Selene

Yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the doorframe. Jorge contemplated the plywood boards some thoughtful soul had nailed up. “I don’t know, Selene. It hasn’t been cleaned, or anything.”

“Come on, Jorge.” Selene eased herself another half-step closer to him. “I have a right. He was my brother.”

Jorge’s eyebrows beetled together. He looked a little confused, and miserably certain he was going to get in trouble one way or the other. “Nikolai will not like this.”

“He expected it, and he didn’t tell you to stop me. I’m not in any danger.” She actually wheedled, stepping even closer and pushing stray tendrils of her hair back. Her shields were thinning, she could smell Jorge’s acrid lemon worry and the faint flavor of delicious chocolate wickedness that meant he was Nikolai’s. She inhaled, filling her lungs with the smell.

Nikolai.

Stop it. Business, get down to business. Quit thinking about him. You’ll deal with him soon enough, I’m sure.

“Well. . .” Jorge looked at the door. A slight shudder passed through his broad shoulders.

“He didn’t tell you to stop me, Jorge. I have a right to go into my brother’s home.” Selene grabbed at the crime-scene tape and tore it down, the plastic stretching and biting her hand. “Yowch.” She curled her fingers over the edge of the plywood, wriggling them through a gap. She pulled, grimacing, but couldn’t move it. She hissed out through her teeth, frustrated. It wouldn’t budge.

She yanked again.

Jorge shouldered her aside and thrust his fingers through the small space. Nails squealed and the plywood ripped free. He spent another moment on the piece of plywood nailed below it, and Selene let out a pent breath. “Thanks.” There was a coppery, awful smell boiling out through the smashed doorframe. “Do you do parties too?”

Jorge’s hazel eyes met hers. He magnanimously refused to reply.

Selene had to bend down to slip through the hole he’d made. “Wait—” Jorge began, but she was already through. Too late. Thanks, Jorge. I owe you one for being a decent person after all.

The carpet was soaked with blood, still tacky-wet. Selene’s heels slipped. I’m going to have to burn these shoes. Her stomach flipped under her ribs, her hands were slick with sweat.

There were footsteps out in the hall, and she heard Jorge’s voice saying something about an investigation. Another voice, querulous—an old woman, maybe a neighbor. Where were you last night? Selene wanted to shout. Huh? Where were you when he needed help? This had to have made a fuck of a lot of noise, where were you when he needed someone, anyone?

Where were you when he needed me?

Selene went down the hall—the daylight glared in here, showing her the pools of blood, drips and spatters on the walls. The air swirled uneasily. Murder, and Selene’s own magick, and the highly-charged fear and nausea of the cops and forensics personnel who had photographed and measured the scene all mixed together, a heady stew.

I could tap in and use that, stave off having to feed. A trickle of heat spilled into her belly, overwhelmed by revulsion at the idea. Danny. Dear God, what happened? What did you do?

She didn’t have much time. At any moment, Jorge could rip off another piece of plywood and come in, deciding that Nikolai wouldn’t like her in here at all even if he hadn’t specifically banned it.

Just look at it like any other scene. You’ve done this a million times, maybe more.

A panicked, breathless little thought rose up after that. I can’t look at it like any other scene, it was Danny, Danny was lying right there—or what was left of him, anyway.

Stop it. You have to be calm, Lena. You have to be calm. Do what you have to do, then you can cry. Save the weeping and whining for later, okay?

She found herself in the kitchen, crouching down. On one side of the stove, there was a cabinet. There was little blood here—Danny had died in the hall and the single room of the studio, maroon splashed on walls, soaking into the carpet. In here there were only a few trailing drops.

Give my regards to Nikolai. Selene let out a soft shapeless sigh, pushed the memory away. It didn’t want to go.

Her footprints marked the linoleum, the dots of her heels, the rest of the shoe making a softly rounded triangle against the hard surface. I’m tracking around his blood. It isn’t even dry yet. God.

