Deep Kiss of Winter (40 page)

Bride was a vampire and only drank blood, so she'd waited outside. Aleaha had barely begun to eat—and to stuff morsels into her pockets for later—when she'd lost her hold on the boy's image, the ecstasy of the food too much. The parents had screamed at her, cornered her, and demanded to know what she'd done with their son. Thank God Bride had rushed in, gathered her up, voice-voodooed the couple into forgetting them, and helped her escape.

After that harrowing experience, she'd stopped visiting neighborhoods like this one. The desire to belong, however, had never faded. Even though she'd known how impossible such a dream was.

How could Breean, a Rakan and new Earth resident, afford something in an area like this? Didn't matter, she supposed. However he'd done it, he was now the kind of guy she'd wanted to date as a teen.

We're going to marry rich husbands,
Bride had told her one day.
We'll never have to worry about anything ever again.

They'll be handsome,
she'd replied.

Of course. We're gorgeous, so we deserve gorgeous men. And they'll be so in love with us they'll drool every time they look at us.

They'll think we're the smartest girls ever
.

And they won't care about our origins,
Bride had added.
They'll just keep giving us money.

That had been Aleaha's main concern. Not the money but her origins. Breean met that demand. Breean met
all
the demands. He was rich, handsome and ready to drool. Not that she was thinking of him in terms of a husband. But wow, he was rich. She just couldn't get over that fact. Did she like him more because of it? Um, yeah. How shallow was she?

When he reached the wraparound porch of a house on the far end of a perfectly paved street, he slowed. As if sensing his presence, one of his men opened the door and Breean sailed inside.

She gasped at her first glimpse of marble floors veined in gold. From somewhere, water trickled into several bathing pools, and mist circled through the damp air. Satin pillows in every shade of gold, from the palest yellow to the darkest amber, lined the walls. The windows were stained black, allowing no light inside. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling, and she saw crystal chandeliers flickering with hazy luminosity.

This totally wasn't the den of iniquity she'd expected. As run-down as the other home had been, she'd placed Breean in the poor and desperate category.

Breean stopped and spoke to one of the warriors, keeping her draped over his shoulder. She didn't mind—the better to eavesdrop. But what was he
saying, damn it? She thought she heard the word
tree
but she couldn't be sure.

She drew in a frustrated breath, catching more of that honeysuckle scent. And smoke. Ugh. She coughed, inhaling the odor of burning material. The warriors she'd fought only a week ago bustled in every direction, bare except for underwear, and not quite meeting her gaze.

All that golden skin . . . She tried not to stare, but they were huge. Everywhere.
Merry Christmas to me
.

Idiot.

“Do you like?” Breean asked, squeezing her legs to let her know the question was directed at her.

Did she like the men? The mansion? “No,” she lied. “How did you get so much water in here?” After the human-alien war, its use for bathing and swimming had been restricted, the supply scarce and expensive. In fact, the water had probably cost more than the house. Most people were forced to clean themselves with a dry enzyme spray.

“We brought it with us, bucket by bucket. Water abounds on Raka,” he explained. “There is nothing better than hearing the rush and feeling the warmth, the decadence.”

“So why do you want to make a new home for yourself
here
? There's not a lot of water left.”

“As I told you, our planet was in ruins. We needed a fresh start in a place where the female population thrives.”

So he hadn't just lost the women he loved. He'd lost everything and everyone. She felt a wave of pity
for him, but quickly tamped it down.
Don't feel sorry for him. He's the enemy—and obviously prowling for sex!

Still. His people had died of the Schön disease. AIR would find that interesting. Might even want to question him to find out how he'd survived, as well as what he knew about the race and their queen. Perhaps that information would save his life. Although, AIR wasn't known for its forgiving spirit. His people had killed several agents, and someone would have to pay for that.

“You can put me down now,” she said. The position was uncomfortable, but it was being so close to him that disturbed her most.

