Damned by Blood

Chapter Four

Her last kick left Mikhail in an awkward sprawl. Yet his saint’s face was serene. The roof could have been his bed, the tar paper and gravel a pillow for his brilliant hair.

She straddled his chest and drew her knife. It shook in her hand, crazy lights glinting off the polished blade. Her hand never shook. Never. The knife was her friend, and her hands were trained well.

As a child her father had made her balance an egg on a spoon for five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes. If she dropped it, the time doubled. If she dropped it again, he beat her.

She steadied her wrist with her opposite hand and forced the knife to be still.

It wasn’t fear that made her shake. It wasn’t pain, either. The torn skin around her wrist was a superficial wound. Desire? She had to admit she felt it, whether she liked it or not, but desire didn’t make her tremble either. Her lovers needed her hand to be rock steady.

This was something else, something more like an illness. It was disconcerting to be near him after all these years. More than she would have ever expected.

“Why did you bother trying?” she whispered.

He had to be insane to try to capture her. If he wanted a bride, vamp families all over the world would fight to offer their daughters to him. Vampire society didn’t consider her bridal material anymore, that was for sure.

It was hard to believe something as insubstantial as a dream could induce him to walk into enemy territory, or stranger still, convince him that he should marry her. If she’d been in his place, she would have said, “Fuck the prophecy, I’m not going.”

Something else brought him there. Some plan of his. A plan that had failed.

Well, game over. She pressed the blade beneath his left earlobe, wondering if she should exsanguinate him. It was within her rights—more or less. It hadn’t been formal combat, but she doubted any other prince would pass up the opportunity to acquire Faustin’s strength.

But if she really were his destined mate, would drinking his blood bind her to him? Could she be bound to a dead man? Best not to find out.

No exing, then. Just one swift cut from ear to ear.

But at the thought her hand began to shake even harder and her teeth chattered in sympathy. She clamped her jaw shut.

Fucking hell, what is this? Palsy?

It came to her that the only other time she could remember being this unsteady, she’d also been with Mikhail. The first time they had sex she’d trembled violently before, during and for a long time after. Mikhail had tried to hold her tight to stop the shivering, but it didn’t do much good, because he was shivering too.

Until that night she’d expected that sex would be…well, sexy, like in the movies, Instead, it had been strange and intense and blindingly intimate. They’d both cried. She remembered looking up at the willow branches overhead while he pressed inside her—they were in Central Park—and the leaves were shimmering silver and shaking in the night breeze. It seemed like the whole world trembled with them.

It was only like that the first time, fortunately, or they’d probably both have ended up celibate for life. And she never trembled again after that. Not in bed and not during fights.

She tucked her hands under her arms and fought to control herself, but long forgotten memories kept rolling through her. That night under the willows Mikhail had kissed her a thousand times. He’d adored her as she’d never been adored, before or since, and she’d loved him foolishly, wildly, as only a hormone addled sixteen-year-old could love.

This is no time to go soft, Alya.

She was pondering teenage love while sitting on one of the most dangerous vamps in the world. This cold, ruthless Mikhail wasn’t that Mikhail. The Mikhail of the willows would never have cut the buttons from her blouse, or slammed her head against the wall. He was a prince intent on claiming his mate. They both knew she had two choices: submit to his will, or kill him.

The practical side of her nature shoved forward and suggested she strangle him. That way she wouldn’t risk getting arterial spray in her mouth or eyes.

But strangling was a death for thieves. It was no way for a prince to die. Contrary to public opinion, she had a few standards. Honor meant something to her; she didn’t want to execute him like a criminal. He was nobility, and once, long ago, they’d been friends.

Above, the low-slung sky winked with helicopters and airplanes instead of stars. It offered her no signs or omens. Below, the traffic on the boulevard roared like a river. Between her legs, Mikhail’s chest rose and fell in a steady, sleeping rhythm.

