On the Hunt

"No."

He answered anyway. "I'm their king."

A gasp. "I think the meaning of what you just said was lost in translation. You're a king?"

What was so hard to believe about that? He exuded power, just as a king should.

"Never mind," she said as if she didn't care. "Can I bring someone here?"

Every muscle in his body locked down on bones. He cupped her chin, lifting her head so that he could glare into her eyes. "Who do you want to bring?" If she named a man, he would find a way to reach the bastard. Tear him from limb to limb.

"My parents."

Vasili relaxed. "No. You can't. They'll die. Only Walkers can cross. Why do you want to bring them, anyway?" And why did he suddenly want to meet them? To see the man and woman who had created her?

She traced the collar of his shirt. "I no longer have any kind of relationship with them, and I miss them. I just thought that if I proved myself to them, they would know I'm not crazy or on drugs and . . . I don't know . . . like me again."

His skin tingled where she stroked. "You can't tell anyone what you can do, Rose. It's dangerous for you. For them."

"But I'm . . . lonely."

He didn't like the thought of her alone and sad, and now wanted to meet her parents for an entirely different reason. To destroy them for causing her pain. "Is that how Walkers are treated in your world? With disbelief?"

"Yes. We're considered crazy. Locked away."

"You were locked away?" The words lashed from him.

"Only for a little while."

Rage hammered through him. "If that ever happens again, come to me. Immediately." Calm.

She's here; she's fine. Desire returned, blending with the declining rage. "Now, is this the only reason you came to see me early?" he asked silkily.

"No." Defiance suddenly flashed up at him. "I wanted to tell you how much I hate you."

"You hate me?" Anymore, females ran from him. With good reason. He had a fierce, frightening temper and held life and death in his hands. Still Rose clashed with him, unconcerned. Oh, yes, he felt pride. "Prove it," he said in that same silky tone.

She shivered. "You've threatened me, fought me—I'm better now, by the way, and will kick your ass if we spar—and cursed me. I should hate you."

He settled his big hands on her hips, allowing the tips of his fingers to slide under her shirt. More skin, more warmth and softness. "I taught you to fight, to speak properly. And you've been practicing, haven't you, Rose?"

A grumble.

Because deep down she knew she belonged here. "I know you have."

"Did you hear nothing else I said?" she demanded.

He sighed. "Cursed you how?"

"To suffer." Accusing.

To ache, she meant. "But I can ease your . . . pain." Oh, the ideas pouring through his head . . . the many ways to sate her. He'd start with her breasts, tonguing her nipples, and work his way down. But not yet. First, he'd gentle her. He wanted no resistance when the passion claimed them.

"Did anyone hurt you during your training?"

A tremor, a slight arch of those hips, closing the distance. "Of course." Breathless.

Another inch and her core would brush his throbbing cock. Was she as eager as he? "Bring them here."

"But that will kill. . ." Slowly she grinned. "Why, Vasili. I think you're a romantic at heart, wanting to slay my dragons."

"Romantic, no. Desperate for you, yes."

She licked her lips. "I thought I was too young for you."

"That was when you were a mere nineteen."

"My birthday isn't for another week. I'm not officially twenty."

"Did I fail to mention we celebrate early here? Also, I have a present for you."

"If you say it's this"—she trailed her hand down his stomach and cupped him—"I'll accept."

Yes. She was eager, and there would be no resistance from her.

His restraint broke. "Then let's get you ready to accept." With a groan, he fisted her hair and smashed her lips into his.

Chapter Five

Finally.

A man's tongue in her mouth, thrusting, tasting, taking, giving. Rose's stomach clenched in pleasure rather than pain. A man's hands on her body, squeezing, kneading, rough, calloused. Her blood heated rather than chilled. And that the man was Vasili . . . heaven and hell, salvation and ruin.

His face could reduce a woman to a slave. His scent could reduce a woman to a slave. She was a slave. One sweep of those dark lashes, one curve of those soft lips, and one thought would prevail above all others. Yours. That was what she'd come to realize this past year. He'd enslaved her, changed her entire focus to being with him. Like this.

Shouldn't have allowed the kiss.

But she'd had to know his taste—a dark, spicy drug. Had to know his touch—an electric current.

