Ascension (4 page)

He repeats the knock and I hold my breath.

"Eve, let me in."

No response.

"Eve. I'm getting angry. This is not a good thing. Open the door."

"I won't," I say, barely able to speak.

"Just do it.
Now
." His voice is deadly quiet. "Eve, if I have to kill a desk clerk to get a duplicate key, I will. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"Just go away," I whisper.

"Just go away? Jesus
Christ
." Silence for a moment. "Eve. I'm not going to just go away. Open the fucking door.
Now
."

I have to do it – there's no other choice. He's too strong. No matter what I do, it'll be the wrong thing. I reach up and turn the lock, pushing down the handle –

He shoulders his way in, practically knocking me over with the force of the door, and grabs my arm, dragging me into the bedroom. He throws me onto the bed and then goes back to the door, locking it, double bolting it.

When he returns he grabs one of my shoes from the floor and throws it across the room. It hits over the desk, causing a painting to fall off, the glass shattering.

I fall into fight mode but he's right there with me, and the time shift seems to give me no advantage. I try to fight him, but it's useless. He straddles me on the bed and takes me by the chin, his face an inch away from mine.

"Who the fuck do you think you're dealing with Eve? I told you your little hunter tricks won't work on me anymore. You do what I say when I say it, do you understand?"

By now, I'm a total mess, unable to do anything but nod my head. Time returns to normal and I feel faint.

He starts taking off his clothes, throwing piece after piece against the wall, his trench, his jacket, his tie, his shirt, ripping at them, his movements rough. When he reaches for my clothes, I hit at him, refusing to let this happen regardless of his anger.

"Stop! You said you weren't a rapist!"

"I
lied
."

Then he seems to regain control and just lies on top of me, one of his hands holding mine over my head, his knee between my legs, his ragged breath in my ear.

We remain in this position for a few minutes, his breath slowing, but he doesn't move off me. Gradually, his grip on my hands lessens, the pressure of his knee between my thighs slacks off. He rubs his nose against my neck, presses his lips beneath my ear.

"I need to fuck you, Eve," he whispers, his breath on my skin. His mouth moves lower; he presses his tongue on his bite mark. "Once you taste a human, you want them. Once you feed them your blood, you want them even more."

He inhales again, rubbing his face in my hair. He rises up and looks in my eyes, and he's so much like Michel, but so much not like him. His scar is a thin silvery line on his cheek beside his hairline. His hair is shorter. But everything else is Michel – the thick black eyelashes fringing clear blue eyes. The square jaw, the soft lips. Dark brows, which are now furrowed. I see the determination in his eyes, the anger mixed with lust. It's almost overwhelming, his body on mine, his weight, his hardness, his blue eyes so intense.

He leans down to kiss me. I turn my face away.

His whole body stiffens. I can almost feel the anger radiating off him.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He grabs my chin and turns my face back to him. I close my eyes. "You want me. I
know
you do. Your body's ready."

I just close my eyes.

"Look at me."

I refuse.

"Are you some kind of frigid freak?" He reaches down and hikes up my skirt, ripping at my underwear, his hand finding the flesh between my thighs. It's too much and I cry out when he touches the sensitive inner flesh, the sensation bringing back too many memories of other times when another man forced me.

He holds a hand over my mouth.

"Shut up.
Jesus
. You fucked Michel."

"I wanted him," I say and close my eyes. "I don't want you."

"But you're so nice and wet. You want me, Eve. Just fuck me."

I struggle beneath him, flailing around as much as I can. Finally, he releases me.

"What's wrong with you? I can't see it. It's blocked."

He takes my hands and examines them – I've done it again. Dug my nails into my palms.

"
Fuck
," he says. "What happened to you to make you this way?"

I roll away from him, my stomach clenching, stomach contents rising in my throat.

"My first foster father raped me. That's what's wrong with me."

I roll off the bed and onto the floor, then drag myself to the small bathroom, to vomit in the toilet.

 
He holds my head, pulling my long hair back so it doesn't get wet. I retch and retch until there's nothing left. He doesn't say anything, just hands me a tissue so I can wipe off my mouth. I lie down on the bathroom floor, the tile cool against my flushed cheeks. He kneels down and just looks at me while I recover.

