Ever Night (5 page)

“Is that your question?” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, not quite touching but close enough to tease. “A question you risked your life to ask?”

“No.”

He answered anyway. “I'm their king.”

A gasp. “I think the meaning of what you just said was lost in translation. You're a
king?”

What was so hard to believe about that? He exuded power, just as a king should.

“Never mind,” she said as if she didn't care. “Can I bring someone here?”

Every muscle in his body locked down on bones. He cupped her chin, lifting her head so that he could glare into her eyes. “Who do you want to bring?” If she named a man, he would find a way to reach the bastard. Tear him from limb to limb.

“My parents.”

Vasili relaxed. “No. You can't. They'll die. Only Walkers can cross. Why do you want to bring them, anyway?” And why did he suddenly want to meet them? To see the man and woman who had created her?

She traced the collar of his shirt. “I no longer have any kind of relationship with them, and I miss them. I just thought that if I proved myself to them, they would know I'm not crazy or on drugs and . . . I don't know . . . like me again.”

His skin tingled where she stroked. “You can't tell anyone what you can do, Rose. It's dangerous for you. For them.”

“But I'm . . . lonely.”

He didn't like the thought of her alone and sad, and now wanted to meet her parents for an entirely different reason. To
destroy
them for causing her pain. “Is that how Walkers are treated in your world? With disbelief?”

“Yes. We're considered crazy. Locked away.”

“You were locked away?” The words lashed from him.

“Only for a little while.”

Rage hammered through him. “If that ever happens again, come to me. Immediately.”
Calm. She's here; she's fine.
Desire returned, blending with the declining rage. “Now, is this the only reason you came to see me early?” he asked silkily.

“No.” Defiance suddenly flashed up at him. “I wanted to tell you how much I hate you.”

“You hate me?” Anymore, females ran from him. With good reason. He had a fierce, frightening temper and held life and death in his hands. Still Rose clashed with him, unconcerned. Oh, yes, he felt pride. “Prove it,” he said in that same silky tone.

She shivered. “You've threatened me, fought me—I'm better now, by the way, and will kick your ass if we spar—and cursed me. I
should
hate you.”

He settled his big hands on her hips, allowing the tips of his fingers to slide under her shirt. More skin, more warmth and softness. “I taught you to fight, to speak properly. And you've been practicing, haven't you, Rose?”

A grumble.

Because deep down she knew she belonged here. “I know you have.”

“Did you hear nothing else I said?” she demanded.

He sighed. “Cursed you how?”

“To
suffer.”
Accusing.

To ache, she meant. “But I can ease your . . . pain.” Oh, the ideas pouring through his head . . . the many ways to sate her. He'd start with her breasts, tonguing her nipples, and work his way down. But not yet. First, he'd gentle her. He wanted no resistance when the passion claimed them. “Did anyone hurt you during your training?”

A tremor, a slight arch of those hips, closing the distance. “Of course.” Breathless.

Another inch and her core would brush his throbbing cock. Was she as eager as he? “Bring them here.”

“But that will kill . . .” Slowly she grinned. “Why, Vasili. I think you're a romantic at heart, wanting to slay my dragons.”

“Romantic, no. Desperate for you, yes.”

She licked her lips. “I thought I was too young for you.”

“That was when you were a mere nineteen.”

“My birthday isn't for another week. I'm not officially twenty.”

“Did I fail to mention we celebrate early here? Also, I have a present for you.”

“If you say it's this”—she trailed her hand down his stomach and cupped him—“I'll accept.”

Yes.
She was eager, and there would be no resistance from her.

His restraint broke. “Then let's get you ready to accept.” With a groan, he fisted her hair and smashed her lips into his.

Finally.

A man's tongue in her mouth, thrusting, tasting, taking, giving. Rose's stomach clenched in pleasure rather than pain. A man's hands on her body, squeezing, kneading, rough, calloused. Her blood heated rather than chilled. And that the man was Vasili . . . heaven and hell, salvation and ruin.

His face could reduce a woman to a slave. His
scent
could reduce a woman to a slave.
She
was a slave. One sweep of those dark lashes, one curve of those soft lips, and one thought would prevail above all others.
Yours.
That was what she'd come to realize this past year. He'd enslaved her, changed her entire focus to being with him. Like this.

Shouldn't have allowed the kiss.

But she'd had to know his taste—a dark, spicy drug. Had to know his touch—an electric current. Had to immerse herself in the peat smoke and wildflowers. All dangerous. Had to have more. Had to let him please her. Had to
force
him if necessary. Just once. Then she would know. Then she would stop wondering, stop remembering the way he'd taught her to fight, his hands all over her but not where she needed them most.
Then
she could finally think straight, recall just how mad she should be with him for bonding them, making her feel this way, and finally demand the answers he'd never given her.

Nothing else had helped. In the last year, she'd gotten her own place, started teaching others self-defense, and trained with a vengeance herself. But always she thought of this man, wondered what he was doing, whom he was with.

If he'd turned those violet eyes on another woman, Rose would kill her.

A thought she'd had before, and one that scared her. Because she meant it.

