Curse the Dawn (6 page)

I heard the elevator outside the penthouse ding and went into panic mode. I fled to the bedroom, followed closely by Marco. His buddy must’ve remained in the living room to greet the master—and hopefully to stall him.

“Tell him I’m not up yet,” I said, trying to wriggle under the bedclothes.

Marco shook his head. “That ain’t gonna work. You knew he was coming. He’s gonna expect you to talk. He’s gonna expect some quality time. And if there’s cuffs involved, he’s gonna expect them to be his.”

I shut my eyes, trying hard not to think about Mircea and handcuffs. And got an inspiration. “The bathroom. Hurry!”

We ran into the gray and white opulence of the adjoining bath and I slammed the door. “Quick! Fill the tub. And get me out of these cuffs!”

Marco didn’t ask questions, just started hot water flowing into the huge soaking tub and threw in half a container of bath salts. Bubbles foamed up everywhere as he bent to examine the restraints. After a few seconds, he said a bad word. “These are magical cuffs,” he told me so softly I could hardly understand him over the rushing water. I guess he was worried about vampire hearing. “They ain’t gonna come off easy. We’re gonna need a mage.”

Pritkin would have normally been my first choice, but he already considered my intelligence to be sadly underutilized. If he saw me like this, I’d never hear the end of it. Not to mention that he’d demand to know where I’d been, and I hadn’t had time to come up with a good lie yet.

“Find Francoise,” I whispered. She was a witch and a good friend. There was an outside chance she wouldn’t laugh at me. “And get my bra off, fast!”

Marco shied back, and for the first time an expression broke through that tough demeanor. It was terror. “You’re cute, but you’re the master’s woman. And ain’t no woman alive worth that kind of—”

“I’m not propositioning you!” I hissed. “I need to be in that tub with my cuffs hidden under the bubbles until you get back, in case Mircea pokes his head around the door. And I can’t wear a bra and pull that off!”

“Then add more bubbles or something, because ain’t no way in hell—”

“Help me out here, Marco. Unless you
want
him to know you lost track of me for most of the night?” Truth be told, I wasn’t thrilled with that idea myself. Mircea was already of the opinion that I should be hidden away somewhere for my own protection, and I didn’t need anything adding fuel to the fire. The Pythia’s power wasn’t absolute, and he was damn tricky.

“I’m still not ripping your bra off,” Marco said stubbornly.

“I am pleased to hear it,” a voice said from the doorway.

Marco spun in a move too fast to see and went dead white. I looked past him and found myself staring into a familiar face. One with a full-lipped mouth curved enough to be almost feminine that contrasted starkly with strong, masculine features. Mircea.

“It’s not Marco’s fault,” I said quickly, because a vampire who disobeyed his master usually met a very serious fate.

“Not entirely,” Mircea agreed. His voice was calm, but his cheeks were flushed and a pulse throbbed at his temple. He looked to be in the middle of a slow-burning, very tightly controlled freak-out. And that really wasn’t good. Mircea’s iron control was legendary, although a few incidents in the recent past had shaken it somewhat.

Come to think of it, most of them had involved me.

“Out,” Mircea said, and Marco didn’t need to be told twice.

I was on his heels until a heavy hand descended on my shoulder, right over the suspicious stain. I caught sight of myself in the rapidly fogging mirror, and suddenly it was all too much. “I have fish guts in my hair,” I said.

“I can see that.”

“And I think there may be r-rat,” I admitted tearfully.

Mircea studied me for a long moment and then relief softened his grim expression and he let out a sigh. “I am more concerned about the gunpowder,” he said, pulling me in.

“Most of it didn’t blow up,” I told him, trying to pull back so that the God-knew-what clinging to my sweat-streaked upper body didn’t stain his silk shirt or drop onto his Italian loafers.

“Good to know,” he said calmly before drawing me into a fierce embrace. Mircea kissed like he wanted to live in my skin, slow and thorough, with teeth and tongue, like he never ever wanted to stop. Like he was afraid.

He took a second longer than me to open his lids. When he did, I was confronted with eyes that had gone bright amber. They’re usually a rich brown, changing colors only when his power is surging. From a distance, it’s impressive; this close, it was dazzling.