Had to immerse herself in the peat smoke and wildflowers. All dangerous. Had to have more. Had to let him please her. Had to force him if necessary. Just once. Then she would know. Then she would stop wondering, stop remembering the way he'd taught her to fight, his hands all over her but not where she needed them most. Then she could finally think straight, recall just how mad she should be with him for bonding them, making her feel this way, and finally demand the answers he'd never given her.

Nothing else had helped. In the last year, she'd gotten her own place, started teaching others self-defense, and trained with a vengeance herself. But always she thought of this man, wondered what he was doing, whom he was with.

If he'd turned those violet eyes on another woman, Rose would killher.

A thought she'd had before, and one that scared her. Because she meant it.

She was too obsessed with him. She knew it, hated it, and had tried to prove to herself that she could live without him. That this man who liked to threaten her, but only ever protected her, wasn't the only reason she lived.

Only one more week; that was all she'd had left to wait. But then she'd thought, How wonderful to catch him unaware . To see him outside the tent, if at all possible. To see him interact with other people—and warn away any women who thought to win him. Mistake. He'd stridden from that platform, black hair in disarray, eyes bright with welcome and longing, biceps hugged by soft white fabric, cock practically on display in fawn-colored pants.

To hell with yours. She'd thought, Mine.

"Someone could see," he said roughly. His lips moved to the base of her neck, and he licked and sucked at her pulse. "You've been warned. Now you'll be allowed no quarter."

"You're a king." What, exactly, did that mean here? The same as in her world? Not that she would ever obey him. "Make them go away."

He uttered a rasping chuckle. "What my queen wants . . ."

They'd switched to English, she realized, as he kicked her legs apart. Unprepared for the action, she could only fall. Until he inserted his hips between her thighs and her core rubbed against his erection. A needy gasp escaped her. She closed her eyes and clutched at his shoulders, nails sinking deep.

"Again," she demanded.

He pushed against her. Another gasp. Hers, his, she didn't know anymore.

He plumped her breasts. "I want to see them. Show them to me."

Maybe she would obey him just this once. Too hungry, too achy to be shy or modest, she ripped her shirt over her head and dropped the cotton to the floor. The black lace bra latched in front, so she snagged her finger in the center and tugged.

A low, base curse filled the heated air between them. He stared, just stared while she panted, trembled.

"Mine." His pupils expanded until black overshadowed violet. He bared his teeth, feral just then.

Losing control. "These are mine." He squeezed, hard. "Mine."

Thank God. She remembered how much she'd liked Hoyt's gentle caresses. Silly girl. So far Vasili had been anything but gentle, and she'd never been gladder. "You like to prove things.

Prove it."

As he squeezed, she rolled her hips forward, once again sliding against his thigh. Yes! The pressure that had been building since their first meeting expanded, drawing her taut, like a rubber band ready to break.

"Taste."

His head swooped down, his tongue flicking out, back and forth, before his teeth nibbled. There was a sharp sting. She moaned. More.

Had to have more. Two years, damn him. Two years she'd lived without this, hungry, sensitive, dreaming of him at night, fantasizing about him during the day. So many times she'd almost come to him. Once, while pleasuring herself in bed, not that her own hand ever brought her relief, she thought she had. She'd cried his name, his image in her mind, and in the next instant, she'd thought she spied him sleeping next to her, but she'd panicked and rolled away, only to fall onto her floor.

Now she was here. She was with him, and he was still cupping her breasts, his finger toying with her nipples in between bites. More.

"Had I known these awaited me, I never would have resisted you this long."

"Sweet words later." She jerked him forward, meshing their mouths, feeding him a kiss, her soul—whatever he wanted he could have.

Their tongues thrust together in a fight for dominance. Their teeth scraped. She swallowed his breath, desperate to have any part of him inside her. All the while she writhed against him, trying to pump herself to orgasm, so when he moved back, preventing her from touching him that way, she bit his bottom lip in a fury.

"More."

"Yes." His fingers ripped at her darkened jeans, popping the button, almost breaking the zipper, revealing black lace panties. He didn't pause to look. Just sank his hand inside. Warm skin on wet flesh, past her small thatch of curls and—

"Yes !" There.

One finger pushed deep while the heel of his hand pressed against her clitoris. She should do something for him, touch him like he was touching her, reach into his pants and fist his cock, but as he inserted a second finger, her thoughts fragmented. More. A third finger. More! ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">