Enemy Within (Vampire Born Trilogy, #2) (10 page)

They carry on with more “make sure to do this” and “don’t do that,” but I only pick up bits and pieces. It’s like a defense mechanism kicks in and I can’t listen anymore about how I should be a submissive, docile creature in their presence, or how everything revolves around the man of the house and his wife is only an afterthought. It bugs me. We live in the twenty-first century, not some bad ’50s TV show.

“When you leave,” I tune back in when it sounds like they’re getting to the end, “bow to him, bow to her, and then offer him the final parting bow. Don’t shake hands—bow. Make sure to let them know how honored and anxious you are to serve them as a representative of the Društvos.”

“But I’m—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Garwin cuts me off. “You say it anyway. Everything is riding on this meeting.”

I huff and sit back into the couch. I should just ask them to kill me now.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

Mirko

I step out of the shower and pull on a pair of pants. A knock sounds on my door.

“Mirko?”

I grin.

It’s Brooke. “Come in.”

When she opens the door, my gaze falls on her blue eyes, accentuated by the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. I vacationed once in Bora Bora, Tahiti, and the blues in this dress remind me of the perfect blues reflected in the ocean.

Her shoulders are rigid, but as she steps closer, her eyes follow the water running down my bare stomach and her tension diminishes.

The dress shimmers from an almost pearl color to a deep purple as she walks. No one has ever looked as amazing as she does right now.

I consider shutting the door and never opening it again.

And by the way her eyes are hooded when she looks at me, I’m confident she has the same idea.

It pleases me to see in her the echo of desire I’ve carried for her since day one, which has only intensified since then, grown and snowballed until there are times I’m sure it will snap and break, like a rubber band stretched too far.

I grin. “See something you like, Slatki?”

Her eyes shoot up and meet mine. She clears her throat and works her jaw. “You’re going to dinner dressed like that? You don’t even have your shirt on.”

Yes, she’s noticed.

I love to see her rattled. “I thought it would make a profound fashion statement.” I lift my arms so she can see the muscles in my chest and along my waist flex and ripple. “Don’t you?”

She swallows. “Umm . . .” She shakes her head slightly as if to clear it. “I think you should put your shirt on. My mom says we leave in fifteen.”

I stare at her and catch my bottom lip between my teeth. I revel in the desire she has for me, but she isn’t the only one struggling.

Her dress hugs her in all the right places—her waist, chest, shoulders. I bet it falls over her perky ass nicely too. Stunning isn’t an accurate word to describe her. I want nothing more than for my lips, my mouth, to connect somewhere with her skin.

I stroll over to her and hold her at arm’s length, my hands clasping her shoulders. I savor the way her hair gleams under the artificial light, the way her face flushes with need and embarrassment, and finally her eyes. Her eyes reach into my body and stroke secrets from my soul.

I can’t hold back any longer, so I pull her close against my chest, one palm on her back, the other curled around the base of her head, guiding her to meet my lips.

I lose myself in the dance of her lips, the tango of our tongues. She consumes me in a way I never dreamed possible, a way the beginning stages of an unhealthy addiction reveals itself.

Control. That’s what rules my decisions, my actions, my life. But with Brooke, all that is forgotten as soon as she steps foot into my room. I’ll gladly give it up to lose myself in her.

I stroke her tongue a few more times before I regain enough composure to pull away. When I do, her eyes reflect everything I’m struggling with: desire and pain at the loss of our connection, love, affinity.

“Don’t look at me like that when we’re at the Tomics’ house,” I say.

That one line snaps her back to the task at hand. She narrows her eyes at me.

“They can’t know how you feel for me. It will make you look bad.”

Confusion molds into anger as her forehead creases. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t want to be a part of this oppressive world.”

I clasp her hands. “I know, Slatki, but we can’t turn back now. This is our best option. Our only option.”

“But she’s going to bite me.” Her face conveys everything she associates with the word
bite
: intimacy, fear of sharing that with a stranger, feeling unsettled about being on the receiving end.

“It won’t be like it was when you bit me. It’ll only serve the purpose of nutrition for her.”

Brooke doesn’t seem appeased. “Yeah, but what if it hurts?”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You want me to bite you?” This is insane, but I can’t stop myself from asking.

Surprise, and then something deeper and warmer flashes across her face, replacing all signs of fear. “Yes,” she whispers.

I’m being selfish. This is more for me than it is to show her the bite doesn’t have to hurt. I want it, though.

I study her body, trying to find the ideal place to not only bite her but that will be concealed by her dress and whatever she might wear tomorrow. “There are rules against what we’re about to do. Are you sure you want to do it?”

“I know it’s forbidden to let you bite me, but I want my first time . . . to be with you.” Her neck muscles flex as if she’s anxious.

“What you’re about to feel . . . you won’t feel that when Mrs. Tomic bites you. The only thing similar will be the pinch and burn as my teeth sink in, but once that fades, nothing will be the same.” I lock eyes with her. “Do you understand?”

I’m offering her a way out, but also an experience the two of us might never share again. I hope she gives it to me.

