“Touch me,” she whispered, daring to skim her lips against his. His shuddering breath puffed across her mouth. “Please.”
This time, when she slid her fangs into the unbitten side of his neck, she did it smoothly, with more anticipation than the nerves that had shaken her the first time. She moaned at the release of venom, the first gush of rich blood into her mouth. She clung to him, stroked his hair and his jaw and the planes of his chest. Her mind drifted into some new, warm place that felt like home.
“That’s it,” he murmured, gathering her close and sliding a hand under her dress. His callused fingers dipped into her panties, stroking slick flesh with a reverence that took her breath away. “I’ve got you, doll. I’ve got you.”
For the first time since they met, she let herself believe it.
Chapter Fourteen
“You know, you’re really fuckin’lucky.”
Atticus shifted his weight on the stiff leather cushion of his chair. His boots left imprints on the fancy rug beneath it, ones he’d have to take care of before he left. He gripped his bolt gun, letting it dangle between his spread thighs. His other hand loosely clasped his wrist.
Across thebig mandesk, strapped to hisbig manchair, Junger moaned. He couldn’t scream anymore. Not because he’d run out of steam, but because his vocal chords were beginning to desiccate.
Treating the noise like it was a response, Atticus continued, “You are. See, if I hadn’t looked in the trailer, she would have been locked in there for days. A week, almost, sealed up in that tin can with almost no ventilation. And if I found out that she’d been in there the whole time, what’s happening right now would have been much, much worse.”
He’d done a really good job of banking his rage. He’d focused on getting Carmine safe, taking care of her in the best way he knew how. Yeah, it wasn’t perfect and he regretted not having more self-control when she needed it, but he’d gottenthe message that she was with Zia and Adriana, so everything worked out.
Atticus liked to think that he wasn’t a particularly violent man. He didn’t take pleasure in it. He didn’t throw things or raise his voice when he got pissed — not that hecould,what with the damage to his throat, but still. He was an even-keel kind of man, as most hitmen tended to be. To do the work well, you had to be cool. Collected. Removed.
Harlan taught him early on that he couldn’t invest himself in the shit they did to survive their world, and when they left the syndicate, he told Atticus to leave it behind.
He had, for the most part. And it wasn’t like he missed it. Sure, he was restless and a little bored with his new life, but that was sure as shit better than wondering if he’d end up with a bolt in his brain every time he left the house.
He didn’t miss blood feuds and back-stabbings and blackmail, but he was damn glad he’d lived that life when he tailed Junger from the meet-up spot to his gaudy mansion in a rich neighborhood east of Sacramento. Another man would not have understood what to do with the fury that unfurled in him like a coiled snake. A man who’d lived a different life wouldn’t have been able to give Junger exactly what he deserved.
It was a thing of beauty, watching the businessman’s face go ashen, then puce, when he cracked open the trailer to find nothing. Not even a box.
Atticus hadn’t given him a second to reach for his phone. As soon as Carmine’s absence registered, he put his gun to Junger’s head and marched him into his own house.
That coiled snake didn’t listen when Junger began to scream, to bargain, to demand answers and then beg not a moment later as Atticus tore his shirt in two and exposed his pasty belly to the world.
The snake waited, patient and terrible, as Atticus tied him to the chair and set up the lights on his desk. It waited as he donned a pair of sunglasses. It waited as he took his seat, made himself comfortable, and turned the lights on.
And then it struck.
“She’s beautiful,” he explained as Junger sobbed, his tears nothing but dust in the face of the UV lights slowly frying him. “Biggest blue eyes you ever saw. So expressive. So fuckin’ smart. D’you know she has a degree in mortuary science?”
He eyed the blisters that had begun to pop on Junger’s jowls. A little sunlight exposure wouldn’t kill most fully grown vampires. It was a bit like how one might react to radiation. It was all about how long they were exposed — and at what level.
“How much did you pay for her? Whatever it was, I’m telling you it wasn’t enough.”
“P-Please turn the lightsoff,”he blubbered. “I’ll tell you. Anything. Everything.Please!”
“You’ll tell me what you paid and who paid you?”
“Yes!”
Atticus shrugged and levered himself up. His ass was sore from all the driving, not to mention the hour he’d been sitting in that awful chair.Rich men have the worst fucking furniture.
Looming over the desk, he hit the button on the tiny remote. Instantly, the over-bright room plunged into darkness. Junger sagged in his chair and began to weep in earnest.
“Hey shithead,” Atticus prodded, “numbers. Names.Now.”
Junger’s voice was barely understandable, but luckily Atticus had plenty of experience parsing agonized, desperate blabber. Junger told him the price. He told him how Carmine was offered at a discount because there was heat on the crypt, how Junger felt like a big man getting a steal on goods so precious. He gave the information on his various hidden bank accounts over, as well as everything else even tangentially related to the sale.
When he had nothing left to give, Junger rasped, “Please, I just wanted an heir. I don’t understand what I did to cross you or Mr. Bounds. I’ll give you anything. Take her. I won’t try to?—”
