Blurred Bloodlines [2nd in Blurred Trilogy] Page 25
His Master—no, Marc, damn it!—was in his armchair by the fire. Kate was curled up on his lap, asleep, her head tucked against the crook of his neck. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her close.
Part of Blake wanted to scream for her to wake up before Marc hurt her. Another part envied how peaceful she looked, and wanted to feel as safe as she obviously did. With a small shudder, he pushed himself back into motion and crossed the room to the French windows. He almost expected Marc to stop him before he opened the doors, but all Marc did was follow him with his eyes and whisper, “Blake? Are you OK? Do you want me to come out with you?"
Before he could remember he still didn't have a voice, Blake opened his mouth and tried to say “Yes.” When no sound came out, he turned back to Marc. Kate shifted a little in his arms, and Marc rubbed a hand against her arm, probably not even aware of what he was doing.
Blake shook his head and stepped outside. He sat down on the ground, head thrown back against the banister, eyes up to the open sky. His heart ached, and it had nothing to do with his claustrophobia anymore.
Marc's first duty was to his Childe.
He knew why Blake was on the patio. He had smelled the sourness in his scent as soon as he had walked into the living room. If Kate hadn't been there, Marc wanted to believe he wouldn't even have asked if Blake wanted him there, he wouldn't have hesitated for one second before joining him. Even now, after close to an hour had passed, he still wanted to go. He still needed to. His Childe needed him, and Marc should have been out there.
Instead, he was inside, cradling an emotionally exhausted young woman to his chest when he knew he should have sent her home hours ago.
Months earlier, when he had followed the call of the bloodline back to Blake, the pull had felt odd. Old. Older than Marc was. After that, with Blake's heartbeat making it so obvious that he wasn't fully a vampire, Marc hadn't paid much mind to the lingering feeling. But now it was back in full force.
Intellectually, he knew that Blake was his Childe, would always be his Childe. Nothing could change this simple fact: it had been his blood that had changed Blake, that had made him what and who he was today. But it didn't feel that way anymore. When two vampires were close to each other, they could get a basic sense of how old the other was. Once, long ago, younger vampires had owed the elders respect and obedience, although not to the degree reserved for their Sire. These days, it didn't mean anything anymore, and Marc rarely paid the familiar feeling any mind. It was impossible to ignore when it was linked to Blake, though.
It didn't help that, for weeks now, he had encouraged Blake to get what he wanted for himself, to be independent from Marc as much as possible. At the time, he had thought he was only trying to help Blake find his confidence again. Now, he wondered if he had felt the oddness even then and if it had affected his actions on a subconscious level.
He also wondered if he was holding on to Kate because he had missed her as much as she seemed to have missed them, or because having her there meant that he had an excuse not to go to Blake, an excuse not to figure out quite yet how he was supposed to act toward Blake—how Blake would act toward him.
And the fact that Marc was using Kate as an excuse felt like a betrayal toward both of them. He owed it to them and to himself to do better than that.
He woke Kate up a little while before sunrise with a gentle kiss to her temple and a whisper of her name. She stirred, a quiet, kittenish sound rising from her throat.
"Is it morning yet?” she mumbled, rubbing her cheek against his chest.
"It's almost sunrise,” he whispered. “You should go back to your hotel."
She stiffened at once in his arms. Raising her head, she frowned at him. “What?"
He brushed the hair out of her face and tried to smile at her. “I think Blake needs time to readjust to... everything. Maybe it'll be easier if—"
"If I'm not here?” she finished for him, her voice rising even as she stood from his lap. She crossed her arms over her chest, but she looked more cold than angry. “No. Not this time."
Marc raised a hand toward her, but she stepped back out of his reach. “Kate..."
"Not again, Marc.” She shook her head. “I let you convince me it'd be better for him if you took him away from Leawood. Even when I got here, I visited when he was asleep like you said so I wouldn't upset him. Maybe it'd all have been different if I'd stayed and he had seen we weren't the people from his nightmares. I'm not leaving now. Not unless he tells me he wants me gone."
