel of her hands on his body as she continued to rinse away the soap she had lathered him with.

"Of course." Her eyes narrowed as if she had an idea where his mind was.

"You—"

"Don't say that cheesy line." She rolled her eyes and laughed.

He laughed with her. "Why not? It's true." He brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. "You complete me, Gina. You really do."

Her cheeks turned red as she averted her gaze and watched her hands slide up and down his torso. "You've lost too much weight, Malek."

The change of subject wasn't unexpected. He got the feeling Gina wanted to keep the mood from growing too serious…that maybe she was stalling or had something on her mind she wasn't ready to discuss. No worries. She could take all the time she wanted, because now that they had consummated their mating, all they had was time. Time enough to say and do everything they could possibly imagine to one another.

"I'll gain it all back," he said.

"You should eat." She reached around to shut off the water, but he stopped her.

"Later." First he wanted to return the favor. "Your turn." He grabbed the bottle of lilac-scented soap he was sure belonged to Samantha and poured a generous drizzle into a lavender loofah.

This was his female, and it was high time he started treating her like the reverent creature she was.

He worked the soap into thick suds that dropped to the shower floor in dollops, and then slowly massaged the soaped-up loofah over her shoulders, across her collarbones, and down to her breasts. Bathing her was a privilege, one that was as much a visual feast as an honor, and he drank in the way the white, soapy foam slid down the curves of her breasts, clung briefly to her puckered nipples, and then dropped to the shower floor.

"You're like a piece of living art," he said quietly. "So beautiful and perfect."

"And apparently pretty possessive of my male," she teased. "Let's not forget
that
."

"Yes, let's not." Malek smiled then turned her around and began washing her back. "That's how I knew, you know," he said a moment later.

She looked over her shoulder. "Knew what?"

"That you needed me as much as I needed you." He set the loofah aside, rinsed her back, and then grabbed the shampoo and poured some in her hair. "You coming into my bedroom and attacking that…" He was too ashamed to say out loud what had happened.

"It's over now. She's the past. I'm the present and the future." She turned to face him again.

"Yeah, well, seeing you fight for me like that…" His fingers massaged the shampoo into her hair. "It woke me up. It made me realize you had chosen me, too, and that I needed to fight just as hard for you as you had for me. I thought I had been doing the right thing by pushing you away, but I was wrong. God, was I wrong. I just didn't want to hurt you, but when I saw that I was, anyway, it killed me. I had to find you…fix things. Accept you…us."

"I was wrong, too, Malek. I didn't want to be mated, either." She looked away and fidgeted. "I've been having these…panic attacks." Her eyes met his again. "Really bad ones ever since I left Chicago. I thought I was having them because of what you said to me in my cell about mating me…that fear of being mated again—not just to you, but to anyone—was causing them." She took a deep breath. "But I was wrong."

Emotions passed back and forth between them, and his fingers stilled against her scalp. "Wrong?"

"Being away from you was so hard on me." Her gaze bore into his. "All this time, I had those stupid panic attacks because I needed to be back here…with you…right where I am this very second." She pressed against him. "Because, Malek, you complete me, too."

Malek's fingers were still buried in her hair, covered in shampoo, but he tucked her against him with his elbows. "Is that what finally brought you back to Chicago?" He tugged her hair so that she leaned back into the shower of water.

She closed her eyes. "Yes and no. Trevor and I fucked up our hit on Searcy and Vaydon—well,
I
fucked it up." She glanced down guiltily. "But we had to get out of Florida fast, and I thought if I came back here and told you to kiss my ass, I'd get better."

He smiled. "Kiss your ass?"

She smirked. "That was the plan."

"And what changed your mind?"

"Trevor."

Now that was unexpected. "Trevor?"

She nodded. "He told me some silly story and convinced me to let my hair down and give you a chance."

Malek suddenly liked Trevor a whole lot more. "Smart guy, that Trevor."

She rolled her eyes at him. "You say that now, but earlier—"

"Hey, I'm allowed to be a little moody. I'm a newly mated male."

"That you are." She pecked him on the lips, and then dipped her hair back into the water again.

Once her hair was rinsed, he turned her back around and applied conditioner. He loved tending to her, bathing her, taking care of her like this. "I thought Micah forced you back because of me."

Her hands joined his and helped him massage the conditioner into her scalp. Their fingers mingled and danced, and as she leaned forward to let the water rinse her hair again, she linked their hands and pulled them around her. God, but she was incredible, with silky skin and smooth curves that nestled perfectly within the angles of his body.

She let go of his hands and brushed her wet hair back as she turned to face him again, still rinsing her hair. "Micah kept e-mailing me about coming back, but never told me why. But I assumed it was because of you."

"And now you're here."

"Now I'm here." She said it with an air of finality. As if they had reached the end of one journey and were about to embark on another, more enjoyable one.

Their bodies pressed together, and his calling started toward its next crescendo. This time, he would take the time to savor her.

He bent her body back and ringed her neck with his palm. Water splashed onto her breasts and stomach. What an erotic sight.

"You have the most unbelievable neck." He caressed the slender column and drew his fingers down between her breasts, and then pulled her back into his arms.

Who would have thought a shower could be so sensual? But then, Malek had a lot of missed time to make up for. He had never showered with a female…had never experienced the luxuries of modern-day lovemaking. He hadn't been with a female—truly
with
one—since Carmen. Until now.

