“You think this is my idea?”
“You’re in my house, asshole. Holding the gun you shot me with.”
There was that. Mikhail emptied the semi-automatic in front of her, releasing the magazine and tossing it onto the sofa and carefully ejecting the loaded round.
If he were Alex, he’d say something charming and give her a lopsided grin. Gregor would…well, he didn’t understand what women saw in Gregor, actually. But whatever it was, he didn’t have it. Mikhail knew he was cold and dry and unappealing to women, and he didn’t have any experience at courtship.
All he could be was practical.
Chapter Six
Mikhail’s fair skin flamed with her handprints, and his eyes were filled with some unholy brightness. He said, “Your shoulder—is there an exit wound?”
In answer she glanced at the bullet hole in the wall above her. The bullet had passed just under her clavicle, but she could still move her arm, so the damage couldn’t be that bad.
“May I see your back?”
Blood loss must be getting to her, because the way he spoke almost made her laugh. Such a caring, considerate home invader he was. She’d been shot before, as had he, by his scars. Both of them knew she would live. It took a lot to kill a vamp.
“Stop playing doctor. That’s not why you came here.”
“I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“Really? It didn’t seem like that when you were slamming my head against the ventilation shaft.”
Mikhail considered this. “That’s true.” He nodded, absolutely serious. “I enjoyed that.”
The blood loss won out—she laughed. He blinked at her, confused.
“But I promise, it’s out of my system now.”
She laughed harder, covering her face with her hands. This was one conversation she’d never, ever imagined herself having.
From between her fingers she saw Mikhail’s brow crease with concern. “Please, let me see your back.”
Alya stopped laughing abruptly. She didn’t like turning her back on anyone, and she liked people looking at her back even less.
He held up his empty hands. “I just want to see if it’s a clean wound.”
Grimacing with pain, she hitched her shoulder forward, just enough that he could see the wound, but not her whole back.
Gently, he poked her shoulder in a few places. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“It’s not too bad. I suspect your scapula is nicked, but not broken.” His fingers traced away from the wound, following a line toward her spine. “What made these scars?”
Damn. Of course he’d notice them. Of course he’d ask about them. She never told anyone the truth, but she decided to tell it to him. Maybe because she was too exhausted to lie. Maybe because it was part of his story, too.
“My father gave me those.”
He sat back on his heels, so he faced her. “For what?”
“For you.” She couldn’t help but smile at the idea. It was an uncomfortable smile. “For leaving you. Well, really, for running away with Jean. When my father found us, Jean handed me over without a fight. But I fought. I tried to get away. When he caught me, he pinned me down on the boot of the car, snapped off the aerial and lashed me with it.”
“He beat you until you couldn’t fight back.” Those Russian eyes of his did sad so well, and they did it now, turning into dark wells.
She nodded. After the beating, he’d flown her home from Louisiana to Marrakech and locked her up in the old cistern in their basement, where the water was ankle deep and the walls crawled with bugs. He didn’t let her out until she’d agreed to a quickly arranged marriage to some pudgy Albanian excuse-for-a-prince, a marriage intended to salvage the family’s reputation. She “agreed” to this arrangement while her brother, Driss, sat on her chest and her other brother, Sami, hobbled her ankles.
Of course she bolted at her first opportunity: directly from the altar. Her father vowed to kill her. She ran all the way to China and threw herself on the mercy of Sun Bin, the Prince of Hong Kong. They’d met briefly in New York the summer before, and she’d remembered how he’d looked at her.
Sun began her lessons in power. All their lessons took place in the bedroom. He wouldn’t deal with a female on any other level. That was true of all princes, she learned as the years passed. All of her lovers back then were princes, because no one else could protect her from her father.
Princes were the crème de la crème of vampire kind. No prince rose to that title through heredity or corruption alone—though both helped. A prince wasn’t a prince unless he had the strength, will and wits to hold his position against all challengers. The vampire race was not made up of pacifists. The men who controlled it wielded their power with a fine blend of brutality and precision, and as Alya learned, the innate dominance of a prince found its most creative expression through sex.
Every prince she met wanted her. Not because she was young and attractive––they had their pick of women––but because they could sense her latent power, which made bringing her to heel more satisfying. And she was literally brought to heel, again and again. She’d even worn a golden leash for one of them.
None of them imagined she would ever be a threat. She didn’t even imagine she would be. At first, all she wanted was protection. And for many years, she resigned herself to sexual submission, though it did not come naturally to her. That was the price you paid to sleep in a prince’s bed. Some of her princes were sadistic thugs. Others were accomplished doms who taught her well. But none of them understood how closely she listened to and watched what they did outside the bedroom.
She became a commodity of sorts, a treasure that switched hands. Usually she managed to engineer her transfers, but sometimes she was outmaneuvered and ended up in bad places. But no matter where she went, she kept learning. As arm candy, she had almost unlimited access to their lives. She sucked their cocks while they strategized with their lieutenants. She hung in cuffs while they carved out businesses empires.
By the time she broke out on her own, she understood perhaps better than any other vamp the tangled strings of power and influence that governed their world––because she’d seen it from every side.
Using that knowledge, she’d won the privileges of a prince, including the right of dominance in the bedroom. She’d not give over this hard-won power to anyone, for any price.
Mikhail might sympathize with her for a few moments. Once they’d been equals—friends—and in that he was different from any prince she’d ever known. But if he married her, he would expect her to submit, just like all the others. He’d arrived making imperious demands, armed with a rope that had been used to tame brides for centuries. The Faustins were nothing if not Old School.
Mikhail said, "I don’t want to give you more scars.”
She cocked her head at him, confused.
“I want to heal your shoulder.”
She held his gaze, trying to read his intentions. He stared back steadily, pushing at her with his will. If he were a lieutenant of hers, she’d throw him to the ground for staring at her like that.
Yes, vampire saliva healed. It had evolved to close wounds on humans, but it worked well enough on vamps too. But he wasn’t proposing to close a tiny puncture wound—he wanted to suck on her torn-up flesh. The idea turned her stomach. But at the same time, she had to admit that the prospect of him tonguing her skin made her a little hot. I’m injured worse than I know. I’ve gone delusional.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Really? How did that happen?”