"How old were you?" he says quietly. I don't respond, unable to speak. He touches my foot, rubs it. "How old?"

I shake my head, take in a deep breath. "Eleven."

He doesn't say anything, just kneels beside me, a hand on my foot. The memories are too much and I get up, push my way past Julien, who for once seems immobilized. I go to his coat, which is discarded on the floor. I search through his pockets. I feel such a frantic need. I need to find a blade. I need to have one, now. I find one, a long switchblade with an ebony handle and hide it in my sleeve.

He comes to the doorway. "What are you doing?"

I scramble past him into the bathroom and shut the door before he can enter, locking it, knowing how futile it is, but I do it anyway. I remove my blouse, climb onto the vanity, my back to the mirror, and flip open the knife, the blade long and sharp and polished.

"Eve, open the door."

But I say nothing, just slice my skin an inch below the crease in my arm opposite my elbow. I pull the knife down, drawing a straight line about two inches long, the cut not very deep for the knife is deadly sharp, but deep enough so that the blood trickles down over the curve of my muscle. He breaks the lock, the door banging open, and he's inside the bathroom, standing there, watching me.

"There," I say, calm now, the pain cutting through all the fear and panic and anger, holding my arm with the bloody line out for him to see. "Does that make you happy?"

He steps closer, leans against the vanity where I sit, my knees up to my chin, and takes my arm in his hands. He bends down and runs his tongue through my blood and then looks at me, his face transformed, eyes blood red, teeth long. He licks the wound several times and soon, I see the incision start to clot and seal from the healing effects of his saliva. He pulls back and examines it. And then he pulls me into his arms and I don't resist.

He doesn't kiss me. Just holds me, my arm marked with a bloody line caught between us.

CHAPTER 4

“So, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.”

Paul Coelho

"I'll go down to the front desk and get a bandage for that." He leaves me sitting on the vanity. I watch as he dresses, putting on his shirt and tie, then his jacket.

The door closes and I'm alone.

I examine the cut on my arm, feeling all foolish now that I've been so histrionic but I was so confused, so torn between fear and anger and pain and desire, it was like I blanked out. It's always that way. Darkness overtakes me, I find a blade and cut and feel better. Then I see what I've done and I can't believe I'm so fucked up.

A knock at the door signals his return and I let him in without a thought, in stark contrast to earlier.

The world – my world –shifts.

"I had to tell them you stepped on a razor."

I sit on the bed while he bandages my cut, applying a stick-free pad to cover the wound and then wrapping my arm with gauze to keep it in place. He ties it off expertly, as if he's done this before.

"You're good at that."

"Army Ranger training comes in handy now and then."

I can't hide my admiration as I examine his face. Rangers are the best soldiers, the top, superior, enduring extensive physical and mental training, tactics, strategy, planning. Only someone physically superior and mentally stable could survive and complete Ranger school.

"I thought you were a Navy SEAL. Are you a Ranger, too?"

"Not officially, but I took the training, passed the course. Even
H
ell
W
eek. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm starved." He cracks a grin when he sees my frown. "I don't mean for blood, although that little taste was a treat…"

I shake my head, unable to stop from smiling a bit.

"There's that smile," he says and brushes my cheek. "Don't worry. That mark on your neck is just for show. I won't drink your blood – unless you offer it because I'm just that kinda guy." He puts on his overcoat and scarf. "You're not fit to go out to eat, so I'll go out and get us some food from the little chicken and rib restaurant down the wharf. I know, I know. You don't eat meat. I'll get you a salad. Do you at least eat cheese? I don't know if they'll have tofu."

"I'm vegetarian, not vegan. I can have cheese. If they have pasta, that's good, too."

He goes to the door and before he leaves he turns to face me

"You might want to pull yourself together. We have a lot to talk about."

He puts on his hat and leaves me, the door closing behind him.

Later, he sits across from me at the little table in the room and eats with a single-mindedness he seems to apply to everything he does. I pick at my linguine Alfredo, biting at my food, chewing it but barely able to swallow, not really enjoying it. My stomach's still raw from vomiting.

