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My stomach heaved. ‘Why haven’t you healed it?’ I demanded.
‘Genevieve.’ His eyes darkened with grim mockery. ‘The correct greeting of blood-property to their master should carry more reverence. An offer of the throat is ideal, a wrist acceptable, a deferential falling to your knees the bare minimum.’
An image flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him; what I was doing took deference to a whole other level. Lust spiralled within me like a tornado and slick heat bloomed between my thighs.
I dropped my backpack to the floor with an incensed thud. ‘I am notyour blood-property, Malik.’
He moved faster than I could track and was behind me, one steel-hard arm clamping my arms and chest, trapping me against him, his other hand thrust in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat.
I yelped in shock before snapping my mouth shut. My heart pounded, flooding adrenalin through my veins, urging me to flight or fight. Instead I froze, my childhood training kicking in: struggling over-excites vamps, and over-excited vamps, even one as normally übercontrolled as Malik, are more likely to forget whatever fucking infuriating game they’re playingand tear your throat out.
‘You are my blood, Genevieve.’ His breath seared along my pulse. ‘As such there are expectations on both of us.’
My mind stuttered as his words penetrated. Had I missed something: like maybe we weren’t alone? I pinged my i
His dark spice scent wove around me like smoke, his lips cool against my skin, a certain part of him pressing hard against my arse. Damn, it wasn’t just the blood-sucker in him that was excited. Though to be honest, blood and sex are two sides of the same coin with vamps.
‘You didn’t expect anything before.’ I kept my voice quiet and calm.
‘Before you had not admitted yourself such,’ he said. ‘In writing.’
It took me a couple of seconds, then . . . Crap. I had. Last Hallowe’en. As part of my ‘blackmail’, I’d given another letter to the witches. It had been the carrot to go with my stick. That letter gave Malik dispensation for any unspecified crimes he may or may not have committed (so long as he had Hugh’s agreement) against any witch, past, present and future, in exchange for his property – a.k.a. me/my blood – used in a spell. My ‘admission’ seemed to have changed something. Leaving me vulnerable. My pulse sped faster.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, keeping my a
He didn’t react. Not an indrawn breath or a muscle moved. He’d shut down. His lungs not working, his heart not beating. Which was a sign, hopefully, that he was getting himself under control. I had an urge to swallow. I stifled it. Waiting. Hardly breathing myself. Then after a long drawn-out silence, I opened my mouth to apologise again.
‘Shh.’ He stopped me. ‘I am not fully myself. I need—’ He broke off. ‘It may aid me if you would calm your pulse. I find my thirst for you is greater than I anticipated.’
At the self-disgust in his voice, a suspicion slithered into my mind like one of Asclepius’ snakes. Maybe this wasn’t his game, but someone else’s. Like the Autarch’s. He had to be the one who’d branded Malik; no one else would have the power.
Angry resolve, rather than the usual panic, filled me. I concentrated on counting, slowing my pulse.
What felt like aeons later, Malik’s grip on my hair lessened, allowing me to lower my chin a few millimetres, and ease the painfully stretched tendons in my neck. My gaze caught on our reflection in the windows in front of us. Malik was fully vamped out— pupils flaring red with flame, lips drawn back in a silent snarl, canines and needle-thin venom fangs white and sharp. The brand on his forehead now pulsed dirty silver in my sight.
My stu
‘It marks me as his. As the Ancient Greeks used to mark their slaves.’
Bastard Autarch.‘You’re not Greek,’ I said flatly. ‘And neither is he. And I don’t get how that’s even relevant.’
‘You are right. We are not Greek. But the symbol is understood by those who need to see it. I am Oligarch, but all know that I took the position without his knowledge or permission. He has asserted his authority. It is necessary to maintain the status quo.’
Great. This was some sort of political vamp crap. ‘So keep the brand,’ I said. ‘What about the spell?’
‘The spell?’
‘Vamps can’t see magic. So what’s the point?’
His hand spasmed, tightening his hold on my hair. ‘It is for his personal entertainment.’
Sadistic psycho.‘What’s it doing to you?’
He was silent, a dark weight at my back.
‘C’mon, Malik. It’s doing something, or he’s doing something through it. You’re not usually so volatile.’
‘Volatile?’ He yanked my head back again. ‘Volatile is for the undisciplined, Genevieve.’
‘If you keep doing that,’ I croaked, ‘you’re going to break my neck. I’d be happier not wearing a brace for however long it takes to heal.’
‘My apologies.’ His voice was contrite.
‘Okay,’ I said slowly, trying to think of an out. ‘So we’ve both said we’re sorry. How about you let me go and we’ll talk about it?’
‘I find myself unable to do that. It is taking all of my . . . discipline to hold you like this and not feed.’
Right. Well, maybe taking my blood would help. After all, what was a drink between friends? And Malik wasmy friend, despite the current stand-off. ‘So feed,’ I said.
‘No. I am too . . . volatile.’
Underneath his attempt at dry amusement, I could taste his fear, like bitter aloes mixed with rancid blood. Fear of losing control, and of hurting me. Not that I wanted either of those things to happen either, but hey, the other options – standing here until inevitably the sun came up or his disciplined restraint gave way – weren’t cutting it either.
‘Look,’ I said, frustration making me sharp, ‘I haven’t donated yet so I’ve got plenty of blood.’ My usual donation was a pint into a blood-bag; a daily necessity thanks to the 3V infection turbo-boosting my red cell production. But hey, Malik could probably take a good three, even four pints before things got too iffy. ‘If you get too carried away then you can heal me. And, I’m not human, remember. There’s no way you can pass your curse on to me, if that’s worrying you.’
‘It is a tempting offer, Genevieve. Thank you. But no.’
Stubborn vamp. Sometimes his phobia about his curse made him even more paranoid than me. ‘So what’s the plan, then?’
‘The plan?’
‘Yes. The plan to get out of this.’
There was a long silence. ‘I find it impossible to marshal my thoughts.’ The confusion in his voice was raw, as if he’d suddenly woken in a frightening place. ‘I do not have any plan.’
I’d have sighed, if his arm around me had let me take a deep breath. Not working out what needed to happen next wasn’t like him. Had to be an effect of whatever the Autarch’s spell was doing to mess with Malik’s mind.
Well, I had an easy way to sort that, whether he wanted me to or not. Except I’d left my turkey baster down in the square; not that I thought Malik, or rather the Autarch controlling Malik, would let me take the turkey baster to his forehead. I choked back the slightly hysterical laughter at the image that thought conjured.
Next option was absorbingthe spell; definitely not a good idea with who knew what side-effects the magic would sic me with. Much better to get rid of the spell totally, which meant I’d have to crackit. Preferably not while it was on Malik. He’d heal the smashed-watermelon effect it would have on his skull, but I needed to talk to him tonight, not in three or five or however many weeks’ time. So I needed to callthe spell off of him and tagit to something else first. Something I could destroy without too much damage.