She was too obsessed with him. She knew it, hated it, and had tried to prove to herself that she could live without him. That this man who liked to threaten her, but only ever protected her, wasn't the only reason she lived.

Only one more week; that was all she'd had left to wait. But then she'd thought,
How wonderful to catch him unaware.
To see him outside the tent, if at all possible. To see him interact with other people—and warn away any women who thought to win him.
Mistake.
He'd stridden from that platform, black hair in disarray, eyes bright with welcome and longing, biceps hugged by soft white fabric, cock practically on display in fawn-colored pants.

To hell with
yours.
She'd thought,
Mine.

“Someone could see,” he said roughly. His lips moved to the base of her neck, and he licked and sucked at her pulse. “You've been warned. Now you'll be allowed no quarter.”

“You're a king.” What, exactly, did that mean here? The same as in her world? Not that she would ever obey him. “Make them go away.”

He uttered a rasping chuckle. “What my queen wants . . .”

They'd switched to English, she realized, as he kicked her legs apart. Unprepared for the action, she could only fall. Until he inserted his hips between her thighs and her core rubbed against his erection. A needy gasp escaped her. She closed her eyes and clutched at his shoulders, nails sinking deep.

“Again,” she demanded.

He pushed against her. Another gasp. Hers, his, she didn't know anymore.

He plumped her breasts. “I want to see them. Show them to me.”

Maybe she would obey him just this once. Too hungry, too achy to be shy or modest, she ripped her shirt over her head and dropped the cotton to the floor. The black lace bra latched in front, so she snagged her finger in the center and tugged.

A low, base curse filled the heated air between them. He stared, just stared while she panted, trembled.

“Mine.” His pupils expanded until black overshadowed violet. He bared his teeth, feral just then. Losing control. “These are mine.” He squeezed, hard. “Mine.”

Thank God.
She remembered how much she'd liked Hoyt's gentle caresses.
Silly girl.
So far Vasili had been anything but gentle, and she'd never been gladder. “You like to prove things. Prove it.”

As he squeezed, she rolled her hips forward, once again sliding against his thigh.
Yes!
The pressure that had been building since their first meeting expanded, drawing her taut, like a rubber band ready to break.

“Taste.”

His head swooped down, his tongue flicking out, back and forth, before his teeth nibbled. There was a sharp sting. She moaned.
More.

Had to have more.
Two years, damn him. Two years she'd lived without this, hungry, sensitive, dreaming of him at night, fantasizing about him during the day. So many times she'd almost come to him. Once, while pleasuring herself in bed, not that her own hand ever brought her relief, she thought she had. She'd cried his name, his image in her mind, and in the next instant, she'd thought she spied him sleeping next to her, but she'd panicked and rolled away, only to fall onto her floor.

Now she was here. She was with him, and he was still cupping her breasts, his finger toying with her nipples in between bites.
More.

“Had I known these awaited me, I never would have resisted you this long.”

“Sweet words later.” She jerked him forward, meshing their mouths, feeding him a kiss, her soul—whatever he wanted he could have.

Their tongues thrust together in a fight for dominance. Their teeth scraped. She swallowed his breath, desperate to have any part of him inside her. All the while she writhed against him, trying to pump herself to orgasm, so when he moved back, preventing her from touching him that way, she bit his bottom lip in a fury.

“More.”

“Yes.” His fingers ripped at her darkened jeans, popping the button, almost breaking the zipper, revealing black lace panties. He didn't pause to look. Just sank his hand inside. Warm skin on wet flesh, past her small thatch of curls and—

“Yes!” There.

One finger pushed deep while the heel of his hand pressed against her clitoris. She should do something for him, touch him like he was touching her, reach into his pants and fist his cock, but as he inserted a second finger, her thoughts fragmented.
More.
A third finger.
More!

Stretching, burning. So long, too long. He drove those fingers in and out of her, and she was so wet they glided smoothly. Pressure, still building. Blood, like fire in her veins. She wanted to come, was desperate to come, but just as she neared satisfaction, he stopped.

“Bastard!” She slapped his shoulders.

“This bastard wants you to come in his mouth.” He dropped to his knees.

Oh.
“Good . . . boy . . .” Rose lost her anchor and fell back against the wall, giving it all of her weight. Vasili didn't bother trying to remove the panties; he just shoved them aside, and his gaze again locked on hers.

Hoyt had never tasted her. She wasn't sure she would have let him had he tried. Those days, she'd been self-conscious. Had preferred to be with her man in the dark. Had been too unsure of herself to say what she needed. Now she had no more experience than she'd had then, but she was a different person. Stronger, more confident. Haunted by desire. She doubted Vasili would have let her hide in the dark, anyway.

He was too sensual a man. More driven than she was. “Do it. Please.”

“Pink. Wet.” His words were slurred. “Mine.” And then he was there, tonguing her clitoris, and she was moaning, fingers tangling in his hair, arching into every stroke, gasping his name, shouting his name.

He sucked and he
devoured.
Anyone could have walked out of the ballroom, just as he'd told her, but she didn't care. Was lost. Was climbing higher and higher, the pressure finally uncoiling, promising satisfaction. Almost . . .

