Vein of Love (Blackest Gold Book 1) (20 page)

“Molly, you were protecting yourself and September,” Illya said with a sigh. “I’ll take you girls home.” He helped them both up and the three of them walked in silence to the girls’ apartment, a question eating at Molly the whole time. Once they stood outside, September excused herself with an awkward goodbye and vanished into the apartment building.

Molly hesitated, turning to face Illya. “How did you know where we were?”

Illya’s hand gripped his side and a grimace flickered on and off. “He told me to look after you.”

She pinched her brows together. “Tensley?”

He nodded.

To look after me?
Her cheeks warmed and she hoped he wouldn’t see.

Molly stared at the sidewalk and willed the assault of butterflies that had just bloomed in her chest away. “Doubt that. He hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate
you
; he hates the
idea
of you.”

She glared at her five-year-old Dolce and Gabbana suede pumps, now covered in the familiars’ blood and sink water…utterly ruined, like her life. “Please don’t sugarcoat it.”

“Demons are used to being in control of everything.” Illya spoke with an unaccustomed scowl and continued to rub below his ribcage.

Molly touched his arm. “Are you all right?”

He shook it off. “I’m fine, just a bit sore. Getting too old for this.” He laughed weakly and straightened his posture. “As I was saying, demons want control, but not every demon can control his or herself. It’s a myth. Our society has created limits—we see kindness and affection as weaknesses.”

She lowered her thick lashes and held her trembling body. “So affection’s a weakness?”

“Just trust me, okay?” He put a hand on her arm. “I know him. He puts on a mask and pretends to be the myth we are. He just can’t show it as easily as I can. He’s paranoid of losing control—especially in front of humans—especially
female humans
.”

“Why?”

“His family has a bad history with losing control, a recent history.”

She frowned. “I can’t. I can’t trust him––I can’t trust you.” She rubbed at her cheek, the one that was raw from being banged repeatedly against the bar’s floor. “And why are you even friends with someone like him?”

He laughed into the air, gazing up at the starry night. “My mother’s worked for his family since we were kids, and we’ve been friends ever since. We understand each other.” Illya forced his lips into a grin, but it wasn’t one that reached his eyes. “He’s a good man. You’ll see it one day.”

She groaned. “Why doesn’t he show me that, then?”

Illya was silent, watching her angry look. “He’s scared, just like you. He’s scared of feeling something he can’t control.” He exhaled into the night air. “Something happened that changed him.” 

She bit her lip. “What?”

“You’ll have to ask him yourself.” Illya rubbed at his torso again, his smile changing into more of a confused frown.

“Like he’ll tell me anything.” Molly scowled, kicking at a pebble and folding her arms.

A line of sweat rolled down Illya’s forehead, and he coughed. “If you’re wondering, Tensley isn’t heartless. He may act like it, but he has part of one.”

She blinked fast. “How, though?” 

“I’m not sure. I have a theory Tensley’s mother gave him some affection. His father, though…he believed no love should ever be displayed, regardless of their age. Without proper nurturing after puberty, the heart withers, becoming nonexistent over time. Tensley
does
care, I think, a lot more than most demons. It’s why he’s managed to maintain some semblance of a conscience, of how to be kind and just, even with a father and brother like the Knights.” Illya stopped speaking for a moment, seeming out of breath.

“So he does care,” she whispered.

“Yes. I think he does.” Illya leaned against the small ash tree planted on the sidewalk. “He’s been getting sick.”

Her head whipped up so fast her neck cracked. “What?”

“He hasn’t been getting enough intimacy,” he continued softly. “I think if you help him, it would do a lot of good.”

She fidgeted with her engagement ring. “I don’t know, Illya.”

“Just hold his hand and see, okay?”

She rubbed the back of her neck and nodded.

Illya groaned and bent over then, clutching his side.

“Are you sure you’re okay? What’s wrong?” She touched his back.

Illya’s breaths were labored and shallow, and he pulled his shirt up to reveal a bloody gash along his skin, already swollen and infected.

“What is—did a familiar do that?”

A strange noise left Illya’s lips before he could speak. “I—didn’t—think—it—was—that—bad—” His body began to quiver more violently with each passing second. She put his arm around her neck and gripped him by the waist, careful of his festering injury.

“Take me to Tensley’s place.”

The last person she wanted to see.

Perfect.

“IT’S HERE,” ILLYA
rasped out, his shivers becoming spasms and his gasps like cries of pain.