Before Marc could say another word and show her that it was better that way, movement at the edge of the room caught his attention. Blake was by the French windows, clinging to the edge of one, as though it were the only thing holding him upright. The scent rising from him slammed into Marc like a punishing fist: fear. Blake was afraid. There was no doubt in Marc's mind that Kate's agitation had awakened unpleasant memories.
Noticing that Marc's attention had shifted, Kate turned to Blake and even took a couple steps toward him. “You want me to stay, don't you?” she said softly, a smile brightening her words. “Marc wants me to go, but if you want me here, I'll stay."
The hope in her voice, in contrast to Blake's fear, was heartbreaking, especially since she couldn't know how scared he was. When Blake reached out with a trembling hand, she reached back at once, taking his hand in hers. Marc's chest tightened. He wanted to reassure Blake, remind him that he wouldn't hurt Kate, that he never had, but the words refused to come out. He could only watch as Blake pulled Kate to him, leading her around the sofa and, to her dismay, to the door.
"Blake, you don't...” Wide, wet eyes turned to Marc, pleading. “He can't mean it like that,” she said. “He's just confused still and..."
Marc forced a small smile to his lips even though he hurt just as much as she did. “Just a few days, Kate. Give him time."
She left without another word.
Blake remained in front of the door for a long time, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to open the door again.
"I wouldn't hurt her,” Marc said at last. “You know that."
Blake turned to him and considered him for a long moment. In the end, he shook his head just once, and Marc could only wonder what he would need to do to convince Blake that Marc wasn't this Master—this monster—that lived in Blake's head.
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Chapter 26
The first day after Blake had sent Kate away—to safety, even if he knew she was safe here; he just hadn't been able to stop himself—Blake tried to keep away from Marc, remaining in his room except for an incursion into the kitchen to feed and into the living room to retrieve Seneca. The small room soon became oppressive, however, reminding him too much of his cell, and he had to escape it. To himself, he pretended that he was alone when he lounged on the sofa, refusing to hear Marc's infrequent words.
Something changed that evening.
While Blake was alone in the living room, he heard Marc's quiet grumbling in the kitchen about the mess he had left there once again, the empty container abandoned on the countertop, traces of dried blood inside the microwave oven and on the table, dirty mug left by the sink. Blake shuddered, part of him expecting punishment, but despite his complaining, Marc didn't even say a word about it directly to Blake.
When he fed again later that night, his first instinct was to be neat about it, but he changed his mind and made a mess on purpose. He waited in the living room for Marc to notice, waited for the punishment that, surely, wouldn't fail to fall this time. All he received was a glare.
In the next couple of days, it became a game, and the goal was for Blake to prove to himself that whatever he did, he was safe, that Marc wasn't going to raise a hand against him, wasn't going to beat him, torture him, wasn't even going to shout at him.
He scattered Marc's books around the house, leaving them on the dirty kitchen counter or on the table, even leaving one on the patio overnight where the morning dew warped the pages
and cover. He left his clothes, wet towels, and dirty mugs on the floor. He even tore pages from the notebook he had used to communicate and left confetti-sizes bits of paper like trails behind him from room to room. But as good as Blake was at this game, there were only so many things he could do around the small house. And after Blake had flooded the bathroom four times, Marc barely even rolled his eyes about it anymore. It was time to up the ante.
Finding out how to get a real rise out of Marc didn't take long when Blake set his mind to it, and once he started thinking about it, his body responded right away. The one thing that had made Marc angrier than anything else, during the past months, had been Blake's refusal—his inability, really—to do anything about dealing with his own arousal.
