Damned by Blood

Chapter Three

She widened her eyes at Dominick, covering her mouth in mock horror. But he, of course, turned dead serious. “Should I go downstairs?”

“Security will screen them. Stay here.” She waved at Maya, Matthew and dangling Frank—who couldn’t hear her. “All of you can stay and watch history unfold. I don’t know if a Faustin has ever set foot in California.”

To the intercom she said, “Tell security to send them up once they’re cleared.”

Alya settled herself behind her large desk. She swept a few pens, paper clips and notes into her top drawer, then took them out again. She wouldn’t tidy up for Mikhail Faustin.

Why would Mikhail ever—ever—visit her?

It must have to do with Minnesota. But why a parlay now?

She wasn’t worried about him ambushing her. If his intention were murder, he wouldn’t come to her office under a flag of truce. If Mikhail struck, it would be a complete surprise, scrupulously planned, utterly devastating and yet perfectly legal under vamp law. That was how he’d taken out all his enemies thus far. So she had to assume he had some sort of legitimate business with her.

Security took their sweet time. Wisely. In the meanwhile, she relaxed into the idea of Mikhail being in LA, and even began to like it. It was so damned convenient, almost as though the universe had dropped him in her lap.

It was also a bit sticky, because she’d figured they’d fight over New York, and she’d kill him in battle. That was how she liked to work. It was direct—and fair.

But if he was going to come uninvited into her town and stroll right into her office, she’d be a fool if she didn’t grab this opportunity to take him out quickly and quietly. Then, in the confusion following his death, she’d take New York. It would save lives in the long run.

Mikhail Faustin. She hadn’t seen him since he was younger than Matthew and Maya. She glanced their way, admiring their supple, slender bodies and their flawless skin, her mouth quirking into a smile. She and Mikhail had been very young indeed.

It seemed like there should be a law against killing your first lover, though considering their history, Mikhail probably wouldn’t mind driving a spike through her head. She wondered exactly how much he hated her.

Dominick paced, checking his weapons as he did.

Alya kicked off her heels and put her feet up on the desk, all the while keeping one eye on the front office monitor. “I hope security remembers to use plenty of lube. Did you get some of that knyaz lube I asked you to stock for distinguished visitors?”

Dominick scowled at her. This would be his first face to face with a genuine Faustin, and it had him all riled up.

Maya spoke through a yawn. “Is the Iceman as gorgeous as they say?”

Alya shrugged. Iceman, Ice, Frost—these were all street names for Mikhail. He must have changed a lot over the years, because when he was young, he ran as hot as any man she’d ever met. Even his pale blue eyes burned like the heart of a flame.

Mikhail walked into the front office that moment. The security camera caught him from a high angle, showing her a sleek animal in a severe black suit. Her chair hit the ground with a thump as she leaned close to the monitor.

Rapt, she chewed on the side of her thumb while she watched him speak to her secretary, marking all the ways he’d grown up. He was taller, broader through the shoulders, and the sweet lines of his face had turned austere and sharp as a blade. His straight, platinum hair brushed his collar. That hadn’t changed. She remembered his hair well, how it slid through her hands, heavy and fine.

As she’d heard, he did absolutely nothing to hide his vampirism anymore. Some vamps could pass naturally. Others made adjustments in order to pass. For instance, she wore contacts and sunglasses when she went out, and she did her best to move slowly, like a human. If you knew what to look for, it was easy to spot a vampire in any crowd, but no one would ever mistake Mikhail for human.

The power he held as his family’s leader shimmered around him like a second skin. He made a beautiful prince. Once upon a time she could not resist the draw of that power, but she wouldn’t pay the price for it anymore. Princes demanded absolute submission from those around them, especially their lovers. Now that she was a prince herself, she submitted to no one—not on the street, not in the council chamber and never, ever in the bedroom. She’d done her time on her knees. She had no intention of kneeling ever again.

Tapping Mikhail’s image on the screen with her fingernail, she murmured, “Very pretty. Too bad I’m going to have to kill you.”

He chose that moment to look up, directly into the camera. Straight into her eyes. Alya snatched her hand from the screen.

Her assistant buzzed. “Ms. Adad? Mr. Faustin and Mr. Silver are here.”

Mikhail continued to stare into the camera lens. She could not shake the feeling that he was tracking her with his uncanny eyes. Alya turned off the monitor, annoyed that he could rattle her with a trick like that. She checked her knives and leaned back in her chair. “Send them in.”