It’s unheard of for an active Društvo to allow a Zao Duh to bite them. And it’s against everything the Pijawikas believe in to ever allow themselves to be bitten by a Zao Duh.

“Bite me,” she says.

“You said we leave in fifteen minutes?”

“Yeah.”

“That leaves us eleven. Turn around.”

She does but tilts her head back to look at me.

I grab the zipper on the back of her dress and slowly unzip it, surveying the delicate skin underneath. The cut of the dress is somewhat low, so I go beyond her bra line.

Dear God, she isn’t wearing one. My heart leaps and my mouth waters.

This is actually perfect.

I release her zipper and place my hand under the material. I glide it across her silky skin to the side of her rib and stop at the base of her shoulder blade. “Right here,” I say as I lightly pinch the skin.

“Okay,” she says on a heavy breath.

I ease the dress slightly down her shoulder to offer enough give for me to reach the spot.

I wet my lips. Anticipation skips down my stomach to my groin.

I drop my head to a lick away from her skin, and she shivers when my breath strokes her on my exhale.

I can’t wait any longer.

I latch my mouth over her flesh, gently grabbing her skin between my teeth before I extend my fangs.

She quietly whimpers when the skin breaks, but then her blood meets my tongue and a dance of ecstasy transfers between us.

Her breathing increases and her blood pumps faster into my mouth.

I jerk away before I get to the fourth swallow.

Holy shit, that’s intense.

Possession unlike anything I’ve ever felt takes hold. I can’t bear her sharing this with someone else. I told her it will be different with Mrs. Tomic, and it will, but I still resent it.

Yet, her life depends on this arrangement, so I put on my commander’s face and lick the wound until it stops bleeding. I zip up her dress and turn her around by her shoulders.

She faces me, her mouth gaping open. Her eyes reflect how I feel inside.

“The bite, the moment when my fangs broke your skin, that’s the only part that will be the same.”

Her tangy fluid lingers on my tongue and in my throat, and I regret ever pulling away from her.

Confirmation: definitely addicted.

She nods. “I . . . Mirko . . . that was incredible. I wasn’t anywhere near that controlled or delicate when I bit you.”

“It takes practice.” Something we’ll not be afforded. I would love for her to stay and watch me get dressed, but her mom will come searching for her soon. “Will you tell your mom I’ll be down in a moment?”

She leaves, and it takes everything I have to regain control.

***

When the Tomics greet us at their front door, Mr. Tomic appears surprised to see me. “We knew you were bringing an escort, but we weren’t expecting a Zao Duh.”

He doesn’t so much as greet me before saying something degrading. This is why I try to stay lighthearted about life. There’s a lot I can dwell on: a stronger race who thinks less of me and mine, their racism, and everything else unbalanced in our world.

Brooke picks up on it. “Yes, well, I wouldn’t trust anyone else to come with me.”

I delight in her bold reply, but at the same time silently urge her to tamp it down and not mess up the meeting.

“I see. Come in, come in.”

The white foyer is filled with the aroma of baked lamb. The high ceilings hold the cold air from our entrance and it flows back down over us as we follow Mr. Tomic down a pristine corridor, the clap of Brooke and her mom’s shoes echoing—of course, a Pijawika couldn’t live in anything average. It all has to be upscale and luxurious. At least if their dwelling is any indication of their worth, Brooke should be given a fair compensation for her service.

Mr. Tomic stops a man in white who I assume is a member of the staff. “I need you to switch out one of the place settings on the lower end of the table to the third-tier china.”

Even their china lets you know your placement in their world. It irks me, but I’m used to it.

At least Brooke deserves as much in their eyes as to keep the second-tier china. The only ones who will eat off the first tier are the Tomics themselves. Everything with the Pijawikas is a power play to display their elevated status.

When we reach the dining room, the staff is already scurrying to change out my dinnerware.

Brooke looks at me with disgust when she realizes what Mr. Tomic meant about switching out the china.

The staff takes away the beautiful white place settings with silver and gold woven into the porcelain and replaces them with smaller, bland ivory plates and drab silverware.

Farther down on the table, the seats at the head are set up with polished gold knives, spoons, and forks, and the plates are larger and grander than all the rest. That is where Mr. and Mrs. Tomic will sit.

I shake my head at Brooke, a silent warning for her to keep with the plan. We need the meeting to go as smoothly as possible, and my place settings aren’t worth giving up our only chance at keeping her alive.

Brooke, her mom, and I stand at the table, all of us waiting until Mr. Tomic sits first and then Mrs. Tomic next.

The staff brings out the soups and salads shortly after, and as Garwin described, the soup goes to the men, salads to the women. Brooke arches her lip when she stabs the spinach with her fork.

I chuckle internally because it’s cute how my girl hates her vegetables. At the same time I’m proud of her for pushing it aside and being able to do what she needs to. But then frustration overpowers everything else within me. Frustration with myself for not being strong enough to keep Brooke alive on my own. Angry that I have to count on these people to come to the conclusion that Brooke is worthy for them to suck on her neck, so that maybe, maybe we could use that acceptance to take to her father and say, “See? They want her. Can we pleeeease keep her?” It pisses me off.