When he's done, he goes into the washroom and washes his hands. He stands in the doorway, drying his hands on a towel, watching as I pretend to eat. He looks incredibly handsome in his expensive suit, his dark hair shining in the overhead pot light. He looks like a CEO of some multi-million dollar company instead of a vampire-hunting vampire.

"You're not hungry."

I put down the fork. "Not really."

"Then why are you eating?"

"Um," I say and stumble
.
"I didn't want to make you mad again."

He shakes his head and throws down the towel.

"You think it doesn't make me mad to see you pushing your food around, pretending? You see, that's your problem, Eve," he says and sits back at the table across from me. "You're living a lie. Just be honest with yourself and everything will be a whole lot better. Try it sometime."

He watches as I wrap up my food and throw it in the trash. I go to the bathroom, splash water on my face and look in the mirror. My eyes are still red from crying. I have to pull it together. I return to sit back down at the table across from him. I keep my head down, not wanting to meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry about what happened," I start, wanting to explain. "I was so afraid you'd –"

He leans forward, interrupting me, his hand taking mine.

"Look, Eve. I'm not your therapist. I know," he says, shaking his head. "What that bastard did to you, what was it? Ten years ago? What he did to you was really sick and bad. But it's ten years and you're still cutting yourself while he's off probably still fucking up pretty little girls. You need to move on if it's keeping you from enjoying your life."

I look away from him. He really doesn't understand why I reacted that way. He doesn't understand that it isn't just that I feel damaged, that my memories of what happened resurface when I'm bored or afraid and cutting helps anesthetize me.

Cutting is what I do when my feelings overwhelm me. It helps me cope. I know he doesn't want to hear it so I sit there, mute. I can't even start to explain why except that for the past few weeks, he and Michel have been my life. Vampires. Monsters. Like the one who killed my mother. How sick does that make me?

After a while, I speak, defending myself.

"I'm doing pretty well. I've been accepted into the combined MD/PhD program, I have a scholarship to finish my B.Sc. I'll be one of the youngest graduates."

"I know your credentials. You're gifted. You're smart. With training, you'll be amazing. But you
suck
at life. You live alone in your little cat apartment, have no lover, or at least, had none other than a fucked-up vampire priest. You cut yourself. Look," he says, impatience in his voice. "Eve, you have to understand one thing. We're at war.
I'm
at war."

I look up.

"Yes, at war. I'm in the middle of a battle right now, planning out my strategy, refining my tactics. I don't have time for this," he says and twirls his fingers, "this battle of wills thing that's going on between us. I didn't expect you to be so unmanageable. With most humans, we get to just compel you into compliance, but you're impossible."

"I can't help it. I don't know why I can't be compelled. I have to do what I think is right."

"Look," he leans back, his finger tracing a pattern in the fake laminate wood grain of the table. "I admit I've had a real big hard-on for you since we met, what with your black hair and hazel-eyed dancer body, sweet little pussy, gifted Adept -
thing
- you got going on."

I look in his eyes to see if he's playing me again, but he seems serious.

"I was in love with her too, Eve. But this little
pas de deux
has affected my performance and that's my fault. I've been sniffing around you like a dog after a bitch in heat, only you're not in heat, are you? Not yet," he says and leans forward, his elbows on the table, his arms crossed. He cricks his finger for m
e
to come closer. "I have this policy of only fucking women who are gagging for it. I know you're still mourning Michel. But I also know you find me attractive."

He nods and I feel heat rise to my cheeks.

"I thought, given a little encouragement, you'd be gagging for it as much as me, considering Michel's the first guy you fucked since that guy – whatshisname –
Grant
– back in your freshman year and he was less than adequate, wasn't he? Trying to get you to replicate all his favorite porn videos?"

Dammit! I hate how these brothers can just read my mind, find out things about me I don't want anyone to know.

