Damned by Blood

Chapter Six

Mikhail’s fair skin flamed with her handprints, and his eyes were filled with some unholy brightness. He said, “Your shoulder—is there an exit wound?”

In answer she glanced at the bullet hole in the wall above her. The bullet had passed just under her clavicle, but she could still move her arm, so the damage couldn’t be that bad.

“May I see your back?”

Blood loss must be getting to her, because the way he spoke almost made her laugh. Such a caring, considerate home invader he was. She’d been shot before, as had he, by his scars. Both of them knew she would live. It took a lot to kill a vamp.

“Stop playing doctor. That’s not why you came here.”

“I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

“Really? It didn’t seem like that when you were slamming my head against the ventilation shaft.”

Mikhail considered this. “That’s true.” He nodded, absolutely serious. “I enjoyed that.”

The blood loss won out—she laughed. He blinked at her, confused.

“But I promise, it’s out of my system now.”

She laughed harder, covering her face with her hands. This was one conversation she’d never, ever imagined herself having.

From between her fingers she saw Mikhail’s brow crease with concern. “Please, let me see your back.”

Alya stopped laughing abruptly. She didn’t like turning her back on anyone, and she liked people looking at her back even less.

He held up his empty hands. “I just want to see if it’s a clean wound.”

Grimacing with pain, she hitched her shoulder forward, just enough that he could see the wound, but not her whole back.

Gently, he poked her shoulder in a few places. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“It’s not too bad. I suspect your scapula is nicked, but not broken.” His fingers traced away from the wound, following a line toward her spine. “What made these scars?”

Damn. Of course he’d notice them. Of course he’d ask about them. She never told anyone the truth, but she decided to tell it to him. Maybe because she was too exhausted to lie. Maybe because it was part of his story, too.

“My father gave me those.”

He sat back on his heels, so he faced her. “For what?”

“For you.” She couldn’t help but smile at the idea. It was an uncomfortable smile. “For leaving you. Well, really, for running away with Jean. When my father found us, Jean handed me over without a fight. But I fought. I tried to get away. When he caught me, he pinned me down on the boot of the car, snapped off the aerial and lashed me with it.”

“He beat you until you couldn’t fight back.” Those Russian eyes of his did sad so well, and they did it now, turning into dark wells.

She nodded. After the beating, he’d flown her home from Louisiana to Marrakech and locked her up in the old cistern in their basement, where the water was ankle deep and the walls crawled with bugs. He didn’t let her out until she’d agreed to a quickly arranged marriage to some pudgy Albanian excuse-for-a-prince, a marriage intended to salvage the family’s reputation. She “agreed” to this arrangement while her brother, Driss, sat on her chest and her other brother, Sami, hobbled her ankles.

Of course she bolted at her first opportunity: directly from the altar. Her father vowed to kill her. She ran all the way to China and threw herself on the mercy of Sun Bin, the Prince of Hong Kong. They’d met briefly in New York the summer before, and she’d remembered how he’d looked at her.

Sun began her lessons in power. All their lessons took place in the bedroom. He wouldn’t deal with a female on any other level. That was true of all princes, she learned as the years passed. All of her lovers back then were princes, because no one else could protect her from her father.

Princes were the crème de la crème of vampire kind. No prince rose to that title through heredity or corruption alone—though both helped. A prince wasn’t a prince unless he had the strength, will and wits to hold his position against all challengers. The vampire race was not made up of pacifists. The men who controlled it wielded their power with a fine blend of brutality and precision, and as Alya learned, the innate dominance of a prince found its most creative expression through sex.

Every prince she met wanted her. Not because she was young and attractive––they had their pick of women––but because they could sense her latent power, which made bringing her to heel more satisfying. And she was literally brought to heel, again and again. She’d even worn a golden leash for one of them.

None of them imagined she would ever be a threat. She didn’t even imagine she would be. At first, all she wanted was protection. And for many years, she resigned herself to sexual submission, though it did not come naturally to her. That was the price you paid to sleep in a prince’s bed. Some of her princes were sadistic thugs. Others were accomplished doms who taught her well. But none of them understood how closely she listened to and watched what they did outside the bedroom.

