“Gunnar!”
She turned to see Halverson running at her with a fire axe.
Mikhail knew he wasn’t in heaven. Black smoke billowed around him in smothering clouds, stinging his eyes. A terrible stench filled his nostrils, a noxious combination of burning plastic and flesh. He’d killed too many people in his life to go to heaven. Thou shalt not kill was a basic commandment, after all.
A man screamed, agonized, but his cry was ominously short. After that he couldn’t hear anything else except the roar of the inferno. And then, out of a fountain of glowing embers, walked Alya—or some demon goddess that looked like Alya. She was naked, her skin shining black. Ash whitened her hair. Her face was contorted with blood lust. Her eyes, red. In one hand she carried a battle axe. In the other, a club.
No, not a club. A dismembered arm.
“I’m getting you out of here,” she said.
Chapter Ten
Night. Home. Bed. Uninjured. The window is open.
Before she opened her eyes, Alya went through her checklist. If it were daytime she’d be lethargic and cold. She was warm. She knew her sheets down to the thread count. The jasmine outside her window scented the room with heavy perfume.
And then she felt him. Inside her, his blood colonizing her body. And physically close. Within reach. Watching her sleep.
Oh my God. What have I done?
She scrambled to protect her mind from him, throwing up crude barricades and no trespassing signs. It wasn’t enough. He was there. Right there. Reading her. Well aware she was awake.
She opened her eyes.
And freaked out even more.
He looked like the Angel of Judgment, come to claim her. Clean and composed, dressed in a black shirt and trousers, he sat in a chair by her bed, his hands spread on his knees, his feet bare. He met her gaze with absolute confidence. He’d won. They were bonded.
She sat up warily. Her skin felt too tight. She glanced down and realized her body was glazed with dried blood. Her face, too, by the feel of it. She rubbed her temple and a shower of brown flakes fell on her sheets.
“The blood of our enemies.” Mikhail’s voice rang inside her, his eyes glowed with approval.
No. No. No. Get out of my head. Her head was no place to be. She clutched the sheet to her chest as the memories of battle came flooding in. Black memories. Red memories. She’d fought and killed before, but never like that. Never like a bloodthirsty djinn. Nothing stood in her way that awful dawn. They’d fallen before her like lambs.
Even Halverson. She’d thrown him to the ground and ex’d him while he struggled. She’d enjoyed it. Afterward, she dismembered him. She’d enjoyed that, too.
Somehow, during all that madness, she’d managed to box up his essence and store him away with the other dead princes inside her. As carefully as she’d touch a wound, she probed this fresh tenant. How could she ever bear to access his memories?
How could she when she’d almost popped his wife’s head off her shoulders?
The blood would never come off.
Mikhail put one hand on the bed, and then the other. Then a knee. The bed sank under his weight. Trapped in her thoughts, she could not stop him.
He took her head between his hands. “You did what had to be done.”
When she finished her slaughter in the hallway, the bodies had lain so thick that she had to walk across their broken backs and tangled limbs to return to the roof. She could remember how their hair felt between her toes.
Mikhail shook her. “Stop it. Leave it alone.”
Her lips parted but no words came out. All she could see was Halverson’s face.
“You know how to compartmentalize.”
Yeah, so why can’t I compartmentalize you? She whispered it to herself, not knowing what he could hear or see inside her. She knew she could see more of him if she wished, but didn’t go there.
Strangely enough, his question worked. It focused her attention on him, instead of the Minnesotans. And Frank. Oh yes, she’d caught up with Frank.
Mikhail probed her mind, grabbing at anything she let slip. Unlike her, he’d use this connection between them any way he could. She fought back, making her mind slick as glass, as reflective as a mirror.
“Why are you locking me out?” he said.
Alya would have laughed, but feared if she laughed, she’d start to cry. Why would he want in? What if she was carrying his child? Could this be any more fucked up? When she rescued him, she’d stepped in a cell of her own making and tossed away the key.
Mikhail spoke slowly, as if she were brain damaged. “You’re safe with me.”
That wasn’t true. She was safest alone. Like a gun in a box.
He looked hungry. Beat to hell and hungry. That was her fault.
“Alya, don’t. Don’t.”
He pushed back her hair, searching her face. He lowered his head and sniffed her, skimming his nose over her forehead and nuzzling her hair. She couldn’t help but sniff too. The skin on the underside of his jaw smelled good beyond belief.
“You’ve changed.” Mikhail’s eyes shut in ecstasy as his nostrils flared again. “Your blood. Your scent. My God.”
Yes. His scent had changed, too. It had become an airborne drug. She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. She wanted to rub her face against his skin. She wanted to cut him open and climb inside.
Mikhail pressed her to the sheets. His mouth slanted over hers. Primal masculine satisfaction radiated from him, body and brain. It flooded her mind. It flavored his kiss. It said, Mine.
She turned her face aside, gasping for air. He was too heavy. She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out. Couldn’t he tell? Was the bond a one-way street? Maybe he was too far gone to notice her panic. The intensity of his desire paralyzed her.
She read the plans he had for her, the images as clear as her own thoughts. He wanted to twist her body into a sigil of perfect submission. He wanted her on hands and knees, ass up, face ground into the carpet...
“Mikhail! Stop!” The weakness of her voice appalled her. She squirmed beneath him, trying to push him off.
Another series of visions arrowed through her. While he had her on her knees, he’d wrench her head back, exposing her throat. Still fucking her, he’d tear into it. Tear into it like a mad dog, to drink and drink and drink…
Mikhail’s teeth sharpened. He buried his face in her neck. Hydrated on sugar water alone, his body was consuming itself by the minute. He needed her, in every possible way.
Spurred on by her heady fragrance, dark erotic fantasies spun out in his imagination. He’d take her soon enough, but he needed to feed from her first.
His mouth stretched wide.
Her fist smashed into his left ear. A millisecond later the heel of her hand slammed into the bridge of his nose. White stars filled his eyes.
With a roar he slapped her back down to the bed. The anger was primal, the reaction instinctive. No one—not even the bride—interrupted a claiming.
She bared her teeth, her eyes murderous and wild. He pinned her by the throat, growling his disapproval. The blood pouring from his nose dripped across her face. She drove her knee into his balls.
Paralyzed with pain, he fell over on his side. He thought she’d kill him, but instead she sprang into the air and landed on top of her armoire. She crouched up there, blood stained and feral and shaking like a junkie.
“Alya.” Wiping his nose, he sat up, his head considerably clearer for having been emasculated. He sent out feelers, soothing thoughts, silent reassurances. “It’s okay.”