When Mikhail walked through the door the curtains stirred and the air temperature dropped. In a glance he took in every detail of the room, just as she would, memorizing the layout, cataloging the feeders, Dominick, and hanging Frank, and tucking that information away for future use.

Alya stood to greet him. She sampled his power, letting it brush over her skin before shaking it off with a shiver, like a cat that’s been stroked backward.

Their eyes locked and held without the camera as intermediary. She’d not been challenged so directly for a long time.

For the briefest moment, she glimpsed him as the angelic boy he’d been, kissing her with a smile. Was that really him? Had that girl been her? Some version of them, maybe. An incarnation on another plane. Butterflies filled her stomach, a visceral memory of how he’d once thrilled her. She hardened herself against the unsettling feeling. Sentimentality was a dangerous luxury.

“Knyaz,” she said, inclining her head without lowering her eyes. She used the title he’d be known by among his own people.

“Knyaginya,” he said, his gaze level, his hands folded in front of him, his expression that of a church saint. His use of the feminine honorific made her smile. It was quite an ugly mouthful. And properly, she should be knyaz too. She was no one’s princess.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Mikhail gestured to his lawyer. Alya had forgotten the man even existed, but he’d been standing there at Mikhail’s left shoulder all along, grey and unobtrusive. He stepped forward with a letter sealed with black wax and dropped it on the table.

“Ms. Adad, I’ve come to testify that this sworn affidavit from Natalia Faustin is certified as genuine prophecy by the Council of Mothers.”

What in the hell did that mean? Now she’d have to call in her lawyers to find out. She didn’t touch the letter.

Mikhail pulled back his coat sleeve, revealing a strange bracelet—no, rather a slender black rope coiling up his arm. She hissed as she recognized the magic crawling over it. How had security let that by?

Shit. Hoping against hope, she pushed her panic button with her toe. Dominick raised a brow at her. She made a subtle “wait” signal with one finger.

“Alya Adad, I declare you mine by right of dream, bound to me by fate and blood—”

And then she understood. He hadn’t come to kill her, he’d come to marry her.

“You are fucking kidding me.”

Mikhail didn’t falter. He continued reciting the proposal. There was probably some rule that he had to say the whole thing, and Mikhail was never one to break a rule. And it wasn’t a proposal, she realized, it was a declaration of intent.

“This rope, woven of both craft and magic, symbolizes the unbreakable bonds of marriage.”

The rope came alive, uncoiling itself from his arm, slithering into a loop between his outstretched hands. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dominick tense, ready to leap at her slightest gesture. She also knew that Mikhail could kill him with a single blow. And security was not coming.

She had to get out of there. Lead Mikhail away from her people, and get some distance between herself and that rope. Then she could take him on.

“It will ensure your submission to me as a bride—”

Saying this, he stepped into range. She kicked the desk, sending it hurtling against his legs, knocking him backward. Seizing the second she had before he recovered, she sprinted out of her office, down the corridor to the central staircase, praying Dominick wouldn’t engage him.

Her building had a central staircase made up of wide oak steps and curving banisters which wound three stories down to the marble clad lobby. She bypassed the stairs entirely, vaulted the railing and plunged down the well. Landing on the ground floor in a deep crouch, she sprang toward the exit. No one was down there. Security was gone, the lobby still and silent as a tomb.

Just as she hit the doors, Mikhail landed exactly where she had. He’d come slower than she expected, and that meant he’d spent a second or two on Dominick. God damn him.

As he sprang up from his landing crouch, she drew two knives from her waist and sent them spinning at his face. He blocked the first with his forearm and got nicked at the hairline by the second.

She sprinted out into the sparkling lights of Sunset Boulevard. Barefoot and fleet in her jeans, she ran straight into the crawl of Saturday night traffic and bounded onto the hood of the first car that got in her way. He jumped on another. Hopscotching cars, they crossed the boulevard, shouts, honks and camera flashes in their wake.

She hit the opposite sidewalk, leapt for the low roofline and swung her body over the top, legs extended, toes pointed like a gymnast. He was right behind her, his hands gaining hold of the roof just as she rolled to her feet, so close that his fingers grazed her back through her thin silk blouse, raising goose bumps.

But by the time he swung over the side, she was two rooftops away, waiting for him, exactly where she wanted to be.

Mikhail jumped the last gap between them, and paused, letting the vibrations fade under his feet. Alya waited for him, straight-backed and tall, her long black hair shifting and stirring in the breeze.