She became a commodity of sorts, a treasure that switched hands. Usually she managed to engineer her transfers, but sometimes she was outmaneuvered and ended up in bad places. But no matter where she went, she kept learning. As arm candy, she had almost unlimited access to their lives. She sucked their cocks while they strategized with their lieutenants. She hung in cuffs while they carved out businesses empires.

By the time she broke out on her own, she understood perhaps better than any other vamp the tangled strings of power and influence that governed their world––because she’d seen it from every side.

Using that knowledge, she’d won the privileges of a prince, including the right of dominance in the bedroom. She’d not give over this hard-won power to anyone, for any price.

Mikhail might sympathize with her for a few moments. Once they’d been equals—friends—and in that he was different from any prince she’d ever known. But if he married her, he would expect her to submit, just like all the others. He’d arrived making imperious demands, armed with a rope that had been used to tame brides for centuries. The Faustins were nothing if not Old School.

Mikhail said, "I don’t want to give you more scars.”

She cocked her head at him, confused.

“I want to heal your shoulder.”

She held his gaze, trying to read his intentions. He stared back steadily, pushing at her with his will. If he were a lieutenant of hers, she’d throw him to the ground for staring at her like that.

Yes, vampire saliva healed. It had evolved to close wounds on humans, but it worked well enough on vamps too. But he wasn’t proposing to close a tiny puncture wound—he wanted to suck on her torn-up flesh. The idea turned her stomach. But at the same time, she had to admit that the prospect of him tonguing her skin made her a little hot. I’m injured worse than I know. I’ve gone delusional.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Really? How did that happen?”

She drew her knees tight against her chest. Her body temperature was dropping. What she needed to do was move. Go to her room. Get warm. Clean up. Call her doctor. But she couldn’t move.

“I know, it’s my fault.” He pried one of her hands off her knees and pressed her fingers between his own. “You’re cold.”

She yanked her hand from his. “That’s what everyone says.”

“Admit you need help.”

“Tell me, is cannibalism an inherited or an acquired trait?”

The muscles in his jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed at her. She realized she kind of liked pushing his buttons. He said, “First, you and I are meant to feed on each other, whether you believe that or not. Second, we have to stop your bleeding. Now.”

Raising his hand slowly to show her he meant no harm, he lowered his fingertips to the crest of her shoulder. He didn’t move, just let his fingertips rest there. She couldn’t draw breath and he seemed to be holding his.

Turning his hand over, he hooked one finger under the strap of her nightgown—or what remained of her nightgown. “Let’s call a temporary truce.”

“Why bother?” Blows would be better than this faux intimacy. He was her enemy. “Just what do you think is going to happen here?”

“I can’t see past five minutes from now.”

Hunger gave his voice a raw edge. Her resolution slipped, and her own voice cracked as she made her last protest. “I can see the future, quite clearly. Even if I let you do this, I’m not going to marry you. We will fight again. I promise you it won’t end well.”

The grim turn of his mouth told her he understood, but he was going to do what he wanted anyway. Of course he would. He was a knyaz.

He peeled her hand off the wound. The pain flooded in with the fresh air. Wincing, she turned her head aside.

“Wait,” she said. “Do you have any blood in your mouth?” No way was she going to end up bonded to him through accidental fluid exchange.

Solemnly he spat into his palm and showed her the clear fluid, then wiped his hand on his trousers.

She turned her face away again.

He bent to her shoulder and dragged his rough tongue across the ragged hole.

Maybe he’d mistake her gasp for pain—she hoped so—but all the pain vanished at the first stroke of his tongue. After that, every precise lap, every gentle, sucking kiss gave her nothing but pleasure. Obscene, shameful, disgusting pleasure.

Jaded as she was, she’d never experienced anything quite so kinky. She closed her eyes and inhaled the mingled scents of blood and gunpowder and chlorine and…Mikhail. His scent had always reminded her of fresh grass and new leaves.

He lifted his head from her shoulder. She gave him her best poker face, so he wouldn’t know she was as perverted as him.

