He stood near the window but turned at the noise. His expression darkened into something more like anger than the fear she’d expected. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She jerked back in surprise. “You’ve been waiting for me?”
He shrugged and turned away, his gaze directed into the growing twilight. “I must be dealt with. After all, I ran from you.”
This was not how she’d imagined this going. “Yes, of course, that is not something that can be swept under the rug.”
He said nothing, just continued to stare outside.
“It’s well within my rights to have you punished.”
Still nothing. The anger she’d shoved down pressed against her spine along with the surging desire to feed.
“I could have you whipped.” She formed her metal hand into a tapered length of chain.
He shifted to lean against the window frame. Her flesh hand fisted at his insolence. She relaxed it and took a few steps closer, dragging the metal whip over the floor. The succulent perfume of his blood teased the edges of her good sense.
“Or beaten.”
At last he moved, turning his head just enough to make eye contact. He exhaled with what could only be exasperation. “Or you could sell me or trade me for another or return me to the Primoris Domus and have the blood rights repaid. Which will it be? I don’t need a litany of possibilities, just the decision.”
She stared, frozen by the hot rush of rage building inside her.
He shoved away from the window and came toward her, suddenly twice the size she remembered him being. “Did you expect me to cower? To plead for your forgiveness? To beg to be returned to your good graces and the life I used to have with you?” He snorted. “I’m not Saraphina.”
His insolence was too much. She snapped her hand forward, the chain hissing through the air. It caught him around the neck. She yanked hard, bringing him to his knees. He clawed at the chain around his throat as she stalked forward. “How dare you—”
“How dare I,” he gurgled the words out. “Because you are a contemptible patron. A comar would have to be insane to want to serve you.”
She raised her good hand to strike him just as the door opened.
Octavian stuck his head in. “Forgive me for interrupting, but Lilith is crying. She wants you.”
Tatiana almost forgot the impudent comar at her feet. She morphed the whip back into a hand. Damian sagged to his knees. “Be grateful my child needs me or—”
“Grateful for what? For being treated as your chew toy?”
She struck so fast, her hand was a flash of silver light. He fell onto his side, blood trickling from where she’d split his lip. Her stomach knotted in appetite. She grabbed him by his shirtfront and pulled him up until only a narrow slice of blood-scented air separated them. “I paid your blood rights and that means I own you.”
Without turning away, she spoke to Octavian. “Tell Oana to feed my child and I’ll be along shortly.”
“Oana says she isn’t hungry. I think you should—”
She snapped her head toward Octavian, her words little more than a growl. “Leave us.”
A short nod and he was gone.
She peered into Damian’s blue eyes, searching for a hint of regret or fear, but found nothing but contempt. Her anger spiraled higher. “Owning you means I can do with you whatever I please. And what I please right now is to feed.”
She fell on him, taking him to the ground in one rough stroke. Her fangs descended and she sank them into his neck. The ritual and pleasantries of drinking from his wrist no longer mattered. Not when he’d disrespected her so thoroughly.
She drank deeply and without care, bringing him to the ash-flavored cusp of death before allowing him to fall from her grasp. She rocked back on her heels and wiped the corners of her mouth.
“If the idea of begging for a return to your previous life here appeals to you, let me save you the effort. There is no chance for that.” She stood and brushed herself off. “You’ll be lucky if I let you live, you foolish cow.”
She kicked him in the ribs and, satisfied with the sharp crack of bone and his grunt of pain, marched out.
Her head swirled with questions and disbelief. What had possessed him to act that way? She stopped a few steps toward her quarters, cold shards of realization digging into her brain as her body came alive. She sucked in a breath. Not only had she completely forgotten about trying to get information from him about the comarré, but getting anything out of him now would take vast amounts of torture.
He had played her and she’d fallen for each line of his song like a lovesick gadje standing in the crowd, pining after the Roma fiddler. Fool. No, not a fool if she didn’t fall for it twice.
She tossed her head back. Perhaps the comar had won this round, but the next time they met, she would show him just how much pain his soft human body could endure. That would cure him of his games.
Smiling as the scene unfolded in her head, she went to care for her child. Someday, all this would belong to Lilith. Until that day, Tatiana would do whatever necessary to protect it for her.
When Lola heard who the first othernatural captured was, she knew Malkolm and Chrysabelle wouldn’t be far behind, especially since the comarré had been with the shifter. Now the pair stood across from her desk.
Creek’s plan had worked out brilliantly. Better than either of them had anticipated. Now she’d not only get to make an example of the varcolai, but she’d also get to punish the vampire for refusing her request. She just wouldn’t let him know she’d remembered what he’d done. Not yet.