“Not yet.”

“Why? Payback?” She would deserve it. She'd given his dangly bits hell, after all.
All's fair to him when fighting, remember
?

“I told you how I would return that . . . favor,” he said, and she couldn't tell if he was fighting amusement or anger.

Actually, no, he hadn't told her anything. He'd alluded to touching her, but nothing else. Diabolical bastard. It would have been so much easier to hate him—as well she should have, damn it!—if he'd flat out threatened her with violence. Instead, he'd practically threatened to kiss her better.

He rounded a corner, the hallways wide and spacious and leading to a multitude of rooms. There was even a staircase that wound to the second floor. He didn't take it, though he paused and stared up it for a long while. Finally, he sighed, then meandered down
another hall before carting her
down
stairs, into a cold, dank basement.

Not a basement, she realized a moment later, but a dungeon. “Another prison?” In a home like this, she would not have expected a torture chamber to be a purchase option.

“Yes. You'll stay here only long enough for me to prepare your room.”

That was a lie, she knew it was. He'd had all week to prepare a room for her. What was his purpose, then?

“Besides,” he added, “the other agents are here, and I know you've been wanting to see them.”

The other agents were here? Happy but panicked, Aleaha quickly pictured Macy. The blond hair, the shorter body, the bigger boobs. Her appearance changed in a blink, and she expelled a sigh of relief.

There were multiple cells, each with a barred front and dirt sides, and inside each of those cells was an agent. Finally. Her eyes collided with Devyn's; he was now wearing a loose black shirt and pants. He didn't speak, but his grip tightened around the metal, his already pale knuckles bleaching of color.

Despite his stressed expression, he blew her a kiss.

She spied Dallas next, and he winked. Then she saw Hector Dean, tattooed and muscular, who always left a room when she entered. The guys he joked and laughed with, but he'd never warmed toward her. Today, he nodded in acknowledgment. Where was Jaxon?

“I'm fine,” she told them all. “Nothing's been done to me.”

Each of them relaxed.

“We're fine, too,” Hector said in that deep voice of his.

“Enough,” Breean said.

“Suck it,” she told him, and several of the agents laughed.

He didn't set her down until he reached a small, empty cell. Inside, he slid her down his body, the action igniting heat between them. Heat she couldn't afford. The moment her feet touched solid ground, she scampered backward, unsure what he meant to do—and unsure of her reaction. Would she have the strength to stop him again if he kissed her?

To her relief, he didn't comment about the change in her appearance. That, too, would have weakened her. And destroyed her.

Please don't let him call me Aleaha. Please, God, don't let him call me Aleaha
. She should never have told him her real name.

Eyes on her, he shouted something in his own language. She wished she knew what he was saying. A few seconds later, a Rakan warrior stalked into the cell. He was holding a bundle of clothing, and he didn't look at her. Breean took the garments and said something else. The man nodded before racing out.

One heartbeat passed in silence, two.

Breean met her glare. He seemed taller and more like total, in-your-face carnality than ever before. What would he say to her next, now that they were seemingly alone and she was at his mercy? What would he demand of her?
Take my cock into your
mouth,
she could almost hear him say.
You're welcome. Merry Christmas
.

Her heart galloped—but not in abhorrence and oh, she was disgusted with herself. She'd failed to escape, to get help, to free the agents. She'd failed to resist Breean when he'd kissed her, and had even begged for more.

In that one night, hell, one hour, one minute, he'd stripped her of all common sense and inhibitions. Would have stripped her of her clothing, too, if she hadn't fought her way out of that crazy lust-fog. The week had not dulled her desires. And here she was, still freaking desiring him,
after
he'd set her inside a cage next to her coworkers. It was insanity.