“Your back?” His tone was clipped, but a hint of a growl slipped into it nonetheless. She knew what that growl meant and her body responded. Years of training, years of fulfilling the whims of haughty, dangerous princes taught her to be open and wet when they wanted her.

She gave him her back, but as she did, she slid her hand under the sofa cushion and found the knife she kept stashed there.

He circled the exit wound with his tongue, and the absurd pleasure began all over again. Just as intense. More. As he lapped, his hands inched up her waist, and she let it happen.

Not good. Not good at all, Alya.

She clutched the knife hilt, but sighed as his hands cupped her breasts. All she wanted in the world was for him to thrum her nipples while he sucked at her flesh. And as if by magic, he did exactly what she wished. She could not repress a low moan of pleasure.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured against her skin.

“No. Do you trust me?”

“Do you think I’m crazy?”

She could not help but be thrilled by the low timbre of his voice. Or rather, the power that vibrated through it. He swept her hair to one side and kissed her nape. “So, when are you going to use that knife on me?”

“Soon. So soon.”

Pushing his luck, he pulled her onto his lap. She spun in his arms and pressed the point of her knife under his chin. He grinned.

It was the first real smile she’d seen out of him, and what a smile it was: crooked, brilliant, reckless. The smile of a man about to jump out of an airplane. She wanted to kiss him for it. She wished she could be that reckless.

Instead, she twisted the knife in warning. “A prince can’t trust anyone. He sits facing the door. Sleeps with a blade under his pillow.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“A prince can’t even trust those closest to him.”

“I trust my family.”

Figured. Those smug, virtuous Faustins, all Beaver Cleaver cozy in their little Brooklyn brownstone.

He continued. “And I’d trust my wife.”

“Then you’d be a fool.”

They were so close she could see a tiny, star-shaped scar marring the skin under his right eye. So close she could count the sunburst rays of white that surrounded his pupils. Those hoarfrost stripes were what made his eyes uncanny from a distance.

His lips softened and parted, just a little. Electricity crawled thick between them.

This was a dangerous, dangerous desire. Her wound was closed and the pain gone. She didn’t need him anymore. There was no reason to stay this close to him.

And there was no way she could walk away.

Damn it, what’s happening to me?

Her mouth dry, her heart loud in her ears, she eased the point of the knife from his chin, tilted it, and slid the flat of the blade up his cheek. A shiver passed through him and he lowered his eyes, his long silver lashes sweeping his cheeks. In anyone else she’d take it as a gesture of submission, but she guessed he was battling for self-control. A knyaz took what he wanted, when he wanted it. Mikhail was being too good. He was up to something.

His intentions deserved to be tested.

Tilting her head, she brushed her mouth over his. Both of them had bruised, swollen lips. Even a light kiss hurt. Mikhail made a short, pained noise, but drew her closer, threading his fingers through her hair.

Again she kissed him, open mouthed this time. He groaned again. Anguished. He stopped being careful and good. She caught fire. They pressed one another hard, the pleasure of their kiss laced with pain, the pain spurring them on.

Mikhail took her down to the floor. He wedged himself between her legs, his cock pressed exactly where it wanted to be. But there was a problem. She’d gone still.

He raised his head and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide. Fear? Not likely. Anger, maybe. The knife glinted in her hand.

“I won’t. You can’t top me,” she gasped, breathless.

“Top you how?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “That’s cute, Faustin.”

In one slippery move she flipped him on his back and straddled him. He grabbed her wrist, staying her knife. She didn’t fight his grip. All he could focus on was how much he wanted to kiss her.

Her knees tightened against his ribs. “This is how I play. I call the shots.”

He opened his hands. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”

“Anything at all? I find that hard to believe, knyaz.” She gave him a sardonic little smile that he found un spe akably sex y.

Anything to be inside you again. “Try me.”

She stood. “Get up and strip.”

He knew she didn’t expect him to obey, but he was more than happy to be rid of his cold, wet clothes. It seemed she believed power resided in control. To him, it meant getting what he wanted.

In a couple of quick movements he threw off his shirt and peeled off his clinging pants. He couldn’t remember ever being so hard, so heavy, so tight.

