And he knew it, the bastard.
I really could use a cigarette. Her eyes fixed on the drawer where she knew she’d accidently on purpose left a half pack. No, I don’t.
What she needed was a distraction. Checking her phone, she confirmed that Christian was coming over to feed her first thing. He’d be a lovely distraction. Shrugging a thin robe over her short white nightgown, she went into her bathroom and splashed her face with cool water, cleaned her teeth and ran a brush through her hair. Despite these gestures at starting a new night, she still felt dirty, tainted by the dream and haunted by her family.
Fuck them all. She strode back into her bedroom, snatched up the cigarettes and a book of matches, slammed the drawer shut and headed out to the garden.
The house was silent and empty, the terra cotta tile of her halls smooth and cool under her feet. She lived in a fantasy castle, a Spanish-style extravaganza redolent of old Hollywood. Legend had it that Errol Flynn had once swung from her wrought iron chandelier. Ordinarily it cheered her just to look at the stained glass windows, the heavy, carved beams in the ceiling, the ancient bearskins on the floor, but not that night. Until Mikhail was gone she’d have no comfort or real rest.
Lulu met her at the bottom of the stairs and wound around her ankles, hoping to lure her into the kitchen for some wet food.
“Now I’m your best friend? Why don’t you go kill something like a proper carnivore?”
Alya deactivated the alarm on the French doors and threw them open. She’d bought the house because the massive olive trees, twisted pomegranates, and swaying palms in the back garden reminded her of her childhood home. Tonight she felt like selling it and moving far away. The problem was, there weren’t many places where she hadn’t left a trail, and no place at all where memories wouldn’t pursue her.
Forcing her shoulders to relax, she stepped outside. The first hour after dusk was her favorite time of night, that magical time when the world seemed to heave a sigh of relief—another day gone—and the night creatures yawned and spread their wings.
Lulu pursued her, yowling insistently. Alya sighed and snatched one of the aforementioned night creatures from the air—a huge death’s head moth. Lulu stood on her hind legs to take it, delighted with the gift.
Alya grinned despite of herself. Happy cat. Peaceful vamp.
She lit a cigarette. Nicotine worked. There was no denying it. Smoking in long, appreciative drags, she walked circles around the pool, collecting herself for the night to come. Alya Adad wasn’t allowed to have meltdowns. Not in front of others, at least.
That damned dream. Her shoulders tensed all over again. Mikhail had dredged all this up. She hadn’t given her brothers a moment’s thought in years. Forcing her family from her mind, she stubbed her cigarette out in a planter and picked up her phone. That was the past. The present was pressing in.
While she dialed Dominick, she walked into her night blooming garden. Standing among drooping angel’s trumpet, falls of jasmine, soporific hop vines, and bizarre flowering cacti, she plucked spent flowers to make new ones grow.
“What do you have for me?” she said when he picked up.
“Not a hair of him to be found. Perhaps he decided to withdraw—”
Alya laughed, cutting him off. “He’s not going anywhere.”
“With due respect, sir, how long can he be away from New York? How much time will he waste on a marriage proposal?”
“It’s more than that.”
“You think he’s out for revenge? After all this time?”
Like every other vamp in the world, Dominick knew the story of how Alya Adad threw herself at Jean Courtableu, prince of the Bayou, in front of the cream of the nocturnal society. How the Faustin heir had challenged Courtableu on the spot and had been soundly thrashed for everyone’s amusement.
No one knew what happened to her after that night.
“No…not revenge.” She struggled to articulate what her body knew from the way he kissed her. He was committed. There was no going back for him. What drove him? What had changed?
Or what hadn’t she known all along?
Alya froze midstep, an image solidifying from her memories: Mikhail kissing her hand. He was always doing that. Even when he was a kid in ratty tennis shoes, he’d been courtly. He could actually pull off a bow…
Her fist closed over a dried trumpet flower, crushing it to dust.
“Sir?”
He’d tasted her.
That warm, moonlit night. She’d nicked her knuckle while playing with knives. He’d lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the blood from her wound.
Later that same night they both lost their virginity.
Alya sank to her haunches. Struggling to keep her tone casual, she said, “Dominick, how much do you know about blood bonds?”
“Nothing worthwhile.”
“Can you do some research for me? This isn’t going to be on the Internet. You’ll have to go to Master Wilhelm’s library in Ojai. He’ll let you in as a favor for me. Find out how much blood you have to ingest to initiate the blood bond. Anything on it, really.”
“Will do. One last thing. Frank the rat just called and gave me some nice little tidbits on Jimmy. I’d say he’s working out fine.”
“Good news,” Alya murmured, too distracted to make a rat joke. Before Dominick sensed her distraction, she hung up. Unable to move, she stayed where she was, squatting on the brick walkway, dead flowers all around her bare feet. Thinking hard, she cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes.
Mikhail had changed after their first time together. Always intense, he’d gone off the deep end. Every moment he wanted to be with her, touching her, staring at her.
At first she’d basked in the attention, but after a while his intensity began to stifle her. Even then, before everything, she couldn’t stand confinement, and his love began to feel exactly like that. Beneath the willow they’d been perfectly matched, but soon his passion left her feeling shallow and inadequate. She couldn’t imitate it; she couldn’t even understand it.
In the end, she ran from him. She stepped into the arms of a man who fascinated her, and whom she knew Mikhail could not harm. And she did it at the New Year’s ball. It was hard to remember exactly how she thought then. Perhaps she had loved the theatrics of a public break-up, perhaps she thought the setting would force Mikhail to take the news quietly. Perhaps she was a little frightened of him. She never dreamed he’d challenge Jean and embarrass everybody.
She wandered out of the flowers, lowered herself onto the cushioned daybed she kept poolside and clutched a pillow to her chest.
A blood bond would explain a lot.
When Mikhail kissed her cut that night, he’d taken her breath away. Blood sampling was the ultimate no-no between teenage vampires. To dare it was twisted, naughty and very sexy. How could she have kept her panties on after that?
But could such a small amount of blood bond him to her?
Could one drop still be driving him after thirty years?
She remembered the feral, starving way he’d kissed her on the rooftop. Like he hadn’t kissed anyone for years.
Come to think of it, she’d never heard of Mikhail Faustin being romantically attached to anyone.
Ah, shit. She fumbled for another cigarette.
But if he was bonded to her, how had he survived so long? Though she didn’t know much about the bond, she’d heard that bonded vamps were supposed to go mad when deprived of their mate. Mikhail had thrived. He was the fucking prince of New York.
She fell back on the couch, mussing all the neatly stacked cushions. There was no way to know more until Dominick got back to her. All she could do was focus on what he’d do next.