Long ago he’d known her well, and he’d heard what she’d become since. But nothing could have prepared him for seeing her in person. Or for wanting her so much.

In the office he’d used every ounce of restraint in him to hide this desire from her, but from the moment he’d scented her from the outer office he’d been possessed by a stupefying, blinding lust. If he couldn’t figure out how control it, it would get him killed. Soon.

Still, he wanted to see her move, because her every gesture flowed like water, so he began to stalk her in a slow circle. She matched him step for step, her amber eyes watchful but fearless.

The air on the rooftop was fresh and cool and the city spread out around them, white, gold and red lights blurring and flashing. The only sound was the rumble of engines beneath them. Their feet made no noise at all. She was evaluating him, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t plan to say much .

“So, you want a bonded wife. Tell me, are you keeping serfs too? Doing that whole feudal thing?”

Silence did bother her, it seemed. They continued their slow dance.

“If you killed my people—”

That he had to answer. “No one is dead.”

Her voice was deeper, and her accent had changed. As a girl, she’d arrived in New York speaking English with an Arabic-inflected French accent. The first time she spoke to him, that accent struck him dumb. It made her sound sophisticated and exotic. It made him want to kiss her every time she moved her lips. In the intervening years, her accent had faded, and she’d picked up plenty of Americanisms, but intriguing traces of it still survived in the sensual vowels and throaty consonants.

She stopped circling, widened her stance and snapped her elbows straight. A gleaming knife dropped into each of her hands. “I assume you came here to die?”

Death would be a relief. As would murder. Or rape. As far as he was concerned, any release would be welcome after thirty years in purgatory. She wouldn’t remember that he’d tasted her, or know what it meant if she did. That was to his advantage. She thought he could walk away, like she could. She thought he’d act sensibly. The idea almost made him laugh aloud.

He threw aside his coat and unfurled his rope. It slithered into a loop between his hands. Alya’s full lips hitched into a snarl. She raised her knives, daring him to approach. He played the rope out into a wide loop. Casually, almost carelessly, he tossed the loop in her direction, trusting the magic to guide it over her head. It opened wide. She sidestepped it, but it followed her, centering over her head again. Angry, she lashed out with her knives, her movements a blur even to his eyes. Any other rope would have fallen to the ground in confetti. Not this one.

With a sharp tug he pulled the loop tight, pinning her upper arms to her sides. Another tug and she was against his chest. He spun behind her, pressing his forearm tight against her larynx.

“Drop the knives.” Mikhail whispered the command because he could not draw a full breath. Not with her hair against his lips, not with her body against his. He ran his free hand along her left arm, closing his hand over hers. When she didn’t release the knife, he increased the pressure on her throat.

Her grip softened reluctantly. He opened her fingers and took the knife, forcing back memories of them holding hands. She let the second knife fall to the ground and he kicked it away.

The pulse in her carotid artery leapt against his arm. His heart pounded against her back. She was rigid. Seething. But her scent wound through him like honeysuckle vines. He brought the knife in his left hand to her throat.

“Let’s review,” he said, unable to restrain himself from swiping his nose along the edge of her ear as he spoke. “The rope is binding your arms. You could still struggle, but if you do, I’ll snap your neck or cut your throat. And I’ll do it, believe me, because I know you’ll kill me if you get an opening.”

He dragged the knife down her sternum, letting it catch on the first button of her blouse. “Isn’t that true?”

She said nothing. He flicked the knife and sent the button flying. Still she made no noise, but a faint tremor rolled down the length of her spine. He was holding a storm in his arms. There was no turning back for him, and no quarter for her.

He cut off another button. Her chin jerked up like a horse fighting the reins, and her weight shifted ominously. He didn’t intend to wait to see what she was planning. Instead, he spun her around and slammed her head into the ventilation shaft behind them. The sharp, metallic reverberation thundered down into the building.

It wasn’t his noblest moment, but it was completely satisfying.

Face pressed against the dented steel, she said, “Where’s the romance gone, Misha?” Her voice was frighteningly even. Mocking. The use of his pet name, insulting. And as she spoke she was trying to hook her leg behind his to throw him off balance.

“You tell me.” He slammed her head into the shaft again. Harder.

This time her body softened from the shock. Knowing this was his chance, he swung her around again, slamming her back against the nearest wall and pinning her there with his body and the knife. The bride rope slithered around her arms and torso, securing her more tightly still.

Stunned from the blows, she struggled to focus on him, her head swaying, a livid patch of red blooming on her temple.

