The Shifting Price of Prey

Chapter Thirty

Ten minutes later, I’d half-dragged myself down to the lake’s edge, rinsed my mouth out and was sitting there, hugging my legs, toes tapping anxiously in the water as I tried to work out what to do next. Did I try to find Malik, or see if I could rustle up some help? Though the lack of clothes problem wasn’t exactly conducive to accosting strangers, nor was the fact that I had enough aches and pains, and bruises blooming, that it felt like I’d been in a death-roll with a croc. Not to mention a vague fuzziness in my head. The dunking I’d taken seemed to be the cause, or maybe the silver in the werewolf repellent was to blame.

Then Malik appeared.

My aches and pains muted with relief.

He rose up out of the water about fifteen feet in front of me until he was standing waist deep, hair slicked wet down his back, moonlight gleaming on his pale chest, its silky triangle of black silk hair arrowing down to disappear into the water. He looked like some sea god, breathtaking and beautiful and ready to be worshipped. My toes curled of their own volition. He came towards me, the lake getting shallower as he did, to reveal, much to my regret, that he wasn’t all-the-way naked. He was still wearing his leather trousers. Damn him.

A hot wind sprang up from nowhere tangling my hair across my face. When the wind dropped, Malik was standing before me. I shuffled a few feet back up the grassy bank and he sank elegantly down into a crouch before me. He held something grey out. When I frowned at it, he wrapped it round my shoulders and tied it gently. As I watched, he nicked a finger on one fang and let it bead with dark, almost black blood.

He offered it to me. ‘Freely given, Genevieve.’

The scent of liquorice and dark spice drew me and I leaned forward eagerly, sucking his finger into my mouth. A brief glorious taste burst on my tongue then, disappointingly, his finger was gone. I blinked as the aches and pain vanished and the fuzziness in my mind cleared.

His blood had healed me.

I frowned as I realised his hair was dry, as were his leather jeans, and the grey thing around me was the pashmina; also dry. My backpack was on the grassy sand next to me; the spell Sylvia had put on it to keep my things safe had obviously worked to stop its contents getting wet, which explained the pashmina. But not Malik’s dry hair nor the trousers . . . Unless that had been the wind . . . some sort of vamp power . . . something to think about later.

‘Thanks,’ I said, placing my hand on his arm. ‘For helping me.’

‘You are welcome, Genevieve.’ He smiled, then his mouth thinned as he added, ‘Though I fear your clothes are unsalvageable. I did not know how much silver the potion held, so I was primarily concerned with removing them before they could do you harm.’

I gave a lopsided grin. ‘Seems to be a habit you have, ripping my clothes off.’

His mouth twitched. ‘I will replace these as I did the others.’

‘’S’okay,’ I said. ‘Think Tavish owes me, not you.’

‘The kelpie did not tell you there was silver in the potion.’ Condemnation edged his statement.

‘Nope,’ I agreed. ‘But even if he had, neither of us would have thought I’d end up wearing more than a drop at a time, or virtually drinking the stuff. Anyway, I didn’t think silver worked against werewolves?’

‘It does not. I believe silver can be used as a magical carrier for other ingredients. The sidhe do this, so I have heard. It concentrates them, giving them more potency.’

Figured. My lack of knowledge when it came to sidhe magic was almost as frustrating as my lack of magical ability.

‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘Did the silver do you any damage?’

‘Nothing I could not heal.’

‘So, I guess I should say I’m sorry for’ – headbutting you in the balls; nice subtle sophisticated moment, Gen! – ‘um, landing on you like that.’

Malik’s eyes lit with amusement. ‘It was not a . . . landing I had imagined.’

‘Me either.’ I gave him a wry smile, then rolled my shoulders. ‘But finding out you’d used an Angel of Death’s personal blade to bond our souls was a shock.’ I raised my voice slightly in question. We were still in the open, but maybe he could tell me something . . .

He dropped his gaze, broke off a strand of rough grass and twisted it tight around his finger, then let it fall. ‘I did not use Janan to bond our souls, Genevieve.’ He lifted his head. Sadness darkened his eyes then was gone. ‘Your soul was bonded to mine by proxy; mine was not tethered to yours. Your future was not mine, but belonged to the Autarch.’