Remember how it was with the other three men you allowed in your life
. How, after she'd spontaneously changed during sex, one had slapped her. How two had called her names. How one had thought to use her ability to his advantage. What would she do if superstrong Breean hit her? Hit him back, of course. What would she do if he called her vile names? Cry like a dumb baby, most likely. What would she do if he tried to use her? To hurt AIR, even? Curse at him, surely, before crying some more.

Did she seriously
want
him to like her?

Yep, insanity.

“They aren't the best of quarters,” he finally said to her, guilt in the undertones of his voice, “but as I told you, they'll do for now.”

The warrior who'd brought the clothing returned with blankets, a pillow, and some type of bag. He
placed the items in the corner and left. The sweet scent of fruit and chicken wafted through the air, causing her mouth to water.

Dinner, she thought, her stomach growling. The tastes she'd had earlier of Breean's sugar-laced blood had left her hungry, for each drop had been better than, like, anything she'd ever prepared.

She was a decent cook, but Macy had apparently been a genius in the kitchen. First night her “mom” and “stepdad” had come over, they'd expected four-star treatment. As rich as they were and as superior as their expectations had been, the mac-and-cheese she'd thrown together hadn't pleased them. They hadn't liked the changes in her personality, either. Where the old Macy had been a champagne kind of girl, the new Macy's beer-loving ways had not been acceptable.

They'd accused her of being on drugs again, then yelled at her for throwing away her life as a cop when she could have gone back to modeling. And Aleaha had had to listen, try to answer. But the truth was, she didn't know why Macy had chosen such a life for herself.

At least dealing with the parents had been easier than the boyfriend. He'd had a key to her apartment—she'd since changed the locks—and had let himself in one night. He'd been high on Onadyn, the drug of choice for the wealthy, and ready for a game of “ride the pony.”

On his way to the bedroom, he'd knocked down several of her—well, Macy's—things, breaking them. Thinking he was an intruder, she'd first tried to stun him, then, when that hadn't worked, to kill him. But
just before pulling the trigger, she'd seen his face. She'd already studied the pictures hanging on the walls and those in Macy's holobook, so she'd recognized him.

He hadn't been happy with her refusal to play. As with Breean, she'd had to introduce him to her knee. Funny that Breean, who was supposed to hate her, had treated her better afterward.

“You must change,” Breean said, drowning her musings of the past. Now his voice was husky with want.

“Uh, not just no, but hell, no.” She would not reveal her true self while being this close to the AIR agents. But what a sweet man, not uttering the words “your appearance” while agents could hear.

He gave her a pointed glance. Aw. He meant her clothing.

“Why?” she asked.

“There's blood on your shirt.”

Yeah, but it was his blood, from when she'd bitten him. “There's just a speck.” A golden speck, at that, tasty and soul-shattering and maybe she could lick it off . . .
Stop, you idiot
. She'd actually been reaching for the hem of her shirt to bring it to her mouth.

Okay, time to regroup. He wouldn't rest until she'd changed out of her dirty clothes. He'd made her change that first night, too, she recalled, after she'd bitten him. She'd been happy to do so—when he'd left her alone. But why the anal need for spotless garments? She almost snickered. Anal.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to be stubborn about this?”

“No. As before, I'll change when you leave.”

“I need to take your clothes with me, so that they can be burned. We walked through the city, and I'm unsure what we came into contact with. More than that, I believe I mentioned that the sight of the blood offends me.”

She'd been scanning for blood on
his
clothing; now her gaze snapped back up to him and she tried to read his expression. Surely he was joking. “You're a warrior.”

“Yes. You know that I am.”

“You
deal
in blood. How can the mere sight of it offend you?”

“Blood carries disease and death, diseases that are more painful than a knife through the gut. Now, I need the clothes you are wearing so that I may dispose of them.”

The Schön disease, she realized. He feared it, and that made sense. But strangely, she didn't like that so strong a man, even her enemy, had been brought to such a point. “Sure you don't just want to watch me strip?” She'd meant the words as a taunt, hoping to soften the tenseness of the situation; they emerged as an invitation.