She opened the cabinet and pulled the mixing bowls out. Behind them was a shapeless cloth-wrapped bundle. There was something hard in there as well as the softer edges of the notebook. Danny’s little black book.

I can’t hide this, my purse is already full. She cast around for something else.

When she finally ducked back out into the hall, carrying a small blue canvas bag she’d often used to bring Danny his library books, Jorge was still looming with his arms crossed over his massive Jarmani-clad chest. The dingy orange-carpeted hallway was quiet around him, a midday sort of quiet. Someone’s television was turned way up, and Selene heard a newscaster’s voice rising and falling through the thin walls. It sounded rich, not tinny—maybe someone had one of the new three-dimensional holograph televisions Danny was always talking about.

“Did you retrieve what you needed?” he asked, kindly enough. He really was a decent guy.

Selene nodded. Her throat constricted. The medallion warmed again between her breasts, the silver shifting slightly against her skin. “Thanks, Jorge. I mean it.” I shouldn’t have even had to ask anyone to bring me out here, and I shouldn’t have had to twist your arm and wheedle. . .but thank you.

She’d taken two pictures of Danny and his threadbare teddy bear Carson—named after the camp where the rebellion happened, who said refugee kids didn’t have a sense of humor?—as well as a red button-down flannel shirt that had been tossed over his foldout bed. It had a few speckles of his blood on it, good for tracking. She could use it for Working if she had to.

There were a few other things she wanted, but those were the most important and space was limited. She also took a little blue glass apple, found in a dumpster the week after they’d left the camp. It had perched proudly on Danny’s desk for as long as he’d had the apartment. She’d played with it every time she’d come over, tossing it up in the air, catching it, running her fingers over the slick glass. A useless bit of pre-War glitz, but he’d loved it.

“Nikolai suggested we might visit a funeral parlor,” Jorge said, turning to the plywood sheets he had set to the side. He put the first back in place and held it for a moment, metal nails squealing, and when he took his hands away, it stayed. A breath of Power brushed Selene’s skin. Jorge repeated the process with the second sheet of plywood.

It was mighty handy, having a thrall around.

Was that an order, or was Nikolai trying to be polite? What’s the etiquette for this? I bet he’d know, wouldn’t he. “I don’t. . .” Selene trailed off. That would make it too real. Picking out an urn, scheduling a memorial service, and dealing with Netley and Jorge looming over her at the same time. . .Christos, no. Her stomach rose in revolt, the latte churning against her back teeth, she managed to push it down with an effort. “I just want to go home, Jorge. Please?”

Jorge deftly knotted the torn crime-scene tape together. “Of course. Would you like Netley to stay with you?”

“I’d rather get eaten by an epileptic shark.” Selene hitched the blue canvas bag and her black leather purse higher up on her shoulder. “I suppose Nikolai wants someone to stay with me, right? Just to make sure I don’t head for the bus station or do something silly like try to find out who killed my only brother.” Settle down there, Selene. It’s not Jorge’s fault. It really isn’t.

Jorge shrugged, let her go first down the hall toward the stairs again. Selene’s blood pounded in her ears, nervous sweat running down the shallow track of her spine to the small of her back, soaking into the waistband of her skirt. Her nylons rubbed against the inside of her thighs, damp and uncomfortable. God, I just want to go home. Why am I so nervous? What was Danny hiding in there?

The foyer downstairs looked even more dingy and depressing with pearly rainy light coming in through the glass doors. The phone box crouched obediently in its corner. A chill finger touched Selene’s nape.

The medallion warmed against her skin, vaguely comforting. She wondered if she’d tracked blood out onto the thin orange carpet. Her stomach roiled again, doing its best to declare an insurrection, quelled only by the fact that she would go to hell before she let Nikolai’s thralls see her puking her guts out.

Jorge opened the door for her. The limo idled quietly at the curb, right next to the red No Parking strip. The driver seems to have a thing for No Parking zones, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s working for a Nichtvren that does it. Selene’s ankles hurt, and her lower back. The sweat was starting to spring up underneath her breasts, soaking into her bra. Lace and the underwire began to chafe.