The usual panic rippled through me. I stamped on it. ‘Yeah, well, the Autarch can go whistle,’ I said flatly. ‘That’s never gonna happen.’

‘No, it will not,’ he replied, moving so he knelt before me.

‘You have nothing to fear.’

I hit him with a sceptical look. ‘Seriously? But you owe him your Oath. What if Bastien orders you?’

Malik’s pupils flared with power. ‘He cannot.’

My gaze caught on the fading scar on his forehead where the Autarch had branded him with delta, meaning slave. Actions speak louder. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘you might believe that, but I don’t. The Autarch is a sadistic psychopath, nothing’s going to change that no matter what you think.’

‘We have come to an agreement, Genevieve. He has given his word.’

‘C’mon, Malik,’ I said, denying the flicker of hope that he might be right. ‘You know Bastien better than me. Sooner or later he’ll work out a way to get around whatever he’s promised.’

He regarded me for a moment, then repeated, ‘He has given his word, Genevieve.’ But his hesitation told me my suspicion was correct. That he too thought that whatever Bastien had agreed, there was a chance he’d find a way round it. The flicker of hope snuffed out.

‘If you say so,’ I said flatly.

He frowned. ‘Is this why you changed your mind about my invitation?’

‘What invitation?’

‘To meet with me tonight.’

I shook my head, perplexed. ‘I didn’t. I told the woman at Sanguine Lifestyles I’d meet you at the Blue Heart as she requested. I said so yesterday.’

His frown deepened. ‘I sent a text message today to ask you to meet me at sunset instead. Your exact reply was, “Any meeting must be private at office or not at all.”’

‘Huh? Well, it wasn’t me. My phones went kaput this morning and I’ve been stuck with the police on a closed crime scene all day . . .’ I trailed off. I’d left my phones at work to be fixed. Had someone at Spellcrackers been checking my messages? And answering them? But who the hell would do that? Damn it, whoever it was, was due a bollocking.

‘You did not have your phone all day?’

I focused back on Malik. ‘No.’

An odd hesitation showed in his eyes, then he said, ‘After your refusal the other night, I thought you had changed your mind about my invitation.’

Oh. He thought I’d got cold feet. ‘I hadn’t— still haven’t, but . . .’

‘But what, Genevieve?’

Looked like now was the time for our chat. I took a breath and drew the pashmina closer. ‘I’ll be honest, asking me on a date to a vamp club when you had to know I wouldn’t accept’ – I gave him a candid look – ‘well, it smacks of playing games.’

He treated me to a considering look, then nodded. ‘Yes, you are right. I am sorry. I should have stated my concerns plainly and not attempted to force a decision from you. I find your insistence in allying yourself with the witches and fae, to the point where they can dictate your decisions for you, while distancing yourself from the vampire side of your heritage, troubling. And I allowed my disquiet to compromise my good judgement; such a misstep can occur when I am somewhat . . . volatile.’

I gave him an ironic look. ‘You don’t say?’ The corner of his mouth twitched, then his amusement faded as I said, ‘It also made me think the Autarch was behind the invite.’

‘I appreciate why you may have thought that, Genevieve.’ His gaze turned thoughtful. ‘I have given you my assurances that you are safe from Bastien. I understand that you still have some anxiety where he is concerned, but there is no need for it.’

‘I wasn’t anxious about me,’ I said. ‘But you. I thought he was doing some strange possession thing with you.’

Amazement crossed his face. ‘You were concerned for me?’

‘Yes. So once I had time to think about it, I realised I had to accept.’

‘You did?’

‘I thought you needed help.’

One elegant brow rose. ‘You would risk the condemnation of the fae and the witches, and put yourself in danger, to help me?’

‘Don’t act so astounded,’ I said, peeved. ‘For one, as you’ve pointed out, I shouldn’t be toeing the witch and fae line. And two, I’ve helped you before. That time at the Blue Heart with old Elizabetta.’

‘That was to help you, Genevieve.’

‘It helped both of us, if I remember right,’ I corrected. ‘And anyway, you’ve helped me plenty of times in the past. So I couldn’t not help you. That’s what friends do.’ ‘Friends’ wasn’t all I hoped for, but it would work as a start.