Using the point of her knife, she plucked off the buttons of his shirt and spread it open. His once smooth torso was riddled with scars. Pinched bullet holes. Gashes. Teeth marks. Scars she could read all too well. Like her, he was a warrior.

She sighed and said aloud, “This is such a mistake.” He’d come after her again. And after she’d shamed him like this, his next attack wouldn’t be nearly as gentlemanly.

But she could indulge herself a little. Her hand turned steady. Smiling, she carved a large letter A, one with a fancy, curling tail, into his sternum, so he’d know she’d held his life in her hand and showed him mercy.

It was possible that he’d not wake up before dawn. But if that was so, it was the will of God. She gathered up his rope and leapt off the roof.

The noise hurt his ears. It started and stopped, started and stopped, tearing his head apart. After what seemed hours of torture, he recognized the sound as his phone. He pulled it out of his coat pocket and silenced it. His eyes were crusted shut. His head hurt. Where was he?

Outside.

He jumped to his feet. The sudden motion brought with it a wave of pain that blurred his vision. He shook his head to clear it, preparing for her next blow, and then he realized she was gone.

He dropped to his knees, thankful to be alive. Wincing, he explored the lump on the back of his head, and dragged his hand over his swollen jaw. Just lifting his arm made his ribs hurt. They had to be cracked. His shirt flapped in the wind. He looked down and discovered a huge letter A carved into his chest. It was as big as his hand. Astounded, he traced the outline with his finger, trying to figure out what it meant. It itched, but didn’t hurt. Compared to the rest of the damage she’d done, it was a tender kiss.

Why hadn’t she killed him?

His phone rang again. This time he checked it. Gregor.

“You alive?”

He didn’t think his head would hurt so much if he were dead.

“You didn’t check in. Did you get her?”

He’d promised his brothers he’d check in with Gregor at dawn every day. Mikhail glanced at the sky. What time was it? Los Angeles was never truly dark, especially when it was overcast. Low, murky clouds reflected the streetlights, but he could read the signs well enough to know that dawn was closing on him. “No. I have to go. I’m out.”

“What? Why the fuck didn’t you let us come with you? Where are you? Are you—”

Mikhail hung up. Cradling his ribs, he walked to the roof’s edge and looked down, wincing at the thought of dropping to th e ground. Instead, he chose the somewhat less painful option of leaping over to the next rooftop. That one had a doorway, which meant a stairwell down. He broke the lock and slipped into reassuring blackness.

Inside he leaned against the cold, cinderblock wall and rested. The pain, the close darkness, and the brush with the dawn reminded him of that morning after Alya left him and Courtableu beat him senseless— a morning he’d forbidden himself to think about for many years.

After the fight with Courtableu—though calling it a fight was giving himself too much credit—he rode his bike to the beach, numbed by pain, humiliation, and most of all the profound, bleak nothingness he felt in her absence. In the faint, predawn light he’d walked knee deep into the water, ready to greet the rising sun. The sea would have washed away his ashes.

His father found him moments before the sun crested the horizon. Mikhail fought him, and his father beat him for it, pounding him in the roiling surf until he couldn’t fight back anymore, then dragged him to the family van before they were both incinerated.

They had to hide in the back of the van until sunset. Hunched in the darkness, salt and sand festering in his wounds, Mikhail tried to be strong. But somewhere during that endless day, he broke under the weight of his anger and shame and wept like a girl, shaming himself yet more.

His father didn’t say much, but what he did say stuck. Looking back, Mikhail wondered if his father hadn’t put a subtle compulsion on him. But for whatever reason, Mikhail emerged from the van reborn. He’d sworn to his father that he’d live, if not for love, then for duty. And he never cried again.

At the time neither he nor his father understood he was fighting against a blood bond. And that was for the best. If he’d known the truth, he’d probably have gone back the next day and finished the job.

Admittedly his standards were low, but he thought this was a better dawn. A much better one. His hand drifted up to touch the letter A on his chest and his lips twisted into a smile.