Suzanne McLeod - The Shifting Price of Prey

Damn. Didn’t he know that he did? Hell, I’d already forgiven the idiotic vamp for doing his mind-meld on my memories, for ordering me about as if I were a blood-slave, and for killing me more than once – not that I’m masochistic, and the circumstances were extenuating; I’d even asked him to, that last time – but hey, how much more of a declaration did he want? A date. In public. In a place you wouldn’t normally go. For no other reason than to be with him. And my knee-jerk reaction had been: no way . Crap. I’d failed his test. He was right. Why the hell should he want sex or anything else with me when I wouldn’t even be seen with him in public?

I jerked the bra’s straps to adjust them, and slipped it on.

Except, by that same standard Malik was wrong too.

If he was going to play stupid games with me, instead of talking things through, then why the hell should I want sex or anything more with him ?

Only I did want more. My heart thudded erratically as the trembling, indefinable emotion I felt for Malik crystallised into something steady and tangible in my heart.

‘So I should probably go on this date and sort things out,’ I told my reflection, then scowled as my mind threw a huge curve ball at me.

The Autarch.

The psychotic prick had been pulling Malik’s strings with the Jellyfish spell, trying to stop me removing it. And then there was Malik’s answers about the Emperor. Or rather his non-answers, seeing as he’d started prevaricating as soon as I’d mentioned the tarot card. How far could I trust that whatever game Malik was playing was down to him and not the Autarch?

And if it was the Autarch speaking through Malik’s mouth, then the Blue Heart date scenario made more sense. It was vamp territory, I’d be more vulnerable, and so would Malik. Damn. I needed to talk to him; without the Autarch’s interference. I touched the rose-shaped bruises on my wrist that hid my bracelet; I could use Malik’s ring and contact him through the Dreamscape: that might work. And the best place to do that was— well, not here; it wasn’t safe.

Last time we’d met in the Dreamscape, he’d used Tower Bridge as a backdrop, but really it could be any place we were both familiar with, like oh, say, my bedroom? After all, I couldn’t get much safer than my own bed . . . My pulse raced as my Malik fantasies roared back to life, fuelled by our recent near miss. We’d been a breath away from sex. Lust and longing twisted low inside me. And, boy, was I missing sex after nearly a year of no touch but my own. Sighing, I traced the bruises on my breasts, following them down my body to the last mark, which disappeared beneath the lacy briefs, remembering the glorious feel of his hands on me—

Sudden excruciating arousal made my legs buckle. I fell to my knees and, desperate for release, shoved a hand into my briefs. As soon as I touched myself, an orgasm rocked through me, more pain than pleasure. Panting, I collapsed against the mirror. My reflection stared back at me with molten-copper eyes wide with shock. Magic wreathed me in a swirling golden haze, and Malik’s marks suddenly gleamed like blood-tinted silver pennies.

The mark on my wrist had never done that – I looked – was still not doing that. Arousal flamed through me again, making me feel I’d perish in agony if I didn’t come. This time it took much more than a touch to get me off as I crumpled over on the floor, forehead on the cold marble, arse in the air, my fingers working feverishly, unable to stop – what the fuck was wrong with me? – until finally the orgasm ripped through me as if the pain/pleasure were trying to tear me apart. I screamed my release, the sound reverberating like a banshee’s screech in the small room.

The door slammed open.

A vamp stood framed in the doorway, his platinum hair hanging loose around his shoulders, his hooded blue eyes cold as they scanned the room. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of a tongue-lolling Irish wolfhound’s head on it: an outfit that would’ve seemed odd if you didn’t know him.

I did. He was Maxim Fyodor Zakharin a.k.a. Mad Max. My uncle on my sidhe mother’s side; or distant cousin on my vamp father’s side. Neither of the relationships were ones I wanted to acknowledge, even without the icky overtones of incest. Not that the family relationship, or the incest, stopped there; Mad Max had taken both further by having a fling with his niece, my half-sister Brigitta, who I’d never even known existed until I’d learned she’d been killed by the vamps. I say fling, but it was more than that, seeing as they’d had a kid together, Ana.

But even without the close family connections, there was no way I trusted Mad Max. He was the Autarch’s pet vamp. He was a crazy sonofabitch who hardly cared for himself, much less anyone else; I’d seen him cheerfully stake his own father on a whim. And he was the vamp who’d kidnapped Katie last year. As relatives and vamps go, Mad Max was the last one anyone would want to see, even if they weren’t huddled half-naked on the floor, fighting a compulsion to pleasure themselves again.

A compulsion my gut told me was magical.

Somebody – the provider of the underwear? – must’ve sicced me with some sort of sex spell.

But despite that, and the soreness between my legs telling me I’d been more than rough in my desperation, I still throbbed with arousal. I wanted. Needed. But my gut also told me another attempt at release was likely to drive me as crazy as Mad Max, and quite possibly render parts of me raw and bloody. What I wanted, needed, was something more.

Mad Max stopped scanning and his gaze settled on me. For a moment he stared as if I were some strange specimen he’d never seen before, then he sniffed. A grin broke his face, flashing all four of his fangs. ‘Paddling the pink canoe, are you, Cousin? Good for you. But a bit of rumpy pumpy’s much more fun than flying solo. Want some company?’

Not in a million years , and Touch me and I’ll stake you vied as answers in my head, but the Compulsion riding me had other ideas. It wasn’t too impressed with the faint reddish glow emanating from him, but it decided it was better than nothing, so even as part of me recoiled in horrified disbelief, I flung my magic at him. It snaked out, twisting round his limbs like thick golden vines, and my mouth growled, ‘Yes, I want company.’

He barked a laugh, his eyes flashing from white to gold like manic warning lights. ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Cousin!’ And he stepped towards me, his stance familiar in a way I realised way too late to counter, as he shifted his weight, swung his leg in a fast roundhouse kick and his boot connected with my temple.

The world exploded into the proverbial Milky Way of spinning stars—

And I plunged into darkness.

The world swam back into head-pounding, dimly lit focus. I still throbbed with arousal. Not as desperately as before, but more like banked embers that would burst into flame at the slightest breath of air. But the Compulsion nagged at me. On autopilot I tried to touch myself, only—

I was tied down. On a bed. Spreadeagled like I was a star in some tacky bondage video.

Panic roared up. I struggled, my screams muffled by the fabric gagging my mouth.

‘Good-oh, Cousin, nice to see you’re awake.’ Mad Max loomed over me, eyes burning white fire, and slapped something wet and warm over my thighs and between my legs.

Enforced calm relaxed my body, muscles going limp as cooked noodles. My panic retreated deep inside, where it clawed and spat like a caged tiger; the pounding in my head diminished and everything around me took on a recognisable shape and form.