“Harder. More. Don't stop. More. Stop and
die.”
The commands left her in a rush.

His fingers joined the play, three thrusting up inside her without any more preparation or warning, and she shot off like a rocket, screaming, pressure finally breaking completely, stars exploding behind her eyes, inner walls clenching around him, holding him captive.

“Fuck,” he growled, and she wasn't sure if the word was a command or a curse. He jolted to his feet, those fingers sliding out of her, and she moaned. She might have come, but she wasn't done with him. Needed more, still had to have more.

His lips smashed against hers, and she tasted herself. She ripped at his pants, finally freeing his cock. Her fingers curled around it—but only briefly before he batted her away, positioning himself for penetration. In those brief seconds, she thrilled at how big he was, how hot and hard and ready.

“Do it,” she commanded.
Please.

“Vasili?”

He turned his face away from her with a snarl.

“Leave!”

It took Rose a moment, but she snapped out of her sensual haze and followed Vasili's example, turning and looking. Several men stood at the end of the hallway, peering over at them. Two were grinning—one of them a monster, one of them a younger version of Vasili—and the rest quickly spun, offering their backs.

The monster caught her eye and his smile fell away. Shock registered on his features, then fury, hate.

She shuddered and switched her attention to the Vasili clone. He continued to radiate absolute amusement in a way that Vasili never had. Was that what Vasili would look like if ever he lost his dark edge?

She adored his darkness, but also realized she wanted to make him smile like that.

“Go,” Vasili snapped, even as Rose disengaged from him and, like the guards, gave the newcomers her back.

She bent down, blindly reaching for her shirt and bra, and tugged them on as she straightened.
Dear God. Now
she cared about an audience. She would have run, but Vasili clasped onto her arm, holding her immobile.

“Now!” he shouted.

“You can't . . . do that here,” the younger version of him said. “There are guests, and they can hear you.
Greer
can hear you, and he isn't happy.”

Rose's cheeks flamed. She was as embarrassed as she was suddenly curious. Who was Greer? Why did his happiness matter? “I should go,” she whispered, careful to use his language. She'd practiced at home, alone, and quite often, but even though the language seemed to be embedded inside her brain, she had yet to master it, because no one could tell her what she said correctly and what she didn't.

“No,” Vasili snapped. Then more gently, “No. Not yet. Please.” Finally he released her and fixed his clothing. “I'll be right back,” he threw over his shoulder, ushering her farther down the hall and away from the men.

She didn't protest. Not until they'd snaked around a corner and were once again alone. Then she pulled from his grip and whirled on him. “I should go,” she repeated.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. “No. We're not done. Wait in my room, and I'll return as soon as I can.”

Wait for him to fuck her? Hardly. No matter how much she wanted it. “Is that an order, Your Majesty?” she asked dryly.

“Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I'm not your—”
Shit!
What was the word? She didn't know, so she ended with, “I'm not yours.”

He got in her face, madder than she'd ever seen him. “You are. You're my wife.”

Oh, how her body liked hearing that. Every cell she possessed purred. “By force, so it doesn't count,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Many women would kill to be in your position, Rose.”

“Yeah, well, many men would kill to be in yours.”

His nostrils flared. “They try, and they'll die.”

There was a commotion around the corner, voices—male and female—then stomping feet. Then the clone, the monster, four females and another, older male were bearing down on them.

Vasili stiffened as he turned. He stepped to the side, in front of her, shielding her.

“Who,” the older man snapped while trying to glare at Rose, “is that?”

A moment passed in heavy silence. During that moment, Vasili's entire countenance changed. From glaring, snarling beast to wicked charmer. “Greer,” he said. “Princesses. So lovely to see you.”

Princesses? Were they his sisters? His daughters?

Rose studied the females. Three were petite, slender. One slightly taller, but plump. Two had silky brown hair, one red, and one honey blond. The brunettes were pretty, the redhead plain, and the honey blonde stunning. Each wore gowns of sparkling velvet, jewels dripping from their ears, necks, and fingers. They radiated wealth and confidence, even the plain one.

“The girl,” Greer insisted. He had thick silver hair, scars lining his face, and the body of a warrior.

“My apologies if I gave you the impression you had the right to question me about my people,” Vasili replied in that smooth, humming tone, and the older man narrowed his eyes. “Now let's all return to the party, shall we?”

“Father,” the redhead said in a gentle voice—to the old man. Not Vasili's sisters or daughters, then. Potential girlfriends? Rose wanted to hate them, but their eyes were kind. “Perhaps the girl would like to change into a gown first?”

“What a kind little thing you are, darling.” Vasili patted the top of her head. “But she won't be joining us.”

Darling. He'd called the redhead
darling.
A moment ago, he'd called Rose by her name. And with that thought, she realized that he hadn't called
her
darling. Not once during this visit. Not while he'd had his fingers inside her, not while he'd tongued her to orgasm.

Disappointment rocked her. No endearments. Did that mean his affection for her had waned?

Oh, he wanted her; she knew that much. He was still hard, after all. But you could screw a woman, even a wife, and not truly like her. And he'd bonded them, so he couldn't sleep with anyone else. She was the only outlet he had.