Kicking his clothes aside, he met her gaze again, only to find her gaping at him, completely aghast. Was he that repulsive?

Pointing at his chest, she said, “What have you done to yourself?”

Ah, that.

The monogram she’d cut into his chest should have faded quickly, but he’d made it permanent. Using a broken pen in his hotel room, he’d rubbed ink into the lines of the A, giving himself a prison tattoo.

It was gratifying to see her in a state of complete shock. He just stood there, waiting, until she managed her next question. “But…why?”

He shrugged. He couldn’t even explain it to himself very well. The A was an oath to himself that he would never retreat. A preparation for battle. A means to remember her touch.

“You are seriously disturbed.”

That made him smile. Smiling hurt his face, but it also helped wake him from his long stasis, just as kissing her did. She shook her head as if he were a hopeless case, but her lids lowered as her attention drifted downward—toward his cock. Just knowing it had her attention, it hardened by a few more excruciating degrees. She’d been the first person to touch it. And later, under the willows—

Hell. He could come just thinking about it. It was time to move this along.

She murmured, “This is such a bad idea.”

But she wanted him. Out of practice as he was, there was no mistaking the gleam in her eye, or the quickness of her breath.

Before she could change her mind, he said, “What do you want me to do?”

She pointed at the sofa with her knife. He sat, and she stepped between his knees. Drawing her fingernail up the length of his shaft, she said, “Do you have a condom?”

Mikhail stared at her, blank, rendered an idiot by her touch.

She said, “I don’t. I haven’t fucked another vamp in a good ten years.”

Her toys couldn’t impregnate her. He could.

“I suppose you came here ready to start breeding.”

He snorted. No. Mostly he’d been thinking about survival. But yes, breeding seemed…dandy. Breeding seemed like a fantastic idea. His cock seconded the motion.

“Don’t tell me you don’t carry one? Or do you only do humans, too?”

“I haven’t fucked anyone in ten years, vamp or human.”

She went very still, wary as a prey animal.

Maybe she thought he was lying, but it was true. After she’d left him, and the grey veil descended, he’d gone through the motions. He took a lover, and then another, but he had nothing to give them, except, ultimately, indifference. They learned to hate him, and rightfully so. Eventually he gave up maintaining any semblance of a relationship.

When he needed sex, he’d find a female vamp in the park who had just hunted, and approach her. Feeding made the blood run hot, so they almost always agreed to take him. Those rough, anonymous couplings sustained him for a long time. But even they lost their thrill, eventually, and he became a monk.

Alya recovered herself and crossed her arms. “So you come to me with my initial tattooed on your chest and ten years of seed stored up in your balls.”

“I thought I’d make myself irresistible.”

That almost made her smile. Almost.

“Look at you, Mikhail. You say you’ll do whatever I want, but it’s not in your eyes. It’s not in your posture.”

“I am a knyaz.”

“See? You don’t even say knyaz. You purr it. You’re just like all the rest.”

“I am not like them.” He’d glimpsed things he didn’t like in her blood. Images, memories, fears—he didn’t know what they were exactly––but he didn’t think her princely lovers had been kind to her. “There is no one else like me.”

She put her hands to her head. “Ugh! They all say that. You are exactly like them.”

He couldn’t talk any more, couldn’t understand all these barriers. Yes, he was a prince. Who else would be fit to mate a queen like her? He stood. She jumped back.

Holding his hands in the air, he walked forward until the head of his cock grazed the thin, wet silk that clung to her belly. She didn’t move away. Carefully, he lowered his hands onto her smooth, cool arms. “Forget what I am. Tell me what would make you happy. Happy right now.”

Flushed with anger, or something more than that, she spat out the answer. “I want to see you lose control. I want to see you beg.”

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and his cock slid an excruciating inch across her belly. “Believe me, I’m very near to losing control.”

“That’s the problem.”

“I thought that was what you wanted.”

She stepped backward, and as she did, she cooled. The hints of anger and fear he’d sensed in her vanished beneath a smooth veneer. It seemed she’d made a decision. “You’re going to do as I say.”

Her words weren’t playful. They were sharp as a lash.