“Stop!” Molly gripped the back of the taxi driver’s seat, resolving to finish her text to September saying she wasn’t coming back any time soon.

The taxi skidded to a halt in front of a high-rise art deco apartment building. She shoved money into the driver’s hand and helped Illya out of the taxi.

As she entered the opulent lounge of Tensley’s apartment on Fifth Avenue, her stomach twisted. What if Tensley wasn’t there? Then what? How could she even help Illya? Could she even take him to the hospital?

She slammed the button for the elevator, and once the doors opened, they dodged the incoming traffic of fancy couples who appraised her disheveled appearance with disgust. Molly struggled to hold Illya up as the elevator climbed. His eyes glazed over and his body shook. He managed to tell her the floor and apartment number, and she dragged him to the right door, pounding wildly.

“Tensley,
please
.” Her voice boomed through the empty, red-carpeted hallway. “Tensley!”

The door swung open and Molly nearly hit Tensley in the chest. He dodged and shot her a glare.

His brows furrowed at Illya. “What the hell happened?” he asked, grasping Illya’s other arm. They shuffled into the grand apartment and laid Illya on the sleek leather couch nearest the hallway.

“You’re gonna be okay, Illya. Don’t worry,” Molly cooed, combing at his drenched hair with unsteady fingers.
I shouldn’t have listened to him. He wasn’t all right. If he dies…
He mumbled weakly back.

Molly turned to face Tensley, watching her fiancé’s face change from impatience to worry. “Tell me.
Now
.” His voice was softer that time.

Molly to dissolved into sobs. “Illya, he—” She ran shaking palms over her sweaty face and through her messy curls. “You have to help him!” Molly rose from her crouch to find the kitchen and some towels, but Tensley grabbed her forearm.

“Tell me now, Molly. My patience is wearing thin
,
so
speak
.”

“Uh, we were attacked, and—” Molly looked back at the couch, hoping to draw strength from Illya—but he wasn’t there. She gawked at the empty cushions. “Illya?”

Her eyes swung to Tensley, who was frozen, strong and stern, looking behind her. A sinister chuckle made her jump, and she turned to see Illya, shoulders hunched and limbs twisted, standing behind them. Small spasms traveled through him as his face morphed, features sloping. He lunged at Molly, and she threw her hands up to protect her face. Tensley caught him by the middle and pinned him against the wall. Pictures fell, shattering, and Molly edged around them, transfixed.

“Motherfucker!” Tensley seethed, grasping Illya’s long neck. Illya trapped one of Tensley’s fingers in his mouth and bit down hard. Tensley growled, jaw clenched and face growing red, but he didn’t scream. “Molly—get a knife.”

Molly didn’t waste any time and rushed to the kitchen, hands scattering for one of the expensive knifes in any one of his drawers. Once she retrieved one, she ran back and handed it to Tensley. He took it, glared at Illya, and ripped his shirt off. A hiss left Illya’s chapped lips as he bucked against Tensley’s frame, his wild, dark eyes zooming in on Molly.

“The golden one, the blessed one,” Illya’s voice was low and dark. “She is not yours to keep. She should be shared. She should be used up until she’s nothing but an ugly, wilting corpse.”

Tensley scowled. “Is that so?”

“Give her to me, to my master, the Duke Abaddon, and you will be granted your one and only desire.” Illya’s smirk faltered while Tensley remained silent. “The one you seek, the girl, she can be yours again, and you won’t need to waste your seed on this one.”

Molly frowned.
The girl?
He wasn’t talking about her.

“Save it, you bastard.” Tensley grabbed the little bit of fat on Illya’s stomach and Molly could see something crawling underneath the skin, weaving fast. Illya’s eyes rolled back and he began to cough viciously, his tongue lolling out and black as pitch. All the veins throughout Illya’s body pulsed and grew, about to burst. Tensley slid the sharp edge of the knife underneath the moving shape and cut deep, flinging it from Illya’s innards to the ground in one swoop. Illya went limp and fell against Tensley, unconscious.

Molly looked closer and saw that it was a bug—a purple, shrieking beetle with a hard shell. It skittered toward her and Molly yelped, grabbing a large book off Tensley’s side table and pounding the beetle over and over until it was flattened. She stared breathlessly at the dead bug, one of its tiny legs twitching in the air.

Molly flinched when Tensley stomped on it, twisting his foot to spread its guts across the hardwood.

“For good measure,” he explained, dragging Illya to the couch once more. “Damn scarabs.”

“Is he okay?” She wrung her hands, edging closer to the two.

