Chapter 2 #3
“Nyx.” Halfway across the gallery, a sharp-jawed dhampir with ink-black hair stepped into my path. A thrall hung off his arm like a designer accessory—curves poured into a body-con dress, pouty red lips, fake adoration.
My stomach tightened. I summoned a social smile, all mouth, no eyes. “Rodrigo.”
A distant cousin on my mother’s side, Rodrigo had used the connection to worm his way into my father’s inner circle, despite being only half-vampire like me. He leaned in to kiss me on the lips, but I turned at the last second so his mouth brushed my cheek instead.
He pulled back, a scowl marring his handsome face. “I’m going to the new casino after the show. Meet me there.”
Not asking me. Telling me.
It was an effort, but I kept my smile in place. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”
His fingers dug into my upper arm. “Why not?”
The thrall shifted uneasily on her pointy heels.
I eyed my cousin, chest burning, itching to rip my arm free. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I was my father’s property—and by extension, property of every man who served him. Rodrigo wouldn’t hesitate to report my insolence, and I couldn’t risk giving my father another reason to tighten the leash.
Not now, when I was so close to escaping all together.
“Dussault invited me to an after-party.” I lifted a brow. “You’re not going?”
Dussault was Régis Dussault, the QCS primus. And I knew Rodrigo wasn’t going because there was no after-party.
His thick brows drew together. He removed his hand from my arm. “No,” he said, adding with a slimy smile, “Too bad. I could use the luck.”
The thrall gave a cry of excitement. “Take me, cher. I feel lucky tonight.”
Rodrigo slapped her bottom. “Do you?”
She smiled and whispered something in his ear, and they moved off.
A quarter of an hour had passed; Cain would be getting restless. The man was scarily punctual. I took a covert look around, making sure no one from the QCS was watching me, and slipped out of the gallery.
The hallway was lined with those white tiles you see in subway stations all over Europe and North America. I passed the first washroom, guessing Cain would be in the second. The industrial steel door opened and his hand snaked out, hauling me into the dimly lit interior.
The bathroom was also tiled—a glossy, red-and-black mosaic.
I barely had time to register it before Cain had the door locked and me backed against it.
He’d dropped the glamour but kept the pink, a striking contrast to his pale hair and lake-ice eyes.
His tie was shoved into a pocket, and his crisp white shirt hung open at the collar, exposing the strong column of his throat.
He stopped a few inches away. I moistened my lips, taking in his face, beautiful in that stark, angular way that made him look carved rather than born.
Four months since I’d last seen him, and that had been on that godsforsaken island, with me hidden in the shadow world. And it had been even longer since I’d touched him, felt his hands on my skin...
He was looking at me with the same concentration, his gaze lingering on my lips before dipping to my cleavage, visible beneath the fishnet.
He stilled. Something dark and hungry radiated from him, so intense I could almost feel it.
This was why I’d worn this dress—on the off chance he’d hear I was in Paris without my father and find a way into the gallery. We only ever met in public places, and I hadn’t attended anything but a couple of QCS events since that botched operation in Nova Scotia.
I should be explaining, asking for forgiveness.
He should be demanding it.
Neither of us spoke. Instead, I skimmed a fingertip over the wheat-brown scruff on his jaw. It was a new look for him, sharpening the cut of his jaw, deepening the hollows of his cheeks.
He shifted closer, his lips hovering over mine.
I found myself lifting onto my toes. Wanting—no, needing—to get closer to him.
Then I blinked and jerked back, the cold steel door stopping me short. “No.”
He followed, stepping into my space again. His body heat—cool to a human but just right to me—warmed me from breasts to thighs.
“No?” he asked.
I bit my lower lip. I wanted this as much as he did, probably more. I didn’t kid myself that he was celibate between our meetings, even if I was.
But there was that painting between us, and the edge in his voice when he’d told—no, ordered—me to meet him in the washroom.
His fingers brushed my black choker. The choker he’d given me last spring. His hand encircled my throat around the velvet.
“No, what, Nyx Nazaire?”
The tips of my breasts prickled against the flimsy silk of my bra.
Somehow hearing him speak my full name—acknowledging that I was the daughter of his enemy—felt like both a threat and an invitation to sexy, filthy things.
His gaze dipped and I knew he could see how my nipples had hardened into points.
I gulped, and his expression softened. He traced the underside of my jaw with his thumb.
“Answer me, love. No, what?”
Love.
He didn’t mean it; I knew that. But the sharp pang the word elicited made me slap my palms to his chest.