No one spoke to him like that. Ever. He opened his mouth to snap back at her, but curiosity got the better of him, and he changed his mind.

If he refused, they’d be back at zero. Fighting. At this point she was weak enough that he’d win, but as he’d already determined, a “win” like that would be hollow. If he wanted to understand her, he had to enter her world.

He awaited orders.

“Sit there.” She pointed to the low leather bench instead of the sofa. The one he’d used as a shield. The one she’d eviscerated. Foam protruded from its split hide. He righted it.

“The other end.”

He moved to the far end, and sat facing a mirror on the wall. One side of his face was scraped up, and the eye on that side was swelling shut. Hardly an inch of his body was not bruised, and the spidery letter A crowned his many other scars. His cock stood at the ready, flushed and ridiculous.

She couldn’t possibly want him. This was some kind of trap.

But she came to stand in front of him, unarmed and equally battered. With slow, deliberate movements she tore her nightgown down the center and peeled off the transparent scraps. Hard muscle defined the sinuous curves of her long torso. Her breasts were heavier than he remembered, the nipples high and dark. A white scar arced around her right breast. He longed to tongue it. She stepped out of her panties. Her long, strong legs were built for speed. Her pubic hair was shaved into a thin strip.

Straightening, she studied him for a long moment, stern as a goddess. His pulse sped up while he waited for her next move. He tried to keep his breathing even. He tried to stay still when all he wanted to do was drag her to the floor and fuck her until there was nothing left of either of them.

Slowly, she lowered herself into a crouch. In the mirror he could see her heart-shaped ass and the wet twist of her hair down her back.

She put her hands on his knees and shoved them apart. His heart lurched.

“How’s your self control?”

“Perfect.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“Then you won’t come until I tell you to. Swear it.”

His mouth went dry. “I swear.”

Again, he surprised her. This time she controlled her response much better, but still he could see it. She couldn’t believe he’d agreed. He liked keeping her off balance.

She walked away. He swung around and watched her pull a small, black box from a Chinese cabinet. On her return, she walked with a serpentine twist of the hips that fascinated him, even while the black box worried him.

Kneeling in front of him again, she put the box to one side and slipped her hand under his balls. His limbs locked and his mind emptied out. She may as well have Tasered him. Cupping them high, she breathed on his cock. Nothing more. First she opened her mouth wide and puffed a hot, wet breath of air over his shaft. Then she pursed her lips and blew on the damp skin. Her gorgeous, bruised mouth stretching wide, then closing, stretching wide, then closing, waking and teasing his flesh. He watched her, entranced. She reached for the box and pulled a feather from it.

The feather she swiped up and down his shaft, and around the head. The sensation was tickling light, but his cock twitched and leapt in response. It ignited his senses, but did nothing to satisfy. He leaned back on his hands and took a big gulp of air.

“What do you think of the feather?”

“I don’t think I have to tell you anything.”

She laughed. “You tell me plenty.”

Tossing the feather aside, she tilted her head and licked him from base to tip, until his cock shone with her saliva. Faint tremors began in his thighs and forearms. He forced himself to relax.

“What’s this?” She quirked an eyebrow at him over his cock. “Pre-come? Already? Please tell me your come won’t bind me to you.”

“Not blood,” he gasped. “Safe.” Keep going. God in heaven please keep going.

With a smile she stretched out her long, pointed tongue and neatly captured the drop. Mikhail closed his eyes.

But he couldn’t block the sensations. Her hot, wet mouth dropped over the head and slid down his shaft. Her lips sealed and the suction began. He grabbed the sides of the bench and held tight.

“Why so tense?” she said, pulling off him, playing the understanding wife. “You need to relax. Let go.”

“Is that an order?”

She winked and dropped her mouth over his head again. Meanwhile she took up his balls again, this time squeezing lightly. She flicked at his frenulum, her tongue fast as a snake’s. He’d forgotten pleasure altogether, he realized. Forgotten it could be exquisite torture.

Sweat began to trickle down his temples. Again she pulled off him. The skin over his head was red and distended, and so tender he thought it would split.

“Would you like to come now?”