She looked down at the cracked pavement, her shoes gleaming black and dotted with rain. How much of Danny’s blood was she tracking over the pavement now?

The thought made her stomach flip again, and something acidic boiled up into her mouth. She stopped on the sidewalk, looking down at her feet. Am I really going to puke? Please don’t let me throw up. Let me keep a little dignity, God, please? I know I’m not supposed to have any shame, but please let me have this one shred of dignity. Please.

The limo’s engine hummed obediently. The sound of another car shushing wetly through a puddle made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Selene, frozen, stared down at her toes. Her intuition prickled, the same chill panic she’d felt last night when the phone rang and Danny—

Someone yelled. Jorge pushed her and she went down, heavily, her teeth clicking together. Training brought her head down, she tucked and rolled along the wet pavement. One shoe skittered off. Her elbow sang with pain. The back of her head hit concrete, she literally saw stars, bright pinpricks of light flashing through the gray mist the day had become.

Pocking sounds—pop! pop! pop! Chips of concrete flew. Selene heard a scream, realized it was hers. Copper and the flat iron of adrenaline filled her throat.

Jorge’s hand closed around her left arm. He yanked her up from the ground so hard her shoulder gave a screaming flare of pain. Her right arm clamped around the blue canvas bag and her purse. Something hard and round that must have been the glass apple bounced against Selene’s ribs as he spun her around, sheltering her behind the bulk of his Jarmani.

He shoved her into the limousine. There was an acrid smell—cordite, Selene thought, recognizing it from childhood violence and the firing range where Jack had taught her to shoot. Someone’s firing a fucking gun. At me. Why?

Glass shattered. The limousine pulled away from the curb. Selene looked over her shoulder, through the broken window. Jorge grabbed her arm and pushed her down against the leather seat, but not before she saw a low-slung black shape—someone on an old petroleo motorcycle, hunching down, the snub of an assault rifle poking up.

Netley calmly shoved another clip into a silver automatic—9mm, maybe, some part of Selene said with chilling, lunatic calm. Her body burned, little prickles of electricity crawled over her skin. The latte rose hot and insistent against her back teeth again, sour and tainted with the taste of false hazelnut.

She was lucky she didn’t crave sweets like Danny did, after the perpetual scrounging for food that was living in the camps. God, how he loved sweet things—the first time she’d ever been paid for sex she’d bought him twenty candy bars. It had seemed like so much money, back then. And Selene’s hungers were darker. The flush of fear pouring through her was enough to make her curse half-wake. She struggled to breathe deeply, scrabbling for control.

Netley took aim and fired twice out the broken window, deafening thunder in the small space. Selene clapped her hands over her ears. Her nylons were destroyed, a thin trickle of blood slid down from her right knee. She couldn’t get enough air in with her throat shrunk to the size of a straw.

“Check her,” Netley snapped. “God, tell me she’s not hit.”

She was on fire, the fear biting into her belly and making her entire body liquid and hot, clothes rasping against her skin. Selene heard her own shallow, panting gasps and curled up around the blue canvas bag and her purse. Jorge spared her a single look. He was bleeding from his cheek and his shoulder, a crimson wetness spreading across his gray jacket.

“Selene?” His gaze was dark, and for a moment something moved in its depths, something old and dangerous. She wondered, not for the first time, if a Nichtvren as old and powerful as his master could look out through a thrall’s eyes. “Are you hurt? Are you?”

She couldn’t tell. Her entire body was numb and throbbing at the same time, her curse hard to control when she was this terrified. “I—” she began. Had to take another deep breath. “No. I don’t think so. . . what was that?”

“That,” Price Netley said, his hazel eyes wide and sparkling and his hair wildly mussed, “was why Nikolai told us to accompany you, Miss Thompson.”

***

The limousine pulled into a cavernous garage, rows of sleek cars lining either side of the central aisle, and Selene raised her head.