The rest of the package wasn’t too shabby, either. His hair was mahogany and below shoulder length, although it was hard to tell because it was always pulled back into a slim gold clip at his neck. Well, almost always. The few times I’d seen it in disarray flashed across my mind unexpectedly and heated my cheeks.

Despite close contact with me, his clothes were dirt free and as usual were showcasing the sheer expense of restraint. Today’s outfit consisted of a long-sleeved shirt striped in black on black and black slacks. The clothes were so casually elegant that I immediately wanted to pull them out of shape. Of course, the body underneath might have had something to do with that.

Mircea’s fingers unerringly found the gash in the back of my jeans. They slid carefully over the small wound below and his lips tightened, but I didn’t get a demand for information. I hadn’t really expected one; Mircea was subtler than that. “We’ve been searching for you for hours” was his only comment.

“But Marco said he didn’t tell you—”

“An oversight that will never reoccur.”

Uh-oh.

Master vampires protected their families, and in return they received unquestioning obedience. Most of their servants were physically unable to disobey, with the only exceptions being those who reached master status themselves. But even in their case, going against a direct command was extremely difficult, especially when they served one of the few first-level masters in the world. Marco must have been really strong to be able to flout Mircea’s orders.

And now he was in trouble because he’d covered for me.

“What are you going to do?” I asked, worried.

“Discipline my servant.” His usually mellow voice was suddenly flat and hard.

“Mircea . . .”

“Do you know what some of our enemies could have done to you in five hours, Cassie?” His fingers tightened fractionally on my skin. “I do. I’ve spent all night with the possible scenarios running through my mind.”

“He didn’t know I’d left the hotel. I told him that I was—”

“He knew.”

“How? And if Marco didn’t tell you I was missing, how did you know?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned over and turned off the tap. A mountain of feathery white bubbles had foamed over the side of the bath and spilled onto the marble tiles, making the floor even slipperier than usual. They didn’t seem to bother Mircea, who sat on the side of the tub to examine the cuffs.

“Ah, yes. An older version, but I think I recall—” He did something and, at last, they snapped open.

I sagged against him in relief and didn’t even notice that he’d gotten my bra off until a thumb swept over a nipple. “Mircea . . .” I started to make some kind of protest but forgot halfway through.

He dropped to one knee and undid my shoes, while I held on to his shoulders and bit my lip. “Most men would have taken advantage of your previous position,” he told me. His face was still stern, but eyes were laughing.

“You’re not most men.”

“Kind of you to notice.” He tossed my filthy shoes, socks and bra into a corner. “And I prefer you to have the full use of your hands.” I swallowed and he finally smiled for real, his hands lingering on my waist.

“I don’t like the idea of someone suffering because of me,” I told him.

“He won’t be suffering because of you.” His fingers found the button on my jeans, and I stepped back, grateful for the steam that might help explain my furious blush. It was stupid—it wasn’t like Mircea hadn’t seen me in less—but the idea of standing there in a thong with him still fully clothed was doing bad things to my blood pressure.

He moved with me, arching an eyebrow. He trailed a finger along my waistband. “Is there something in there that will surprise me?”

“I hope not,” I said fervently. “About Marco—”

“He disobeyed my direct command to be immediately informed of any danger to you. I could not ignore such a challenge to my authority, even were you not involved.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“I will not permanently injure him, Cassie,” he told me, sounding as if it was a major concession—which was probably the case.

He unzipped my jeans and pushed them down my hips before I could protest. I stepped out of the puddle of filthy denim, caught between desire and serious embarrassment. He tossed the jeans aside, hooked a finger under the little bow on the front of my thong and pulled me to him.

He was still smiling, but it had changed. Something about it made sweat start to prickle at the base of my hair and my arms to curve around his neck. His lips fit against mine like a missing puzzle piece.

Dark and sweet, Mircea’s taste was intoxicating, like the crisp midnight scent of him. It sent liquid shivers to the pit of my stomach and made my toes curl. I heard myself groan into his mouth, my entire body leaping at his touch, and suddenly a kiss wasn’t enough. I wanted to taste all of him, to learn the texture and sensitivity of every inch of flesh.

