She tucked her hands under her arms and fought to control herself, but long forgotten memories kept rolling through her. That night under the willows Mikhail had kissed her a thousand times. He’d adored her as she’d never been adored, before or since, and she’d loved him foolishly, wildly, as only a hormone addled sixteen-year-old could love.
This is no time to go soft, Alya.
She was pondering teenage love while sitting on one of the most dangerous vamps in the world. This cold, ruthless Mikhail wasn’t that Mikhail. The Mikhail of the willows would never have cut the buttons from her blouse, or slammed her head against the wall. He was a prince intent on claiming his mate. They both knew she had two choices: submit to his will, or kill him.
The practical side of her nature shoved forward and suggested she strangle him. That way she wouldn’t risk getting arterial spray in her mouth or eyes.
But strangling was a death for thieves. It was no way for a prince to die. Contrary to public opinion, she had a few standards. Honor meant something to her; she didn’t want to execute him like a criminal. He was nobility, and once, long ago, they’d been friends.
Above, the low-slung sky winked with helicopters and airplanes instead of stars. It offered her no signs or omens. Below, the traffic on the boulevard roared like a river. Between her legs, Mikhail’s chest rose and fell in a steady, sleeping rhythm.
Using the point of her knife, she plucked off the buttons of his shirt and spread it open. His once smooth torso was riddled with scars. Pinched bullet holes. Gashes. Teeth marks. Scars she could read all too well. Like her, he was a warrior.
She sighed and said aloud, “This is such a mistake.” He’d come after her again. And after she’d shamed him like this, his next attack wouldn’t be nearly as gentlemanly.
But she could indulge herself a little. Her hand turned steady. Smiling, she carved a large letter A, one with a fancy, curling tail, into his sternum, so he’d know she’d held his life in her hand and showed him mercy.
It was possible that he’d not wake up before dawn. But if that was so, it was the will of God. She gathered up his rope and leapt off the roof.
The noise hurt his ears. It started and stopped, started and stopped, tearing his head apart. After what seemed hours of torture, he recognized the sound as his phone. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and silenced it. His eyes were crusted shut. His head hurt. Where was he?
Outside.
He jumped to his feet. The sudden motion brought with it a wave of pain that blurred his vision. He shook his head to clear it, preparing for her next blow, and then he realized she was gone.
He dropped to his knees, thankful to be alive. Wincing, he explored the lump on the back of his head, and dragged his hand over his swollen jaw. Just lifting his arm made his ribs hurt. They had to be cracked. His shirt flapped in the wind. He looked down and discovered a huge letter A carved into his chest. It was as big as his hand. Astounded, he traced the outline with his finger, trying to figure out what it meant. It itched, but didn’t hurt. Compared to the rest of the damage she’d done, it was a tender kiss.
Why hadn’t she killed him?
His phone rang again. This time he checked it. Gregor.
“You alive?”
He didn’t think his head would hurt so much if he were dead.
“You didn’t check in. Did you get her?”
He’d promised his brothers he’d check in with Gregor at dawn every day. Mikhail glanced at the sky. What time was it? Los Angeles was never truly dark, especially when it was overcast. Low, murky clouds reflected the streetlights, but he could read the signs well enough to know that dawn was closing on him. “No. I have to go. I’m out.”
“What? Why the fuck didn’t you let us come with you? Where are you? Are you—”
Mikhail hung up. Cradling his ribs, he walked to the roof’s edge and looked down, wincing at the thought of dropping to th e ground. Instead, he chose the somewhat less painful option of leaping over to the next rooftop. That one had a doorway, which meant a stairwell down. He broke the lock and slipped into reassuring blackness.
Inside he leaned against the cold, cinderblock wall and rested. The pain, the close darkness, and the brush with the dawn reminded him of that morning after Alya left him and Courtableu beat him senseless— a morning he’d forbidden himself to think about for many years.
After the fight with Courtableu—though calling it a fight was giving himself too much credit—he rode his bike to the beach, numbed by pain, humiliation, and most of all the profound, bleak nothingness he felt in her absence. In the faint, predawn light he’d walked knee deep into the water, ready to greet the rising sun. The sea would have washed away his ashes.
His father found him moments before the sun crested the horizon. Mikhail fought him, and his father beat him for it, pounding him in the roiling surf until he couldn’t fight back anymore, then dragged him to the family van before they were both incinerated.
They had to hide in the back of the van until sunset. Hunched in the darkness, salt and sand festering in his wounds, Mikhail tried to be strong. But somewhere during that endless day, he broke under the weight of his anger and shame and wept like a girl, shaming himself yet more.
His father didn’t say much, but what he did say stuck. Looking back, Mikhail wondered if his father hadn’t put a subtle compulsion on him. But for whatever reason, Mikhail emerged from the van reborn. He’d sworn to his father that he’d live, if not for love, then for duty. And he never cried again.
At the time neither he nor his father understood he was fighting against a blood bond. And that was for the best. If he’d known the truth, he’d probably have gone back the next day and finished the job.
Admittedly his standards were low, but he thought this was a better dawn. A much better one. His hand drifted up to touch the letter A on his chest and his lips twisted into a smile.
Chapter Five
Alya woke cold and damp, kicking against her tangled sheets.
“Oh,” she said, opening her eyes to find her cat, Lulu, on the pillow next to hers, staring at her in alarm. “Oh, thank goodness.”
In her dream she’d been fighting her brothers. They’d pinned her down. They were going to roll her in a carpet and toss her into the sea. It was just the sort of thing they would do.
Shaken and depressed, she reached for Lulu. The cat hissed at being moved, but Alya needed to hold something, so she ignored the warning and drew the cat’s warm, fluffy body to her chest. Lulu yowled and chomped down on her hand.
Alya let go and the cat stalked away, her black tail high and twitching. “You are such a bitch,” she called after her. “You are a bitch’s bitch.”
Falling on her back, she hugged the cat’s pillow instead. It was warm, at least. A terrible loneliness fell on her, which she interpreted as a dangerous form of self-pity.
The lights on her bedside panel blinked peacefully, telling her all security systems were active. She untangled herself from the sheets and padded over to the armoire in the corner of her room. Monitors lined the inside, surrounding a terminal. On the monitors she could see her human security guards standing at their posts. In a few minutes they’d switch with her nocturnal team—all vamps. The log reported a quiet da y.
No sign of Mikhail.
She regretted letting him go. It wasn’t like her to let sentimentality cloud her judgment. If she’d been thinking straight, she would have stuffed him in a shipping container bound for China. Waiting for him to attack again was making her crazy.