Marc was in the kitchen when Blake stepped out of his clothes. As he knelt on the living room floor, his hand inched toward his half-hard cock—a few strokes, nothing more, only to be completely erect when Marc noticed him—but he couldn't manage to complete the gesture. Without any further thought, he curled both fists on his thighs, spread his legs a little more, bowed his head just enough that he could still look up through his eyelashes. And he waited. He knew it wouldn't be long before Marc picked up his scent; it wouldn't be long before—
Blake had been on the ground for hours, and his legs hurt, the slight pinpricks of needles having long since been replaced by outright pain. He didn't dare move, though. Not a toe, not a finger. Especially not a finger. The last time he had dared do that, his Master had come into the cell with that nasty grin that never announced anything good and two minions on his heels. They were fledglings, weaklings, and Blake in his normal state would have been able to tear their heads off with one hand, yet he hadn't been able to do a thing when they had shackled him to the harness. Then his Master had snapped the cock ring on him, and it had been days—weeks?—before he had been allowed to come. So no, Blake wasn't going to move a finger. Not even if—
Blake blinked, and for a second he wasn't sure who was in front of him. His Master? Marc? It had to be Marc. They were in his house. Safe. Completely safe. Safe as long as Blake didn't move, as long as he didn't do anything against the rules. It might have been easier if the rules hadn't changed so often. And he had a feeling that he might have broken one right then, because his Master was looking at him through eyes that burned like fire.
"Is that your new attempt at pissing me off?” he snarled. “You can't be that stupid. Oh, wait, it's you. Of course you are that stupid. Anything to rile me up. As always."
"Stupid, stupid boy,” his Master sighed, and Blake felt a shudder run through him as he lowered his head even more. “It's not that complicated, is it? I give you an order, and you follow it."
Blake didn't move, except for the tremors that had started to shake his body. He couldn't do it. Anything but that. He preferred to die rather than to follow that order, although he doubted that it would end so easily.
"Still not obeying, slave?"
His Master's voice was ice now, contempt filling it to the brim. Blake didn't look up, but he dared a word, knowing already that it wouldn't help, but wishing so very hard that maybe, just this once, it would.
"Please."
His Master laughed; the next thing Blake knew, a booted foot kicked him in the ribs and sent him forward, down on all fours, inches from the immobile form on the floor. Kate wasn't dead, not yet; he knew it because tears were rolling from her eyes as she blinked. But she would be soon, the gash on her neck would make sure of that, and she, at least for a while, would escape their Master.
"If you won't follow an order, here's a choice,” came the amused voice behind him. Blake couldn't tear his eyes off her, couldn't think of anything else than to tell her he was sorry for causing this to happen again, but he heard his Master's words loud and clear. “Either you feed from her now, or you don't feed for the next year."
"Guess what, Blake. You got your wish. You've reached my limits, good and proper. Congratulations."
Something inside Blake shouted that this was wrong, so very wrong, this wasn't what was supposed to happen. Marc should be flustered, he should be annoyed, he should be ranting at Blake for playing games.
He shouldn't be unbuttoning his shirt. Shouldn't be ordering Blake to get up, walk to his bedroom, and get on the bed on his hands and knees.
And Blake definitely shouldn't be obeying.
Before Simon's spell, when Kate had believed that Blake thought she was his tormentor, staying away from him and Marc had been difficult, but she had managed to convince herself, at least for a time, that it was for the best. Now, though, she didn't have that excuse to cling to anymore. All she had was the knowledge that Blake was better, that he wanted to keep her safe—and that he had asked her to leave.
She thought about it for two days, turned the scene over in her head like she sometimes had with fights, searching for the flaw in her actions, for the one point that could have given her a different outcome. A better outcome. She just couldn't find it.
She was lying on her bed the second day, arms crossed behind her head and her eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling, when a knock on her door gave her hope. She was already standing when she realized it couldn't be either of them: the sun was still up.
Instead, it was Daniel that she found on her doorstep and invited in. She hadn't even closed the door yet that he was blurting out, “The squad wants us back."
Kate sat on the edge of her bed, her legs folded beneath her, and looked up at him. He was practically beaming. She had rarely seen him so happy; the last time must have been when the realization that they had closed their first breach had finally sunk in.
