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.