“Illya.” Tensley tapped Illya’s cheek and his head lolled, eyes opening slowly.

Illya lifted a hand to his face, pinching his temples. “What happened?”

“Scarab. Got underneath your skin,” Tensley murmured, taking a nearby blanket and holding it against Illya’s bleeding cut.

Illya sighed, features worn down, brow knotted. “It was that damn familiar. He must have slipped it into my sleeve.” Illya swore loudly in Russian. “Damn it.”

Tensley shrugged and a faint smile appeared. “It happens.” Molly couldn’t believe what she was seeing: a nice, calm Tensley.

Illya’s eyes flashed. “Did I hurt anyone?” He cocked his head to see her, alarmed. “Did I hurt Molly?”

Tensley gazed over his shoulder at her stiff frame. “She’s fine, just a bit in shock. I’ll take care of her.”

Take care of me?

“Did it say anything?” Illya swallowed thickly.

Tensley was silent, hesitant to answer. “He said I should ‘share’ her.” He breathed evenly and rubbed his fingers against his palm. “He offered me a deal—for
her
.”

There it was again.
Her.
Not Molly.
Who, then?

“Her,” Illya repeated. A painful shiver attacked his drenched body.

It was then Molly looked around the space.

The apartment was shadowed with a haphazard medley of classic and modern furniture; the dichotomy reminded Molly of Tensley’s personality. The room was a continual space, a step down into a hardwood living room with black leather couches and a massive dark stone fireplace. The next space was the kitchen, which had a large marble island in the middle with silver appliances—definitely a bachelor pad. 

“Get him some water,” Tensley said. She jerked at first, startled, and ran to the kitchen to pour some water in a cup. “And a wet cloth.” She did as she was told and raced back, almost tripping where the carpet met the wood.

Illya coughed and hacked incessantly, blood dripping from his wound onto the leather couch.

“His cut,” Molly said, pointing to it as she handed the damp towel to Tensley.

“Illya, rest now.” Tensley draped the wool blanket over him and held out the water, which Illya chugged. He closed his eyes then and leaned back, seeming to fall asleep fast.

Molly stood frozen, more in shock about Tensley’s behavior than Illya’s condition. He was being so gentle, so calm. Tensley grabbed the cloth, bright with Illya’s blood, and dabbed it against Illya’s forehead. He straightened and disappeared into what Molly guessed was the bathroom, returning with some slim white packages.

Tensley tore them open with his teeth and Molly saw that they were bandages. He placed them over the jagged, ugly wound.

“Won’t he heal?”

He shook his head, and Molly closely examined how drained he looked. “He’s too weak—and his rank
don’t heal as fast as mine. I’ll have to exchange energy to heal him.”

She wasn’t sure what to do; she just couldn’t stop gaping at him as a heat warmed her cheeks. He was only tending to his injured friend, yet Molly thought he looked both godly and the closest thing to a caring,
feeling
human she’d ever seen.

Maybe he
would
be okay with working to break the contract together…

Holy shit.

The butterflies in her stomach cartwheeled and flipped, and Molly longed for a stiff drink or a cold shower.

“Tell me what happened tonight,” Tensley said, frowning at Illya’s wound.

She eyed the back of Tensley’s head. “Uh, well, September and I were out drinking. I went to the bathroom and this familiar showed up. I tried to fight him off, but another one showed up.” She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “Then Illya showed up and saved us.” She paused, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “He said you told him to look out for me.”

Tensley’s hands clenched. “You can sleep in my bed tonight, Molly. I’ll watch over him,” he said calmly. His eyes returned to his friend.

Molly didn’t move.
His bedroom? Alone?
“The whole night? I mean—we could take turns.”

“
Yes
, the whole night. Now go to bed.”

Molly stood, unable to tear her eyes away. She was afraid she would never see this side of him again—a side she
wanted
to see, a side she understood.

Tensley swiveled his head toward her with a faint scowl. “Go.”

“Okay, okay,” she mumbled, taking hesitant steps as she navigated the apartment, searching for his bedroom. Just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating, Molly turned once more to study Tensley before going to bed, and he was just as thoughtful and pensive as ever…a watchful brother, a loving friend.

She wasn’t sure who Tensley Knight was any more—the demonic beast who refused to release her from a terrible marriage, or the misunderstood man trapped in a messed up culture where survival meant being the most ruthless.

Now, she questioned how ruthless—how
heartless
—he really was.

He didn’t seem heartless at all.