Jess Haines: Enslaved By the Others

I took my time, enjoying the sensation of taking him in at my own pace. With my hands braced on his chest, I set the rhythm, the two of us moving together as instinct took over. It was slow and sweet and sensuous, everything I had hoped. Even when his fingers slid over the brand, adjusting the angle of my hips, it barely registered.

Though he had agreed it was my turn to run the show, he did slide a hand between us to help me reach my peak before he hit his. A shiver of pleasure had me throwing my head back, taking to a sensuous grind against him. There was nothing quite so intoxicating as the feel of him reaching the height of his pleasure beneath me, the way his muscles flexed and jerked, and the vibration of his pleased growl under my fingertips.

We didn’t stop there, though our pace slowed, taking our time to revel in the feel of each other. I’m not sure how long we spent entwined like that, touching, tasting, exploring each other in every way. It was sweet and glorious, a heady taste of the sensuality I had missed without the fear and pressure of being trapped beneath him. Maybe not as adrenaline-fueled as our last encounter, but it felt a hell of a lot better not to have that constant doubting voice in the back of my mind the whole time.

Once we both reached satiation for the third or fourth time, I collapsed over him, laughing at the mock-growl he gave me for stopping.

“I need a breather,” I told him, rolling a bit to settle in the crook of his arm.

He leaned in to kiss my temple. “As you wish. I’ll be ready for round two whenever you are.”

“Jeez,” I managed between snorting giggles, “I thought you could read my mind. I’m exhausted. Human stamina, not vampire, remember?”

“Despite appearances,” he said, tone dry, “I am neither perfect nor psychic, and that kind of cavalier abuse of the bond isn’t in my plans for you. Love is a powerful thing, but it does not change people into what you wish they would be.”

I tilted my head up, staring at him. He cocked a brow, questioning.

He looked so damned casual. One arm behind his head, the other splayed against his bare chest, sheets rumpled and pillows strewn around like some surreal form of art. The unliving statue of an ancient Grecian god, deigning to meddle in mortal affairs.

I hadn’t had the chance—or, being honest with myself, been brave enough—to ask him directly before now. The one time I had tried, he had used the blood bond to send me slinking back to Chaz without giving me a real answer to my fumbling, ham-handed attempt to get him to come clean about his feelings about me.

“Tell me, Royce. Please, no dancing around it. Do you love me? Really?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Unconditionally. No one has fascinated me the way you do. All those contradictions, all those damaged pieces, all the running and the hiding—the chase told me a great deal about you I don’t think you see. All those little things that add up to someone reckless and foolish and brave. Courageous and true to her friends. Beautiful in a way that this society rarely appreciates.”

I swiped my palms over my eyes, sweeping away the building moisture there. “Brave? I don’t know where you get that idea. I’m always running, reacting without thinking, hurting my friends, hurting myself—”

“Enough,” he said, tone so sharp I was drawn out of my growing funk enough to look at him in surprise. “This is far too familiar ground. You hold yourself responsible for too much and cling to your flaws, real and imagined. Enough with the blame. Enough with feeling sorry for yourself. Give yourself some respect. You won’t get it from anyone else until you do. You can waste years trying—but you will never find that magical ‘good enough’ until you find it in yourself to stand up and accept who you are without reservation or apology.”

I had nothing to say to that. It stung how right he was.

The hurt was mostly realizing that one of the reasons I had fought so hard to face up to what I had become was that it meant letting go of my fear of Others. Of vampires. Acknowledging that my feelings for Royce went beyond that heady mix of horror and lust.

Well, not horror. Not anymore. Even if he still did things that scared me, what made me sweat and plastered my tongue to the roof of my mouth was the thought of letting go of all the excuses that shielded me from accepting that I wasn’t the same person I used to be. That I might have more than just pantsfeelings for a blood-drinking creature of the night. That I was more than human, but still had my humanity.

He was quiet, watching me, probably waiting for the significance of what he said to sink in. Once I looked up from my hands and back to him, he continued, voice soft. Like he thought he might scare me back into being introspective and victimized, ready to find another excuse not to be in the moment if he wasn’t careful.

I was done with that, but I wanted to hear what he had to say before I told him so.

“Most people, when they think of destruction, automatically assume it involves violence. Explosions, fire, and waste. You? The path of self-destruction you’ve been taking is a long road, a gradual wasting away, coming on silent cat’s feet. You doubt yourself. Your humanity. Your ability to cope. You haven’t taken note of what’s been available to you or the opportunities you’ve let slip away because of this quiet path you’ve been walking.

“You will die if you continue on that road. Not because of me. Because you can’t stop yourself from burning out, becoming a shell of who you are and who you could be. Don’t do it to yourself, Shiarra. You’re not a monster. No more than I am.”

Says the vampire who’s been around since before the coming of Christ. Somehow, I managed to bite my tongue long enough to keep from saying that out loud and came up with something a little less snarky.

“I hate how right you are. You always are. I’m not sure if I should be pissed at you for saying it or at myself for needing to hear it.”

He gave me a close-lipped smile, and for once there wasn’t anything sly about it. “Either way, it’s better to be angry than resigned or afraid. It means you’re getting stronger. Finding yourself instead of giving in.” He leaned in, cupping my cheeks and kissing my brow. “I want you to live. No shame, no regrets, no blame. No more fear.”

“No promises,” I said, voice thick.

No. No promises. But from that point forward, I would do my best to be the greatest person I knew how to be. To find that thread of self-respect I used to hold so dear, to be brave and thoughtful and worthy of the words he used to describe me. To stop worrying so much about what he might do versus what he’d proved himself to be. A friend. I owed it to him. To Sara. To my family. All the people who loved me, even if they didn’t accept me. Most of all, I owed it to myself.

It took a lot of hard knocks for the lesson to sink in. Sometimes being brave means letting go.