"They called you?” she asked.
Shaking his head, Daniel started pacing through the small room. “I did, actually. I wanted to know if there's a known breach anywhere close. They don't know of one, but they said they'd been trying to find us. They want us back. If we leave tonight we can rendezvous with a group by tomorrow night."
Kate followed him with her eyes for a moment, watching him rub his hands together. She understood the eagerness in his voice quite well. She also missed the fight, missed knowing she was helping make the world more secure. But she missed the men she loved more.
"Simon is OK with that, then?"
Daniel nodded. “Yes. I convinced him he's already done all he can here, but there's a lot he can do still for the squad. We've got other mages, but he was always the best."
Kate couldn't help but wonder just how much convincing Daniel had needed to do. Simon had seemed fine with their stay in Riverton. The quiet town certainly suited him better than the excitement—and fear—of the fight.
"And you think you'll be all right?” she asked, and Daniel slowly came to a stop and turned a blank look toward her. “I mean, are you going to be feeding right?"
Daniel's mouth was a tight, thin line. “I guess you'll have to keep badgering me."
Kate blinked and sat up straighter. “Wait. I'm not coming."
"Why not?” Daniel crossed his arms and tilted his head to one side as he observed her. “Blake has been better for almost three days, and here you are, locked up in your room, just waiting. But waiting for what?"
Her brow pulled in a tight frown, Kate shook her head. “He just needs a few more days,” she murmured, looking down at the floor. “And then..."
Crouching in front of her, Daniel rested a hand on her knee. “And then what?” he asked gently. “We've been here for how long, and how much time have you spent with them? How much time has Marc allowed you to spend with them? How much time are you going to need to realize it's over?"
Kate's heart tightened painfully. She wished she could tell Daniel he was wrong, but the truth was, she wasn't sure that he was.
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Chapter 27
"I've controlled myself the best I could for months,” Marc grunted as he entered Blake's room, talking more to himself than to the other vampire while he shrugged out of his shirt
. “And God knows you didn't make things easy, offering yourself as you did. But it wasn't you, not all of you in that thick skull, so I kept it nice even when it killed me. But you, taunting me like this? It's beyond cruelty, Blake. And you'll only get what you deserve. You can pretend to be afraid all you want now, you're not fooling—"
Marc froze, one step away from the bed, when it dawned on him that Blake wasn't pretending anymore.
He was on his hands and knees, as he had been told, head bowed and eyes scrunched tight. His cock was still hard, flush against his stomach. He was shaking, which Marc first thought was nothing more than an addition to an already elaborate act. But one thing had been missing earlier: the pure terror in his scent that Marc had become so familiar with. It now permeated the room, and that could not be faked.
"Damn it, Blake,” Marc sighed. “It's not just my limits you found, is it?"
Blake shuddered violently when Marc rested a hand on his shoulder, but he allowed himself to be pushed to the side as Marc said soothingly: “Lie down now. I'm not going to hurt you. You know I'm not, even if you're an idiot. Don't you?"
In answer, Blake opened his eyes and slowly curled his body into a fetal position. He was still trembling, and Marc mindlessly tugged at the blanket to cover him.
"I'm not him, Blake. I don't know what I have to do to prove that to you. But you can't expect me to let you play with me as you've been doing. When you've calmed down, we'll talk. Get some sleep. It'll be better when you wake up."
Blake didn't move, except for an almost imperceptible flinch when Marc reached to push a strand of hair out of his eyes. Barely containing his anger at seeing Blake back to the quivering form he had been months earlier, Marc picked up his shirt and walked out of the room. He made sure to leave the door open; the last thing he wanted now was to add an attack of claustrophobia to Blake's already-shaken mind. He wished he could have closed it, though, and left behind the realization that they were not one step closer to seeing Blake healed than they had been when he had first walked into that small room and Blake had thrown himself at his feet.