“No, I won’t do this. Not when you’re pissed off at me.”
“Pissed off?” A corner of his mouth lifted—not in a smile, something darker. “I’m a lot more than pissed off. I’m halfway to wringing this pretty neck of yours.”
His fingers tightened on my throat, just a little. At the same time, his thumb continued its slow stroke up and down my jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck me or hurt me. Or maybe both.
And now my own fingers had curled around his pink satin lapel, pulling him closer.
My show was a success, and the high of that still fizzed in my veins, begging for an outlet. It made me reckless. Made me want to take, even if it meant bleeding for it tomorrow.
I needed this. Needed Cain.
It had only ever been him, from the moment we met two summers ago in Montreal.
No one else tempted me.
No one else felt right.
His gaze dropped to where I was holding his lapel. He quirked a brow. “You want me to stop touching you? Then let me go.”
I filled my lungs with some much-needed oxygen. So what if he knew I’d been on the island? I could explain. Later.
“If we’re doing this,” I said, “we have to be fast, before someone tells Jerome I disappeared.”
The fingers around my choker tightened a little more. “Oh, we’re doing it.”
With a hum of approval, I dragged at Cain’s shirt, yanking it out of his waistband, needing skin—his skin—under my hands. My palms skated over the hard lines of his abdomen, up his narrow waist, then around to the solid strength of his back. Every inch of him a dare I couldn’t help answering.
His knees bent, his hips rocking into mine. I gasped as a ripple of pleasure went through me.
His lips twitched into an arrogant smile. “I shouldn’t let you get away with this,” he said, almost to himself.
“Shut up.”
I lifted up on my toes, angling my pelvis so he touched where I ached. His hand moved around my throat to my nape, and he sank his teeth into my lower lip, just hard enough.
My mouth opened and then we were kissing, the current between us going haywire, jumping and sizzling.
I moaned and sucked on his tongue, nipped at his lips. His hands moved over my body, finding all my most sensitive places like a heat-seeking missile.
When he drew back, I whimpered in protest. His lips moved to my neck, his stubble an erotic rasp against my skin.
When his mouth opened against my throat, I tensed, prepared for him to switch up on me—demand answers. It would be like Cain to soften me up, then go for the jugular.
But he didn’t ask about the island. Instead, he said, “Who’d you wear this choker for?”
“No one,” I said, instinct making me lie. Because that was the world I’d grown up in, the kind where you protected your vulnerable parts if you wanted to survive. “It matched the dress, that’s all.”
He growled against my skin. “If you can’t tell the truth, I guess I’ll take it back.” His fingers went to the catch.
My hand shot up, catching his wrist. “No—it’s mine.”
His head lifted, eyes searching mine. “So you wore it for me. Say it.”
I swallowed. “Yes. I wore it for you.”
“Fucking right you did. Because this throat is mine.”
A delicious shiver went over me. I liked hearing that, liked pretending Cain had a claim on me.
“Yes,” I said, voice husky.
“Good girl.” He dragged his fingertips from the clasp down my upper spine, then hooked a hand around my nape for another deep kiss. When he released me, he slapped my ass. “Take off the thong.”
I reached under the fishnet skirt. If anyone else had tried to order me around like this, I would’ve been out of the washroom like a shot.
But this was Cain. I obeyed.
He watched, eyes hooded, as I dragged the tiny black thong down my legs and over my high heels. He held out his hand and I gave it to him.
“That dress—” he muttered, shoving the scrap of lace and satin into his jacket pocket.
I smirked. “You like it?”
“Hell, yeah.” He shrugged out of the jacket and hung it on a hook, his gaze never leaving me. “Every hetero male in the gallery liked it.”
“I didn’t wear it for them.”
“I know.”
“Cocky.”
It was a game we played, teasing each other. Making it clear that this thing between us was about sex, nothing more.
Or at least, it was a game for him. At some point it had stopped being a game for me, something I tried not to think about.
“You like me cocky,” he said and crowded me against the cool tiles. He dragged up my skirt and cupped my mound, sliding a finger through my pussy lips. “You’re so wet. This is all for me, isn’t it?”
Sweet Luna, it felt good. I drew an audible breath through my teeth.
“Answer me,” he said sternly.
I pursed my lips, pretending to think. Playing the game one last time. “Maybe.”
He fisted his free hand in my hair, pulling my head back so his eyes bored into mine. The firm hold sent heat straight to my core. “The truth, Nyx.”
I licked my lips, drawing out the moment.