Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

I scrambled off the bed, backed toward the corner of the room. I didn’t stop until the wall was cold against my back.

I slid to the floor, hands in my lap, fingers bloodied from scratching him, the stain clear even in the dim light of the lamplit room. I stared at the blood on my hands until my body began to shake with an emotion I couldn’t name. Fear? Violation? Mortification that I’d hurt the man who’d given his life for me?

“Merit, what’s happened?”

My gaze flashed to Ethan. The scrapes had already begun to fade, but they were still there. Taunting me. Reminding me. “I hurt you.”

ain was nearly immediate—a searing pressure that threatened to burst my head from the inside, a vise pressing against my skull. And the more I tried to fight it, the taller I tried to raise the walls against him, the worse the pain became. My hands curled into shaking and sinewy fists, my body shaking from the exertion, the inside of my skull booming like the percussion of a thousand flash grenades.

The force in my head kept building, the blood roaring in my ears, until I was certain I’d pass out.

And then what would he do to me? Exactly, I feared, what he wanted.

Instantly knowing I’d rather be conscious and fighting as best I could, I gave up, let the blocks fall away . . . and as my body went limp, felt the warm rush of heat as his magic spilled over me like wine.

Suddenly, his mouth was on mine, the taste of wine and blood on his lips, his teeth and tongue demanding.

I turned my head away. “Get away from me!”

He kissed me again, his teeth nipping tender flesh and drawing blood. I slapped him, whipping his head to the side and leaving a scarlet mark across his face.

Balthasar hissed and led me toward the bed again, which left little mystery about exactly what he planned to do—and how he planned to use me to hurt Ethan.

“I made him,” he spat as I dug my feet into the floor, splinters biting into the soles, in a last effort to avoid the horror he’d inflict on both of us.

But he used his weight, his strength, to slingshot me onto the bed.

I sank into the feather bed, rolled toward the other edge, trying to think, to keep the panic from overwhelming me.

Balthasar grabbed my ankle, and I kicked out with the other. The strike was good; I nailed him in the shoulder and sent him tumbling backward, but he righted himself and with that blurring quick speed was suddenly on top of me, hands pinning down my arms with bruising strength, one knee between my thighs, and Ethan’s green eyes staring back at me.

The expression on his face, the gleam of success in his eyes, was nothing like Ethan’s. He smiled, all teeth and fangs, weapons meant to penetrate, rip, kill.

He lowered his face to my neck, and I struggled beneath him, trying for any advantage in strategy, in physics, that would reverse our positions. But in the soft pile of sheets, I couldn’t get purchase. I was trapped, and my heart began to pound like a timpani drum, faster and faster, fear tightening my belly, sweat peppering my arms.

He’d hurt me without remorse to punish Ethan, to hurt him, or to distract him. Or best yet, all three.

“You will never know him like I know him,” Balthasar said, his face only inches from mine, fangs gleaming. “As long as you may live, as strong as you believe your love to be, you were not there with us. You did not see what made him.”

His gaze dropped to my lips, and his tongue snuck out to moisten his lips. “But, perhaps, we can share what you have now, and we will all be closer for it.”

“You’ll never know what we have,” I countered, trying to force air through my lungs. “No matter what you do to me now, you’ll never have Ethan again. Because he grew up, and you never did.”

He slapped me hard enough to put stars in front of my eyes.

It was the best thing he could have done.

My eyes silvered as fear transmuted into fury, filling me with a gorgeous and righteous warmth. I used that burgeoning fire, stoked it with thoughts of the pain he’d caused others, the terror, the deaths. I thought of the humans he’d violated, the misery and tragedy made by his hand.

Balthasar’s eyes widened with pleasure. “Oh, le chaton has claws.”

Anger lowered my voice to a growl. “Don’t call me kitten.”

With a scream more animal than human, I raked nails across Balthasar’s face, clawed at him like a penned animal.

He cursed in French, low, guttural sounds of indignation that I’d dared refuse him.

“You little bitch,” he said, trying to grab my arms. “When I am in control of your House, when I am your Master, we will see how you use those claws.”