Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

“I made him everything.”

I swallowed, forced my voice to steadiness. “You made him a monster. He made himself a Master.”

Balthasar hissed, teeth gleaming and bared, glistening with hunger for whatever he thought he could get from me. He walked closer, maneuvering his body between me and the bed.

I needed a weapon. My heart sped, and I put my back to the window, using the oversized shift to shield my hands as I tried to work one of the braces loose. To keep him occupied, I kept talking.

Balthasar chuckled, and that was nearly as disturbing as his anger. “Are you seeking escape, Merit? For that is not to be. Our business is not done.”

Damn it, the brace wouldn’t budge. Fear began to tighten my chest, send flutters through my stomach. I had no weapon, and no exit, and an enemy who was eager to hurt Ethan. It was a bad combination.

“What do you want from Ethan? From us?”

“Je veux tout. Everything I might have had. Everything that was taken from me.”

“Ethan took nothing from you. Your captors did.”

Balthasar moved so fast I didn’t even see it. He grabbed my arm, the mere touch enough to send desire rushing through my body like liquid fire, and began to drag me across the room.

I pulled back, tried to free my arm, kicked at his calves, but his grip was steel-solid. “What do you want from me?”

“Ah, chérie, let us not be coy. Not now.”

As he pulled me toward the bed, a new kind of panic set in. Not fear for my life, but for my body, and the sanctity of it. For what he meant to do, and who he meant to hurt by it.

“You can’t use me to get to him.”

Balthasar’s smile was wide and feline. “We would both disagree with you.”

“I won’t let you. I’ll leave him first.”

Balthasar clucked his tongue. “No, that is not the truth. I have seen how you look at each other.”

Magic moved in a whirlwind around him, a cyclone that transmuted body, hair, clothes. Light flashed, and when the light and magic dissipated, Ethan stood before me.

My body bucked with shock.

No, I told myself. No. This is not Ethan.

But he looked so much like Ethan. Tall, rangy, his body honed and sculpted, his eyes sharply green. If they’d stood side by side, I’m not sure I could have told them apart.

Balthasar pulled me tighter against the line of his body. Of Ethan’s body. He looked like Ethan, smelled like Ethan, and the touch of his hand carried the same strength and warmth. Thought and need warred, made enemies by love and magic.

It’s an illusion, I reminded myself, digging my fingers into my palms until bright pain radiated, hoping the sensation would wake me up, send me home, or break whatever spell Balthasar had worked on me. So break it.

I used mental blocks to keep my keen vampire instincts—and the sights, smells, and sounds they revealed—from overwhelming me. Maybe that’s what I need, I thought, and closed my eyes, blocking out the sight of him, then the sensation of his arms around me, then the magic that flowed around the room as easily as water.

The pain 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!”