"Your body needs it, but your mind's fighting it," he says. "And that doesn't work for me. Consider us back to business. No more of this little dance we've been doing, skirting around the issue. I thought," he says and pauses, licking his teeth. "I thought if I gave you a little encouragement, that if we could get here alone, that you'd come to your senses and realize what we could have, and I still think it might be possible. But I'm no therapist. I can't help you with this –
problem
- you have. You have to fix it yourself."

I can't help it. Tears spring to my eyes.

"Now, look at
that
," he says, waving a hand at me
.
"Instead of taking my advice and admitting I'm right, you start to cry. It doesn't work on me, Eve. Seriously. I'm a hardened soldier, a vampire hunter. I'm used to eating sweet young things like you for breakfast."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"
Don't
," he says and grabs my hand, squeezing it – hard. Hard enough that it hurts. "Don't be sorry. Be angry. Believe me, anger is so much better than sorrow or pain. You got an issue –
deal with it
. It's getting in the way of you living your life. You know, we could have a sweet thing going on here between us. But we can't – not when dear old foster dad," he says and waves his hand, "what was his name?"

"Bob."

"Dear old foster dad Bob Hayden-"

"No, that was my real dad's last name," I say, barely able to remember my first foster dad without a shiver of revulsion. "His name was Robert John Thompson." I pull my hand away from him, saying it with as much disgust as I can muster.

"Not when 'dear old foster dad Robert' is still fucking you over ten years later all the way from
Boston
."

"He's not in
Boston
. He's in
Providence
…" I stop and glance at him, but his eyes are hooded. I realize what he just did – what he got m
e
to do. He said he did interrogations. I've told him who my enemy is and where he is without even knowing it. He's so skilled.

"What you
should
have done," he says and leans forward even closer. "What someone should do, is slip a knife between his ribs and cut the bastard's heart out. Instead, you're cutting yourself."

I look into his eyes and know he's right about me.

"You really don't live in the same world as me, do you?" I say. Now it's time for me to shake my head. "You think I can just fuck you because you look like Michel. I can't."

"You see, Eve, you're still not telling yourself the truth." He takes my hand and holds it in his, softly this time. "Be honest with yourself at least, even if you're not honest with everyone else. You wanted me right from the start. I could tell when I touched you. I wanted you. By all rights, there was nothing keeping us from fucking our brains out – except convention and society and ethics."

"Those things matter."

"What
matters
, Eve, is what's right here right now." He turns my hand over in his, running his fingers over it. "That's all we've got. You're mortal. You die. Before I know it, you'll be dead and I'll be alone – again. I want to enjoy you.
Now
. I'm not my brother. I don't feel a need to wait until everything's perfect."

He lets go of my hand and leans back again. His gaze travels over my face.

"How can I," I say, swallowing. "
Fuck
you when Michel will know?"

"Listen, you've got to stop holding out hope that he'll come back. He's not. I'm here. I look just like him, Eve. I'll grow my hair, act all pious, if you want." He gives that lopsided grin, but it just makes me more upset.

I shake my head, unable to express what I feel. I know he can't understand.

"It's true, Eve. If you want Michel, I'm a pretty good substitute. Just pretend I'm all
soulful
and regretful about fucking you, making you come. Like Michel. I won't be regretful but by all means, pretend
that I am
. I'll even tie you up and fuck you the way you want, if it turns you on. You can even call me Master and I won't mind, although seeing as I was a knight, Sir would do fine as well."

"I'll never call you 'Sir' or 'Master,'" I say, his tone getting my back up.

He shivers and closes his eyes theatrically.

"Oh, Eve," he says, sucking in his breath. "I like it a little too much when you say those words." A wolfish grin spreads on his lips. "Maybe I am into this dominance and submission thing after all."

I can't help but smile back and cover my mouth to hide it. A flush rises to my cheeks.

"That's a girl," he says and nods as if pleased with my response. "Don't worry," he says quickly. "Everything in its own time. Like I say, one day you'll come and offer it. And I'll take it. Ohhh," he says and mimes a shiver. "I'll take it."

My treasonous flesh responds despite my mind. And then the moment passes. He sits up and clasps his hands on the table, his face all serious.

"So, what do you know about this research Ed's got you doing?"

My head almost spins at the shift in topic and tone.

I struggle for a moment, trying to focus.