Chapter 33
She couldn’t stop.
The cries poured out of her, razorfeather birds; when she toppled Max caught her and Layla struck out, wildly, her fist glancing off his stone-hard cheek.
Her body jerked, twisted, starfished and kicked as if throwing a toddler-tantrum in Meemaw’s trailer.
Maybe every motion she hadn’t been able to make stored itself up and now broke free, or she’d forgotten how to control her own limbs.
Either way, there was no stopping. Max lifted her, paying no attention to the frantic blows raining against his face and shoulders, her heels or toes drumming his shins. Her back arched, her lungs heaved, and what felt like hours later a long last despairing wail burst from her chest.
She went limp all at once, twitching, but at least she could now blink on her own. Her hands did what she told them to, her legs belonged to her again. Her shoulders tensed, her knees bent, and she kicked, weakly, experimentally.
Oh thank you, thank you God, thank you so much.
She hung in a vampire’s iron-strong arms, her forehead against his sweater-clad shoulder. He’d torn the damn collar all to flinders, sure. But she could still feel it, warm and terrifying, against her bare throat.
“Ow.” Her own voice startled her, faintly husky after the wild yelling. Her cheeks felt damp; a yellow cotton dress she didn’t remember ever wearing before was twisted and ripped. Now she was the one destroying clothes. “No. No no, don’t do it, don’t… Oh, please, God, don’t…”
Broken pleading, cursing, interspersed with random snippets. Apparently all the things she had wanted to say were pouring out as well. It was such a fucking luxury to talk again, to hear and feel her own voice.
Max’s heartbeat never wavered. He held her, only moving slightly to avoid a particularly sharp blow; he’s absorbed all the pummeling and now listened to her rave, nonsense flooding from her newly liberated throat.
“—I don’t care, just take the fucking thing off me, I will do anything you want if you just take it off take it off take it ooooooooffff…” A final, lung-scouring hiss died away and she slumped once more, boneless against him. “God, oh God… Max? Max?”
No answer. Well, he was probably disgusted by the display, but she didn’t care. Being able to consciously move again was worth any embarrassment.
She forced herself to breathe deep, her cheek pressed against his solidity.
Still shaking, or maybe he was too. He held her at least a foot off the ground, statue-still except for tiny adjustments to keep her steady.
His heartbeat continued, a slow even march, and the sound was more comforting than she could have ever imagined.
Even being motionless was good when she was the one deciding on it. The shaking intensified; she still couldn’t tell who was trembling, her or the vampire who had come to collect her after all.
Who hadn’t left her behind.
“Max?” She tested her fingers, swung her lower legs. “Say something. P-please.” A slight stammer, her voice a little rusty from disuse.
His chin shifted, touching her hair. “Are you hurt?” Very softly, as if afraid she was going to go off again.
Of all the things to ask… The wild urge to laugh ballooned inside her ribs, died on a sharp spike of fear, and she wasn’t going to get over being magically immobilized anytime soon.
At least the still, dead air told her those weird invisible curtains were up, so she probably hadn’t disturbed anyone else with the ruckus—which was a weird consideration, since she was being held by an honest-to-gosh biter.
“That… that thing, the necklace, the thing—”
“Destroyed. I did not know he possessed that item, Leila.” Evenly spaced, the words very careful, now lacking any accent except a faint crispness which could have meant college boy. All things considered, he sounded almost modern. “Are you injured?”
I feel about an inch away from losing my entire shit again, if that’s what you’re asking. “I… no? I don’t… I don’t think so.”
“Good.” The trembling increased, and he was definitely the one doing plenty of it.
“Max?” Are you okay was probably a stupid question. She’d just punched him repeatedly, not to mention kicked several times. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop—”
“Do not apologize,” he said, harshly. “I used you as bait, Leila. You will not forgive me, but I have you, I will not let you go, and I am finding it rather difficult to stay in control. Be still, or…”
“Or what?” Maybe she didn’t mean to say it out loud, but her brain-mouth filter was out of practice as well.
“Or I will take you.” Still deceptively calm, though the jitters intensified yet again. They were definitely shared; as a mattere of fact, he was shaking more than she was. “I… I need…”
Comprehension hit. Layla’s breath caught, and she was very aware of the thin cotton dress, of his body heat through the sweater, of his arms locked around her. A curious feeling, being held so tightly—she was enclosed, but not like the necklace’s terrible, smothering pressure.
Protected, almost. When, in God’s name, had she begun to feel safe with a vampire?
Oh, what the hell. Why not? He was a monster, yes—and there were worse beasts out roaming the night.
Far, far worse.
Layla tested her arms—yep, still working. So were her legs, and a slight experimental movement verified the hypothesis; her thigh brushed against a definite protrusion.
Max froze. His motionlessness was breathless and almost-comforting at once.
Her own quivering wouldn’t go away. “Then do it.” Her mouth was full of the spice-taste meaning monster blood; how many times had he fed her with the collar on?
But tonight, he hadn’t. She was reasonably sober, all things considered.
And she hadn’t worn panties for a while now, but if she had, they would definitely be a little soaked at the moment.
Her own arousal was frightening, body and mind both yanking at straws to prove she was in charge, able to move, no longer trapped.
“Do it,” she repeated. Her trembling arms raised, hands finding the muscle-slopes between his neck and shoulders. She couldn’t get her legs up to wrap around him, but the urge to simply climb this tall, stock-still vampire like a tree was overwhelming. “Make me forget.”
“Leila…” Drawing out her name like he knew the song, almost a groan.
“The bed’s right there.” Now she could be sure she was in charge of her own body again; she could barely believe she’d said that to a monster, but it was unquestionably her own decision. “Although—”
He was already moving, fabric tearing—she felt a momentary, completely laughable pang for the poor dress, first ripped by her own thrashing and now this—and the world whirling like a carnival ride again.
This time, however, the ride was controlled, a thrill instead of a careening disaster.
The mattress accepted them with a short surprised sound; no matter how everything spun, Layla found, he was still right there, solid and real.
His mouth on hers, insistent and greedy, the purr of that strange growl spilling through her, his hand curling under her left knee and lifting, and then the invasion, a single hard thrust she was more than willing to meet.
Certainly not wasting time, are we. Then there was no more opportunity for thought. His mouth drew away for a bare moment, kissing frantically down her chin, and before she could flinch his fangs struck as he surged forward again, burying his cock completely.
Her back arched; she could scream, but the cry was short and breathless, lightning slamming through every nerve.
Fear and dark pleasure swirled, her nails turned to claws scraping frantically against his shoulder and a long furrow down his back, dragging over flickering muscle as he did it again, again, again, patient and deadly as the pressure coiled inside her.
Until she shattered, heart pounding, great gripping waves pulsing through every inch, her body entirely hers once more.
How the cut opened she didn’t know, but hot candysweet blood filled her mouth, and she drank in long starving swallows while he whispered her name, over and over, holding her safely pinned to white eyelet lace.