“I don’t want this, I want to go home, I want to go home—” she began again, and had to take another deep shuddering breath as fresh fit of trembling seized her. Her teeth chattered.

“Orders, Miss Thompson,” Netley said, his bland blond face unusually severe. Darkness swallowed the limo. The garage didn’t have windows and the door was going down, shutting out daylight. “Nikolai’s orders.”

And we all obey when Nikolai orders, don’t we. All his little puppets, dancing on strings. “I don’t care,” Selene gasped. “I want to go home. I don’t want to be here.”

“If they’ve marked your brother’s home, then they’ve probably marked yours too,” Netley pointed out, sounding maddeningly calm. “Ah, here we are. The Master will want to see—”

Selene put her forehead down on her knees again. Both knees were scraped raw, but the right one had bled all down her shin. “Shut up,” she whispered, and Netley did.

Nikolai’s nest was on the east side of town, across the bridge. Every mile that slipped away under the limo’s humming bottom would make it harder for Selene to get home. She’d tried cajoling, wheedling, and even begging. No dice. Jorge simply closed his eyes—Selene didn’t blame him, he was bleeding pretty bad, his left hand clamped over the wound—and Netley kept repeating, with the same quiet finality that a teacher would use with a third-grader, that they were just obeying orders. Nikolai wanted her safe. This was for the best.

The limousine drifted to a stop, its engine powering down and the landing gear creaking as weight settled. Doors opened, closed, there were quiet male murmurs exchanged—Selene curled even more tightly into herself. Her knees were bleeding, her ankle and her elbow throbbed with pain. Worst of all, though, was the smell of Jorge’s blood and the insistent perfume of fear and danger in the air. It teased at Selene’s shields, tapped at them, begged for entrance. If she used it as fuel, it might make her even more frantic.

And she knew where that would lead.

“Selene.” Quiet. A dark voice like old whiskey.

The medallion sent a tingling shock through her entire body. Selene’s head jerked up. Half her hair fell down in her face. Well, if that isn’t par for the course.

Nikolai stood by the open door, bending down a little, looking in at her. His hair was a soft mussed sheaf of glossy black over the same hurtfully beautiful face, and the black silk button-down shirt he wore had the top two buttons torn free, exposing his throat and the vulnerable space between his collarbones. The shirt was loosely untucked over a pair of jeans.

He put his hand into the gloomy interior of the car. The carnelian ring ran with a dim wet gleam. “Come,” he said, softly, soothingly. “Are you hurt?”

Selene stared at him. “It’s day,” she whispered. “You—you’re. . .” You’re up and awake during the day. Her entire body went cold. Nichtvren just didn’t come out by day; the sun was deadly and they needed their deep, hibernating, rejuvenating sleep. To see him during the day was. . .

Terrifying. It was the only word that fit.

He shrugged, still holding his hand out. “Come, Selene. Let me see you.” Still that soft tone, as if she was a frightened animal he was trying to calm.

She reached out blindly, his fingers closed over hers, and he steadied her as she scrambled out of the car. Netley supported Jorge as both limped across the garage. The driver—Bradley—followed them, his dreadlocks bouncing in time with his slow steps. Selene only had one shoe, and she stumbled, twisting her ankle again before she stepped out of it. Cold concrete made her feet ache. Her ankle rolled to one side, she swayed drunkenly. The blue canvas bag and her purse bumped against her side. He’s up during the day, someone just shot at me and he’s up during the day, my God, what’s happening?

Nikolai reeled her in, closed his arms around her, and rested his chin on top of her head. “Selene,” he whispered, and she slumped against him, her knees shaking. He cupped the back of her head in one hand and held her. It was like standing next to an electrical transformer—there was a fine humming tremor going through him. He was shaking.

She had never felt that in him before. It’s daylight. He shouldn’t be awake. He should be sleeping. He should be sleeping like the dead.

Or the undead. Whatever. “What the hell is going on?” she whispered into his chest. And as much as she despised it, she had to admit it felt safe to be here.