His black eyes met mine and for a moment I glimpsed vulnerability in them before he said, ‘We are friends?’

I half-smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘It is generous of you, Genevieve, to accept my invitation because of your concern for me.’ His expression smoothed into his usual enigmatic mask as he spoke, but not before I saw a shadow of something like disappointment. ‘But it was not necessary, even as a friend.’

Idiot vamp. Did he think that was the only reason? I gave him an arch look and said blithely, ‘Oh, my concern was part of it, but not all of it.’

‘Ah. I see.’ His lids half-closed in his sleepy tiger look. ‘Perhaps if I were to issue you another invitation, one with a more private venue in mind?’

I grinned. ‘I would be delighted to accept.’

We looked at each other, the silence growing, tension charging the air, as something changed between us. As if my acknowledgement that we were friends and I was ready to help him had dissolved an indefinable wall separating us. Part of me almost wanted to shuffle my feet, part of me wanted to gaze at his beautiful face, to take in every detail of him. Another part just wanted to say, to hell with this, and throw myself at him.

Just as that part was winning and urging me to do something, anything, his gaze intensified. ‘What if I wish us to be more than friends, Genevieve?’ His low voice slid over me like cool satin – mesma – its touch both tentative and electrifying. ‘Would you still be willing?’

The breath whooshed out of my lungs, my heart stuttered then steadied. Part of me was prepared to say ‘yes’ without hesitation, but this was too important a decision, and had been too long coming, to do that. He wasn’t asking for furtive meetings, or snatched moments, but something more open. More lasting. With ramifications for both of us. The Bastien problem. The other vamps’, the fae’s and the witches’ reactions. But, more than all of that, there was a much more personal obstacle. If Malik ordered me to do something, I had to do it. So far I’d got around that problem by blackmailing him. Only, if we were going to have a relationship, that wasn’t an option any more. But then relationships are about trust. So I would have to trust him not to order me about, and in return he would have to trust me not to blackmail him.

I raised my hand, placed my palm over Malik’s heart and lifted my gaze to his. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am very much willing.’

He grasped my shoulders, fitting his mouth to mine gently and carefully, then more insistent and demanding, then hard enough to bruise. His tongue thrust against my teeth. A part of me reeled, stunned, not at the kiss but at his rapid loss of control, as though my answer had unleashed him to take what he wanted. I parted my lips instinctively, eagerly, surprised as his dark spice blood invaded me, quickening my pulse and drowning me in a wave of heady desire. My body responded as if a switch had been flipped. I pressed against him, insides swirling in giddy anticipation, nipples budding to aching peaks, molten heat slicking between my thighs. Gods I wanted this. Wanted him. Needed him. I had for so long. And now we could have it. Have each other.

I tangled my tongue with his, pleasure sparking as a sharp fang pierced my bottom lip. Sweet honey and copper-tasting blood exploded in our mouths and someone groaned: me, him or both of us. I slid my hands over his silky skin, rewarding my fingers with the lean, defined muscles of his back, the beautiful indentation of his spine. He sucked hard at my swollen mouth, the rhythmic sensation resonating in my core.

The pashmina fell away, quickly followed by my briefs, leaving me naked, open.

He groaned, a harsh desperate sound, and grasped my hair, trailing rough kisses down my jaw as I tipped my head back to offer him my throat. His hand roved over my breasts, pinching and pulling with brusque touches, bringing forth inarticulate cries for more. I pressed against him, fumbling at his leather jeans, impatient to free him, his fervent growl matching mine as the thick satiny length of him sprang into my eager hold. His hand caressed lower, long elegant fingers parting me with perfect skill, sliding over the throbbing bundle of tiny nerves and pushing deep inside, their marble coolness a glorious overwhelming counterpoint to my own wet heat. For a long moment, time stilled and he held me there, a willing captive on the very edge as the pressure spiralled tighter, and tighter, and tighter . . .

Mine! The shout reverberated against my throat as his fangs pierced my flesh, his will commanding my release. I screamed, arched against him, and the orgasm rolled me over and over in a tsunami of pleasure, fluttering my heart, stealing my breath and plunging me headlong into soft black-velvet darkness laced with delicate patterns of gold.