At last she straightened her chin, like a prizefighter ready for another punch. His breath hitched. He’d never seen a woman so beautiful. She spat in his face. He let the saliva trickle down as far as the corner of his mouth, then caught it with his tongue. It wasn’t her blood, but it was a start.

He pressed his forearm under her chin so he could continue his destruction of her blouse—only this time he’d have the pleasure of seeing what he was doing. He popped off the third button, then the fourth. She was breathing fast, biting her lip, waiting for him to slip up. With the tip of the blade he spread the blouse wide.

Alya’s skin had always been tawny, as if she’d been born gilded. Underneath the blouse she wore a filmy black bra that didn’t hide the tautness of her nipples. He cut through the center of it and the cups fell away, revealing her high, round, honey sweet breasts. He pressed the flat of the blade against the curve of her left breast, just under her heart.

“And thus a knyaz claims his mate.” Her voice was low and full of scorn.

“As is his right.” Ignoring the hatred pouring off her in waves, Mikhail dragged the blade sideways so that the dull side scraped over her nipple. If only he had a free hand to run over her body, or the time to taste her with his tongue. He shook his head, trying to stay focused.

“I am not your property.”

Teasing her lower lip with the point of the knife he said, “What are you, then?”

She took a deep breath and let out a long, shuddering exhale. “Your destruction.”

“You’ve always been that, Alya Adad.”

The pupils of her eyes shot wide, liquid black swamping the iris. They both knew he spoke the truth, and for a moment, it was enough to surprise her into stillness. Her brows drew together, and her lips parted with an unasked question. Then and there he lost his battle for control, and lowered his mouth to hers, wondering how many times he’d risen from a long day’s dreaming tasting her. Hundreds? Thousands?

Her breath still smelled of cinnamon. He eased his forearm off her throat, drew her close, and kissed her the way he did in his dreams. The stiff resistance in her spine gave way. Her lips parted, accepting him. He groaned, his fist clenching in her thick hair. Together they slid down the wall. She rolled onto her back. He straddled her, his hands coasting greedily over her breasts. Magnificent knyaginya.

Alya thought what she had to do next should be easy. They were at war. She was a prisoner. She liked to be in control. Being tied up, straddled and mauled by a determined knyaz did not constitute being in control.

But it wasn’t easy. She’d never been kissed by anyone so hungry. His urgency stirred her despite herself. And he was not just anybody—he was a hungry prince. Her body had been trained to respond to them, even though it had been many years since she’d played that way.

More confusingly, he wasn’t just a prince, he was Mikhail, and he palmed her through her jeans as they kissed, just as he had when they were teenagers. She’d come for the first time ever rocking against his palm, just as she was now.

What do you think is going to happen? He will take you home, drain you half dry and fuck you over and over again until you submit to his will. That is their way.

And this one is worse than all the rest, because he thinks he owns you.

She had to take the upper hand and fast, so she writhed, surreptitiously testing his rope. It had loosened. It obeyed his will, and his will had turned to just one thing.

Moaning into his mouth, she strained for the knife she kept at the small of her back, tugging and twisting her right wrist until she tore her skin. It didn’t matter. Like a trapped animal, she’d gnaw off her arm to be free. To distract him from the smell of the blood coursing off her wrist, she kissed him hard, mimicking his ferocity.

Abruptly he broke off the kiss and hauled her to her feet by her collar. “Not here,” he said, his voice rough.

The change in position allowed her to pop her hand free. Her elbows were still bound to her sides, but she had some mobility in her wrist and forearm. She stretched her wet, sticky fingers toward the small of her back, straining until she grasped the knife hilt.

Making a noise that she hoped sounded like resignation, she slumped against his chest. He tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her again. She had all of five inches of play against the rope, and she used it to stab him in the thigh. The groin would have been better, but she couldn’t reach that far. Her slender, wicked blade sliced upward, splitting muscle and nicking bone.

He let go, looking down, as if he couldn’t quite imagine what had just happened. As if someone else might have stabbed him.

She pivoted and kicked him under the chin, sending him reeling backward. She bounded after him and kicked him in the head, this time knocking him unconscious. The rope slackened and dropped from her arms.

When the rope fell, so did all traces of that sentimental, erotic fog that had almost overwhelmed her.

He’d tied her up. Cut off her shirt and bra. Smashed her head.

She knotted the remains of her blouse under her breasts, cursing to herself.

“That’s—for—my—head!” She punctuated each word with a kick to his body, rolling him across the roof like a rag doll.