Much safer, at least. She knew it was dangerous in a different way, but right now she didn’t care much.

He simply held her. Concrete chill worked its way into her feet. “I thought you lost,” he said into her hair. “And I had to wait here, useless.” She felt his lips move—her ribs hurt, he was holding her so tightly. A hard lump—maybe the glass apple—dug into her aching side.

Selene’s teeth chattered. His arms finally loosened, and he tipped her chin up and examined her face, one thumb smoothing her bruised cheekbone. His eyes were flat and lightless, dark circles scored under them. His lips were drawn tight into a thin line, and his cheeks hollow. He looked at her shoulders, examined her neck, touched her bleeding knee. Then he straightened and took her shoulders again, more gently. “This happened outside the apartment building? Danny’s building?”

Why is he asking me? His thralls were there, he knows. He probably knows everything, if he can be up during the day it’s no big deal for him to look out through a thrall’s eyes. Christos. I knew he was old, but… She nodded. Strands of her hair fell forward into her face. “Just as we were c-coming out. J-Jorge pushed me down, and into the c-c-car. They were shooting at us.”

Nikolai closed his eyes and tipped his head back. A muscle flicked in his cheek. Then he took a deep breath, and looked back down at her. His eyes were black, so dark that the bruised circles underneath eyes seemed almost greenish in comparison. “Why do you do this? Do you think this is a game, Selene? Why did you disobey me?”

You don’t own me. At least, not completely. Not yet. “I d-d-didn’t.” Her teeth were still chattering and her knees threatened to give way completely. “You n-never s-s-said not to g-go there, J-jorge said y-you e-expected. . . I j-just wanted some of D-D-Danny’s things—”

“I would have brought you anything you wanted,” he said through gritted teeth, and his fingers bit into Selene’s shoulders. “All you must do is ask.”

Ask you? I never asked you for anything. Never. Except for you just to go to hell and leave me the fuck alone, but we both know that won’t happen. Since I’m so fucking valuable. Such a nice source of food for you. She grabbed at the anger, nursed it, but it still wasn’t enough to cover up how badly she was shaking too.”He’s my brother. I have a right.”

Nikolai’s lips peeled back from his teeth. His ribs flared as if he was taking a deep breath. A low rumbling sound, like a freight train crossed with a lion’s purr, made the air hot and thick. There were two old petroleo cars near them—a low-slung cherry-red Viper and a boxy green Morris—and the cars leaned back on their springs, glass in windshields and car windows rattling. Metal popped and rang, as if cooling down after a hard race.

Selene choked on the rest of the sentence. She would have backed up, but her ankle rolled again, sending an amazing red flare of pain up her leg. Her knee buckled, and Nikolai caught her as she leaned back, frantic to get away. As quickly as it had appeared, the fury was gone, submerged with frightening swiftness.

He examined her face, then set his jaw and nodded. “Come,” he said, as if he hadn’t just been snarling. “You’re cold, and wounded.”

“Nikolai. . .” Why won’t he tell me what’s going on? I just got shot at, for Christos’s sake! And my b-brother. . . Even her thoughts stuttered. I think I’m in shock. “I just got shot at. Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“When you are bandaged and have been fed I will discuss this with you, not before.” The medallion sent another tingling rush down Selene’s skin. Oddly enough, it made her feel a little steadier. “You didn’t have breakfast. You must take greater care with yourself.”

“How are you up during the day?” The chattering of her teeth eased a little bit, now that she was moving. She limped, but Nikolai managed to take most of her weight, his arm turning to oddly-flexible stone. He stopped, once, and kissed her temple, pressing warm lips against her skin. Selene flinched away, but he seemed not to notice. “Nikolai, goddammit—”

“What?” He threaded his fingers through a strand of her blonde hair, lifted it to his face, and inhaled deeply. A thin wire of warmth slid into Selene’s belly. Why does he keep doing that?