Funny. Even thinking about Carmen didn't awaken a shit storm of guilt or oppressive frustration. Her memory still lingered, but he no longer wanted to cling to her. All he wanted was the female in front of him. His Gina. His spirited, sexy mate.

Water dripped off the ends of her hair and clung to her eyelashes, and rivulets ran down her face and off the tip of her nose. She was adorable and sexy and alluring…all the things a female should be.

And she was his.

He lifted her into his arms, and her strong legs locked around him, her arms hugged his shoulders. He turned off the water.

Shower over. Time to love her again.

He carried her out of the shower and back to the bedroom, where he climbed onto the bed and settled her on the blankets before he eased himself onto her.

"I love you." His lips brushed hers, and she pulled him down into a simmering embrace.

Malek craved Gina. She was oxygen, absolutely necessary to his survival, and he had waited much too long to breathe. But he breathed now, and with each full inhale and cleansing exhale, his body calmed a little bit more from the nightmare of the past several weeks—hell, the past several centuries, if he was being honest with himself. The nearness of her—his mate—unfurled each coiled muscle, pulled to their limits for so long that the pain had become a way of life. No wonder he had been wound so tightly. Because, literally, he had been.

Not now, though. Now he loosened and sprawled. The soothing caress of her nearness chased the tension away, and he sighed as his body relaxed.

Gina's warm hand, so perfect and gentle, glided up his stomach and over the subtle swell of his pec, and he bowed his head against her and slid his nose up her shoulder to the nape of her neck. A quiet purr broke in his chest.

How had he denied her before? He must have been insane.

Oh wait. That's right. He had been. But now he saw how crazy he had been to refuse their bond. With her now, so close, touching her, smelling her, breathing in the air that skimmed the surface of her body, he knew he was home, and he purred again.

Her pulse quickened at the sound. He felt it course furiously beneath the skin of her neck, where his nose rested. The thu-thump of her heartbeat pulsed against his lips, which he pressed against her nape, directly over her vein. He lived now for that vital pulse, and his fangs throbbed with the need to feed.

A wave of hormonal heat vibrated out of him and called to her. It was time to renew their connection. Time to continue what they had started in the shower, hopefully without as much urgency so he could cherish each moment and savor the experience. Her body answered and rippled from her head to her feet as she moaned.

Keeping his lips pressed against the sexiest part of her—the pulse in her throat—Malek rocked against her body. Another purr broke in his chest as hormonal heat surged out of him once more. He was captivated…enraptured.

If he had thought the fire they started in the shower was hot, it was nothing compared to the blaze that now crawled through his spine…down…down…to wrap around his scrotum and tingle the inside of his cock. His four previous orgasms cowered like chumps at what built within him now, which felt more like the Goliath of all releases to stomp all the puny Davids that had come before.

Heat continued to rise as she slid her arms around his back and pulled him to her. Her breasts mashed delicately against his chest.

"I want you," he whispered against her neck, his voice restrained and raspy.

She turned her face into his and kissed his cheek below his ear. "Then take me."

Unwilling to break the connection between his mouth and her throat, he latched on with his teeth, hooked one arm on the inside of her thigh, opened her, and settled more snugly between her legs. His engorged cock rubbed against home base, and he grunted from the pleasure that shot through his groin and down both legs.

Their energy spun, twined, and intensified with each breath and soft caress. Gina was a female worth savoring. She was a beauty to worship, and only he had the right to do so. Now that they had claimed each other, he was hers, and he was helpless against her.

He had worried that he would blemish Carmen's memory by taking Gina, but he'd been wrong. Exercising his mated right with Gina didn't make what he'd had with Carmen disappear or cast aside her memory. Carmen was still there, in his heart and mind, but now he accepted the truth. She was gone. Not in spirit, just in body. He could still love Gina without dishonoring Carmen, and he could still remember Carmen without withholding even a piece of himself from Gina. There was room for them both in his heart, not one or the other as he had thought. He could have his past and his future and never diminish the love or power of either.

As his hips settled between Gina's legs, there was no more guilt. No more suffering or anguish. Gina was all that existed, and his heart opened fully to welcome her as she prepared to welcome him into her body once more.

"Oh, God." He purred again as he shifted and rolled against her. Pure desire opened like the jaw of a lion, too long denied and ready to devour them both. His voracious appetite stole his breath. He didn't just want her, he hungered for her.

"I need you, Malek." She trembled.

"I'll never hurt you again." He kissed and laved her nape with his tongue as he kneed her legs farther apart, his body primed and ready to feel her bliss again. Her wet, short hair felt soft and smooth as satin against his fingers, and he wrapped his other arm underneath her body as he slid his cock against her welcoming slickness. But still he did not enter her, content to take his time and let the inferno build.

She sighed. He groaned.

She panted. He purred.

Back and forth, they traded a symphony of breathy moans and gentle gasps, each more erotic than the one before, tainted with rising need.

Pulling her hair, he encouraged her to turn her head so he could admire her succulent neck, erotica incarnate. No expanse of flesh had ever been more inviting, not even Carmen's, and he would have to take a moment each day to worship the elegant slopes and curves that called for him to drink. He would adorn her with jeweled necklaces and low-cut blouses so that he could delight in her most striking feature and sneak a quick, unobstructed taste whenever the mood struck him. If he had his way, she would never wear a turtleneck again.