Jess Haines - Stalking the Others

The only times Royce had ever hurt me had been when he was under compulsion by the Dominari Focus. Outside of that, he’d been physically forceful at times, but had never actually forced himself upon me.

His behavior was a far cry from that of Peter or Max. Could I trust him? Could I really put my life in his hands?

I couldn’t honestly say no, but just the thought of saying yes made my stomach give a sick lurch.

Perhaps sensing my weakening resolve, he slowly edged closer to me until he could wrap an arm around my shoulder, cradling me to his chest. I started to resist, but then shame at realizing that made me guilty of doing just as he had said—resisting out of reflex—soon had me relaxing against him. I breathed in the scent of mint and some spicy cologne with only the faintest undertone of copper as he lightly stroked my hair, then urged me to rest my cheek against his shoulder.

His touch, though cool, was not unpleasant or unwelcome. He didn’t speak again, waiting with the patience of an immortal for me to give him my answer.

I couldn’t deny that a tiny part of me wanted to know. I wanted to know what he could do, what made him different. Why he had pursued me so heavily despite my adamant refusals.

As I pressed my hand to his chest, feeling for a heartbeat that wasn’t there, he held me as he had when I had wept for the loss of my livelihood and my friends and my family last month—what felt like a lifetime ago. I had the feeling he would respect my decision if I said no; that this might be the last time he would ever ask so much from me. He gave no sign of eagerness or anger, only patience. When I tilted my head up to look at him again, he met my gaze evenly with those black, inhuman eyes, letting his hand come to rest on my shoulder.

Whatever my choice, it was one I could never change or take back. This would alter everything between us.

I leaned up to press a brief, chaste kiss against his cheek. “Okay, Royce. Alec. Okay. You can have your chance.”

Oh, God, why did I say that? It was too late to take it back—but I wasn’t about to take the coward’s way out and tell him I’d made a mistake.

Even if that’s exactly what it felt like.

He didn’t wait long to take me up on it, either. Despite having given him permission, I trembled uncontrollably as he settled those cold, effortlessly strong fingers under my jaw to tilt my head back. Braced to feel pain, I closed my eyes, not wanting to watch as he bent to feed, nor to see that beastly hunger that wanted to swallow me whole form in his eyes.

Thus I was not prepared for it when he kissed me instead.

Shocked, I jerked back at the brush of his lips against my own, lids flying open. He smiled slightly, that amused look at odds with the sure, proprietary way he slid his arms around me and drew me against him once more. The chills that wracked me weren’t entirely from his cool body temperature, but I couldn’t seem to stop the stupid trembling.

“You are terribly flighty, Ms. Waynest. Tell me, do you flee from any man who touches you, or is this something special reserved for me? Either way, I’ll delight in breaking you of the habit.”

I glared at him, putting my hands against his chest in a clear message— stop. “I—I just ... I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“I do so love watching you squirm,” he murmured, leaning in to press another quick, playful kiss against my cheek that made me stiffen, then redden. My skin felt positively afire as his dark eyes examined me, calculating, measuring my frightened reactions against some unknown scale.

“That,” I said, voice shaking, “that is what I can’t stand about you.”

“Hmm?” His response made me think he was only half listening. He seemed more interested in looking me over, searching for who knows what.

“When you act like a monster,” I whispered, instantly wishing—again—that I could take it back.

That was sufficient to drag his attention off my body long enough for him to meet my eyes. There was a touch of red deep down in his irises, only a hint, but it soon died away. A sly smile curved his lips as I straightened and pointedly stared him down. Too bad he was more pleased than intimidated. I got another glimpse of those fangs I hated so much as he spoke in a slow, amused drawl.

“Ah. I see, now,” he said. He leaned in, just a little, and I couldn’t help but jerk back and press a hand to my throat. “Tell me, Ms. Waynest, did you think that I would lunge upon and ravage you like you were some helpless maiden in a fairytale?”

My embarrassed flush was answer enough. He had the sheer gall to laugh at me.

“Oh, you are precious. I see I have my work cut out for me.”

Despite my indignation, my attempt to pull away from him was halted too easily by his fingers twining with my own, drawing me out of my protective crouch by the headboard.

He urged me to lay back and, in spite of my misgivings (and irritation at his teasing), I did so without protest. Now wasn’t the time for that.

Once I was prone, his fingers stroked my bare skin, leaving behind an electric tingle and desire for more that somehow managed to frighten me more than his fangs. He didn’t seem to care about the new bumps and contusions and scars, other than to take care not to put much pressure on any of the myriad bruises scattered over my frame.

Doubts and worries about the consequences of my actions assailed me, and I had to bite my lip to keep from telling him to stop, to wait, that I wasn’t ready. That I’d never be ready. My fingers knotted in the silken sheets, my body practically vibrating with the involuntary shudders that threaded through me as I fought to remain still under his touch.

“Be at ease, my little hunter. I won’t harm you.”

Every instinct within me screamed to run, to hide, to fight and claw my way free if necessary. Instead of giving in to those urges, I said nothing and closed my eyes, doing my very best to think of Royce as anything other than a monster who would gorge himself on the blood in my veins once he deemed me ready for his bite.

He didn’t speak again for some time; instead he knelt at my side as he carefully traced the lines of my body, memorizing them with his hands. I’d never been so aware of someone’s touch before. Having my eyes closed had nothing to do with it. Those cold, powerful fingers could have easily crushed my bones into powder, but instead stroked me with the same delicacy as that with which one might handle a small, frightened animal. Barely brushing my skin, but leaving no doubt as to the enormity of strength behind that touch.

To both my consternation and relief, he did not lay a hand on my breasts or cop a feel between my thighs. His interest lay in other places, like the line of my jaw, the arch of my ribs, and even that horribly ticklish spot under my knees. He hesitated whenever I flinched—usually when he touched a scar, particularly those on my stomach—but would soon retrace his steps, repeating the motion until the tendon-creaking tension in my muscles relaxed.

It took quite some time for me to stop shaking and lose the immediate heat of embarrassment. My concentration gradually eased away from holding myself deathly still to focusing on what he was doing, along with a slowly growing sense of curiosity as to where he might touch next. Little by little, the gut-wrenching anxiety eased away, soothed by the gentle brush of his fingers.

Those hands came to know every scar and imperfection, every place on my body that responded without any thought on my part, whether it be from desire or shame. His touch was not judgmental, only probing, searching, learning where to caress to make me move with instead of against him.