Anger and the will to resist drained away. She was in shock, none of this seemed particularly important. “My shoe. Can you burn it? Please? I don’t want to see it again.” It’s got Danny’s blood smeared all over it. Oh, God, I stepped in his blood. Bile rose in her throat again. His arm tightened around her. He started for the back corner of the garage, opposite to where Jorge and the other men had vanished.

“If you like, Selene.”

It took forever to reach the door to the house, and Nikolai lifted her up over the steps as if she weighed nothing. Selene pushed her hair back with one heavy hand. Her nylons stuck to the inside of her thighs, were gummed to her shins by drying blood. Her skirt was torn up the side, and her jacket might be beyond repair. It was tempting—she could just sink down, curl into a ball, and let the world do whatever it wanted without her.

She couldn’t even scrape up the will to care about Nikolai’s hands on her.

He kicked the door shut behind them. A hardwood floor was only slightly more forgiving to Selene’s battered feet, and she saw a low cedar bench and a utility closet. There was a rack of car keys to the side, and another, larger closet. The house smelled of lemon furniture polish, beeswax, and dust.

She closed her eyes, leaning on Nikolai’s shoulder, and heard him say something very low, muttering as he bent down to slide his arm under her knees. Then she was cuddled in his arms like a sleepy child.

“What?” she asked. The bag bumped against his hip, cut into her shoulder.

He said nothing. Selene laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “Nikolai?”

“Quiet.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. Her heart leapt behind her ribs. “I think I am beginning to believe you are alive and unhurt.”

What does that mean? The trembling in her arms and legs was beginning to ease up. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

“If you must.” Now Nikolai sounded amused. His even footsteps didn’t alter, even though she could tell they were descending stairs. She was curious—she had never seen Nikolai’s nest—but her eyes just wouldn’t open. When he finally laid her down on something wonderfully soft, easing the strap of the canvas bag up over her head and freeing her purse from her arm, she sighed. Then he unzipped her skirt, easing it down over her hips. His fingers hooked into the top of her nylons, and he slowly peeled them free of her legs. The feeling was exquisite, and she sighed, making a little throaty sound of relief.

“What did you find, in your brother’s home?” He touched her scraped knee delicately. His fingers brushed raw skin, and the spike of pain made her catch her breath. “What were you searching for?”

“A teddy bear. His glass apple. His shirt. Just things to remember him.” Her throat closed. I’m lying to him. Can he tell? Maybe he can. I don’t care. It’s none of his business.

“I did not forbid you to go there. You are correct. I was simply. . . upset. Forgive me.”

His fingers slid up her thigh, and Selene’s eyes opened. The room was dark, dusty red velvet draping the four-poster bed. The walls were bare, paneled in heavy dark wood, and she saw an empty fireplace. There was a vase atop the mantel, a restrained curve of black porcelain, and a single dead rose lifted from the vase.

I gave him a rose once. She made herself look at him. He sat on the bed, his black eyes now sheened with green and gold, the cat-shine that was the mark of a night-hunting predator. His warm fingers paused on her left thigh, high up. He had combed his hair back and it fell obediently away from his forehead. “Not now, Nikolai,” she whispered. God, don’t you have any decency? I just got shot at and stepped in my brother’s blood. His blood’s not even dry yet. Can’t you control yourself, for once?

His fingers tensed, sank into her flesh. It wasn’t painful—but it bordered right on the edge of pain, sparking through her nerves, waking up her curse so it rolled uneasily under her flesh. She was wet already, aching, but she swallowed against the feeling. No. Not now. I can’t. Please, not now.

“Very well.” His hand didn’t move. He watched her, his eyes faintly glowing in the darkness. There was no sunlight coming into the room, of course, but there was a dimly-glowing lamp with a red-lace shade sitting on the nightstand, probably out of deference to her human eyes. “You need bandaging. And food.”

“I just want to sleep.” She pushed herself slowly, painfully up to a sitting position. Her entire body twinged, an orchestra of bruises and scrapes. Her palms sang with pain. She unbuttoned her dress shirt, and Nikolai’s hand slid away from her leg.