But that was exactly what I couldn’t do. If I wanted any chance of making up with the Circle, I had to avoid things that might increase their distaste for me. Like rumors connecting me to a Senate member.

The North American Vampire Senate was one of six sovereign bodies that ruled the world’s vampire population the way the Circle did the mages. It and the Circle were currently allies, but it was a new association that had done little to erase centuries of dislike and mistrust. The Circle viewed a Pythia who was out of their control as bad enough; one under the thumb, or so they believed, of the vampires was a worst-case scenario.

Unless it was a Pythia dating a senator, that is.

Not that Mircea and I
were
dating. In fact, I’d been studiously avoiding him lately. Add lingering traces of a childhood infatuation, a powerful devotion spell that had only recently been lifted and a guy who even non-bespelled women went stupid over, and what did you get? A mess.

I knew what I felt for Mircea, but I wasn’t sure why; even worse, I didn’t have any idea what he felt for me. While under the spell, he’d been genuinely infatuated. But with it no longer in the picture, I had to wonder what attraction I would hold for a five-hundred-year-old master vampire if I wasn’t the reigning Pythia and we weren’t in the middle of a war.

Until I found out, I didn’t want my heartbeat to pick up speed every time I thought of him. I didn’t want to feel that smile, lazy and suggestive and full of promise, when he kissed me; didn’t want to smell the intoxicating scent of his neck under his shirt collar, to taste his sweat and hear his voice break. I didn’t want to want.

“Dulceaţă
,
”
Mircea said quietly, using the pet name he’d given me as a child, meaning “dear one.” And despite everything, that word in that voice made my heart give a little start behind my ribs.

It didn’t matter what my heart said, I reminded myself. My heart told me stupid stuff all the time. My heart should just shut the hell up.

“Come back to MAGIC with me,” Mircea murmured, his hands finding the muscles of my neck and beginning to expertly knead away the tension. I told my body not to respond and it obeyed as well as it ever did when it came to Mircea—not at all. “My personal apartment is extensive. You can have your own room”—he nipped me lightly on the neck—“if you want it.”

“I don’t like MAGIC,” I told him unsteadily, turning away. I lost the thong and submerged myself in the tub.

“It’s the safest place for you,” he said lightly.

MAGIC, short for the Metaphysical Alliance for Greater Interspecies Cooperation, was the supernatural community’s version of the United Nations, allowing mages, vampires, Weres and even the Fey—when they bothered to show up—to talk out their difficulties. It had some of the strongest wards anywhere, powered by a potent energy source known as a ley line sink. Mircea was right—it was the safest place around.

For anyone not fighting a god, that is.

“There is no safe place for me,” I told him shortly, searching around under the bubbles for my loofah.

“Not if you continue to evade the protections placed around you.” Mircea pushed his sleeve up and plunged his arm into the almost scalding water, finding the loofah easily. He turned me around and began to wash my back in long, soothing strokes. I tried not to relax—I knew damn well what he was up to—but my body had other ideas. When he zeroed in on the knot at the small of my back, I couldn’t bite back a groan.

He finished my back and pulled me against him. He abandoned the loofah, lathered his hands with soap and began to wash my shoulders and arms. “You’ll ruin your clothes,” I protested weakly.

“I have others.”

I sighed and closed my eyes, letting my body go on autopilot for a few minutes. The warmth of his hands slowly worked the tension out of my muscles, making me feel almost human again. Soon I was holding out an arm or leg when instructed, so he could wash my elbows and the underside of my breasts, my calves and the back of my knees. . . .

I could feel his breath on my cheek as I relaxed back against the tub. My hand unconsciously went to his hair, feeling its softness as he massaged me with slow deliberate strokes, pulling a deep sigh from my aching body. God, it was unfair how easily he could make me melt, every good intention lost in pleasure after only a few touches. “I love how responsive you are,” he whispered, his fingers trailing a path of goose bumps down my stomach. When they brushed between my legs a moment later, I felt like I might climb out of my skin.