He nodded. The mere suggestion made his testicles tighten.

“Will you beg me for it?”

He shook his head, puffing through his nose.

“Stubborn.”

“Won’t beg.”

“You said you want to please me. Begging would please me.”

“No.”

“Then you’ll lose control. You will break your oath.”

He shook his head.

The box came out again. From its depths she pulled a long string of pearls and a small jar. He took a deep breath.

Leaving him to watch, and wonder, and suffer, she took her time untangling the string of pearls. Holding them high, she let them cascade over his cock, smooth and cool. Then she pulled them off, leaned over and took him in her mouth again to suck and let her hot saliva cascade down the sides. He grabbed hold of the bench again.

When he was as wet as she wanted him to be, she wrapped his cock with the pearls, starting at the base and winding her way up. Cupping her hand around this sheath, she moved her hand up and down. The pearls rolled and slid against his wet skin like a hundred caressing fingers.

“Agh!”

It was an agonized sound, even to his own ears. And it gave him no relief. Still stroking him with the pearls, she bent low and began to kiss his inner thighs, supplementing her kisses with cruel scratches.

He writhed, fighting the desire to pump his hips. Orgasm was a semi bearing down on him, horn blaring. He tried to scoot backward out of her reach.

“Uh, uh.”

“Ahhh!” He stamped his feet. He ducked his head and ground his teeth. “Errrr!”

“Say please.” She leaned forward to taste his navel.

The wood snapped under his hands. The bench went lopsided.

Frantic, he dug his fingernails into the cut on his arm—the one he’d threatened her with in the pool— opening it wide. The pain pulled him back from the brink.

The scent of his blood distracted her. She lifted her head, her nostrils flaring. Though he suspected he must look insane, she didn’t bat an eyelash, just said, “You’d better get down before the bench collapses.”

Keeping hold of his cock, she guided him to the floor. He stretched out on the cold, hard tile, grateful for its brutality.

Her hand still on him, stroking slowly up and down, she said, “How do you want to come, Mikhail?”

“Inside you.” His lips retracted involuntarily, baring his teeth.

Her purr turned to frost. “You’d like that. Thrusting into me over and over until we were both sweaty, until I was screaming for mercy, tight, hot, slippery. Or maybe you’re imagining taking me from behind—”

“Shut. Up.”

“You’re going to come, Faustin. You can’t control it. Say please before you break your oath.”

“Not going to happen.”

She stripped the pearls off his cock and sent them sliding across the tile. Wearing a wicked expression, she straddled him backward, giving him a magnificent view of her ass and her gleaming wet sex. But she said, “Don’t touch that.”

Hips high, she lowered her head over his cock and drew him inch by slow inch into her mouth. Her fingertips tickled his balls and she started to move her head up and down. His hips lifted off the floor. He heard grunting and realized it was his own.

The sound of a lid being turned. The little jar from the box. Her warm, greasy finger slid back along his perineum and circled his anus.

No one had ever touched him that way. He had no idea it could feel so good. Combined with the slow suction on his cock, it was unbearable. He heaved a breath, slapped his palms against the floor, and fought not to give in.

Her finger pushed at him delicately, teasing him until he opened to her and the tip of her finger slid inside. Taking him. Meanwhile her head was bobbing, her suction relentless, her saliva hot and slick. His cock leapt in her mouth. Pulsing. Alive.

“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” He saw red. Nothing else. But he would not come. He’d implode first. He’d die.

Her fingertip wiggled gently, stroking him deep inside. Tears started to pour from the corners of his eyes. She backed off his cock and said quietly, like the Mother of Mercy herself, “Come for me now, Mikhail.”

The ejaculation was so immediate, so intense, he screamed. His hips jerked as jet after jet tore out of his body. Vaguely he knew her mouth was on him. Swallowing. Sucking. Vaguely he knew her finger was still massaging his prostate, demanding that he give more.

He gave and gave, twitching and moaning, emptying into her mouth. For the first time in his life he let go. He didn’t try to control it, or come out of it. He rode it as long as it lasted, until she was finished with him, and he lay there, wet and exhausted, a shipwreck survivor washed up on the beach.