Selene struggled out of her shirt and jacket, hissing out between her teeth as her shoulder seized up. The medallion flared with heat before settling against her skin, quiescent. She was bruised, red-purple mottling spreading down her chest in the front and her shoulderblade in back. Her wrists were bruised too. She pushed her hair back and Nikolai’s eyes snagged on her face. The shallow slice along her hairline had re-opened, raw and painful but thankfully not bleeding.

Her bra-strap slid down her unbruised shoulder. Nikolai still said nothing. His face was blank, or maybe she just didn’t know how to decipher his expression.

“Can I sleep here?” she said, finally. “Please? I just want to lie down and sleep. I don’t want anything else. I can’t eat.”

He took this in. “This is my sanctum. It might be. . .disconcerting for you to remain here while I rest.”

Selene dropped her shirt and ruined jacket over the side of the bed. Well, since I’m here on the bed, I don’t think it’s very likely you’ll let me find somewhere else to lie down. Besides, with someone trying to kill me, this is probably the safest place on earth. I just hope you’re not thirsty when you wake up tonight. “It’s okay. I know you look like you’re dead when you’re. . .sleeping. Besides, what did you bring me down here for, if you didn’t want me to stay?”

His mouth curled slightly on one side. His eyes dropped to the silver disc between her breasts and the white lace of her bra. “At least you are safe here. As safe as possible.” He stood up, and she scooted away slowly and awkwardly as he pulled the covers down. The sheets were white silk, and Selene couldn’t help herself. She laughed. The weary little chuckle didn’t echo, just fell into the still air. Of course—the sanctum would be underground.

“White silk. You’re so weird, it’s like a huge cliché. I bet you had silk even during the War, too.” Who’s trying to kill me, Nikolai? Do you know? Would you tell me if I asked you? You’ve finally got me where you want me, right?

Amazingly enough, he laughed too. Selene slid her legs under the covers and lowered herself back into the bed’s embrace. He sank down into the bed himself, pulling the sheet and velvet coverlet up as Selene tried to reach her bra clasp with one hand. “Here,” he said, softly, and slid his hand under her, setting the clasp free. The relief was instant, and Selene sighed. She tossed the bra carelessly down to the end of the bed, her shoulder giving one last flare of pain. I know he’s not human, but sleeping with him so many times makes it hard not to relax around him.

“Why am I being shot at?” she asked through a yawn. Nikolai settled himself on his back, looking up at the dusty velvet canopy. His eyes half-lidded.

“Later, Selene. For now, rest.”

“I don’t suppose I could wait for you to go to sleep and leave the house.” She wriggled, turning away from him to lay on her side, gasping as her shoulder protested.

“The door to my sanctum is barred. Inside, and out.” He stared up at the canopy.

“I thought so.” She studied his profile. Nice nose, the dark hollows of his eyes, his mouth eased a little but still thin and tense. “Are you going to. . .um, be hungry when you wake up?”

In other words, are you going to want to fuck me when you wake up? Is it going to be dangerous to be around you? Are you going to want to bite something?

His face didn’t change. “You are safe enough, Selene. You are not prey meant for killing.”

It’d be silly of you to kill me, since I’m such a nice little buffet table for you. Well, isn’t that comforting. “Great. Go to sleep, Nikolai.” Maybe I can find out if the door is barred once you drop off.

“Soon enough.”

Selene closed her eyes. Exquisite relief. She hadn’t realized how tired she was. I’m lying in Nikolai’s bed for the first time. She yawned, sinking into the softness. I shouldn’t be here. Why is he awake? It’s daylight, he should be asleep. . . I wonder if Jorge is all right. Why am I so sleepy? Being shot at, and two major Works this morning. . .of course I’m tired.

The last thing she felt, before she fell asleep, was Nikolai stroking her hair. It was a comforting touch, warm fingers occasionally touching her forehead, threading through, smoothing down stray strands.

Why did he bring me all the way in here? But blackness took her before she could finish the thought.