Ever Night (3 page)

“A moment of insanity, that's all. And yes, we are. But really, I suffer only as long as you're alive.”

She raised her chin. “You don't scare me, Vasili.”
Much.

“Don't I?” He closed some of the distance between them. “Let's see if I can change that.”

Steady.

More of the distance was swallowed by his steps. When their toes touched, when she could once again smell the peat smoke, the corners of his lips twitched as if her refusal to run amused him. She didn't mean to, but she breathed deeply, savoring, wanting so badly to arch into him. Why had she let him come? Why hadn't she pulled a knife?

“We're going to spar, you and I, whether you wish to or not, so I can judge your skill. But how about this? Every time you strike me, I'll answer a question.”

She gulped. The one thing she couldn't resist: information. “No threats of endless pain to get what you want?” Of course, he could be lying, meaning to attack to kill, as he'd implied, and not merely to judge.

“Not this time.”

She didn't trust him, but she said, “All right,” and meant it. And her capitulation had nothing to do with a raging desire to put her hands on him and have his hands on her. If necessary, she would
force
the information out of him. “Just to be clear, I can ask any question I want?”

“Absolutely any.”

“And you'll answer honestly?”

“I always do.”

“Even if I ask how to divorce you? And live?”

He pretended to wipe away a tear. “That hurts, darling. It really does.”

“That's only the—”

She never saw him move, but he managed to kick her feet out from under her while shoving her down. On impact, her brain rattled against her skull, and she choked on that delicious breath she'd just taken.

No time to react. He pounced while she was prone, pinning her shoulders with his knees and her stomach with his ass.
I shouldn't like this.
Yet her body sighed in contentment, as if this was what it had craved the past year.

“First order of business. Disarming.” Five seconds flat, he had every single one of her weapons thrown to the side. Would have been two seconds, but he studied the syringe before chucking it over his shoulder. “Bring a machine gun next time, darling. They pack more of a punch.”

Terror should have filled her, but anger did instead. Mocking bastard. At least he didn't go for the kill shot. And how did he know so much about her world? Had he been born there? If so, did that mean he was a Walker, too?

“Second order. Distraction.” He waited, peering at her expectantly. When she remained silent, he sighed. “Darling, this is the part where you apologize for being so distracted during my brilliant tutorial.”

She flashed her teeth in a snarl. “No, this is the part where I—”
Smash your nose into your brain,
she thought as she jabbed the heel of her open palm toward his smirking—kissable—face. Wouldn't do to warn him.

Just before contact, he rolled out of the way. Suddenly she could breathe. She found herself gasping, sucking in mouthful after mouthful of air, shocked that she'd gone so long without it and hadn't suspected.

“Third order. Fighting past the pain. You're just lying there, daring me to attack while you're vulnerable. Were you anyone else, I would. Up.”

With stars winking behind her eyes, she pushed to her feet and faced him. “You rotten piece of—”

His laughter was the only warning she had. In the next instant, he was on her, once more shoving her down. This time, he didn't pause and explain his actions. He simply taught her the consequences of daring someone to attack. For hours. She grunted, she groaned, she ached—a far different kind of ache—and she bled. Oh, did she bleed.

A few times, she thought he even broke her bones.

That didn't stop or slow him. He really was determined to kill her, she supposed. That didn't stop or slow her, either. Every time he knocked her down, she got up. Every time he cut her, she wiped the blood on her shirt and smiled. After her second smile, the instructions began. In English at first, and then in his language. She shouldn't have understood him, but as he translated his meaning, she began to learn far more easily than should have been possible. As if the language had always been stored in her brain, and she just hadn't unlocked it yet.

Vasili told her what she was doing wrong and what she needed to do to improve. Again, for hours. An eternity. But not once did she strike him.

“Stay down, damn you,” he finally snarled after tossing her to her ass again. “Stay down, and the pain ends. You've had enough.”

Never. Rose lumbered to her throbbing feet. Her eyes were swollen, her line of vision shit, but she waved her fingers at him. “Come on,” she said haltingly, the harsh words of the new language weird on her tongue. She would
not
give up, and she
would
have her curiosity assuaged.

For a long while, he remained in place, a few feet away, panting, studying her. Then he tangled a hand through his hair, disrupting the dark locks and sending them falling over his forehead. “Stubborn little baggage, aren't you?”

“What? Too sweet to take me?”

His lips twitched again, and her heart raced. No one should be that handsome. Especially a man who had just kicked her ass. Although, in his defense, he'd never struck her in anger. Every move he'd made had been designed to teach her.

“Darling, you just asked me if I was too sweet to take you.”

As her cheeks heated, she switched to English. “You know what I meant. Too
tired
to fight me.”

He laughed outright, then frowned, as if the laugh angered him. “One question,” he said flatly. “You can ask me one question.”

Not enough, she wanted to scream. One wasn't enough. She wanted to know about this world—what he called it, what the monsters were, why those monsters deferred to him. She wanted to know what else Vasili knew about her origins, what he planned to do with her, why he'd bonded them. She wanted to know how he'd controlled her body that first time and why he hadn't this time. She wanted to know . . . what he thought of her, if he liked her. Who he was.
What
he was.

“Hurry. Before I change my mind.” Disgust layered his tone, as if he couldn't believe he'd even made the offer in the first place. “You don't deserve it, after all, and I have never—”

“How—how do I come here at will?” The words left her mouth before she could snatch them back. She never wanted to come here again. Even on her next birthday.
Damn, damn, damn.
Of all the stupid things to ask! But to her knowledge, no one else could do so. They traveled only on their birthdays.

He spun away from her—but not before she saw the flicker of surprise in those magnificent violet eyes. He strode out of the tent, leaving her standing, stunned, and unsure. Should she follow him? Should she— He stomped back inside, holding two glasses of that amber liquid.

His hair was wetter, his clothes plastered to him. He demolished the distance between them, steps clipped, his expression blank. “Why do you want to know how to return?”

“I don't have to answer that.” Besides, she didn't have an answer. “Explaining the reasons for my questions wasn't part of the deal.”

A pause. Then, “When you want to return, say my name, the vows we spoke to each other. Picture me. Your body will find me.” He held out a glass. “Drink.”

She shook her head and twined her swollen fingers behind her back, and oh, that hurt. “No way. I'd rather fight you again than let you drug me.”

“I hurt you; I'll make it better.”

“And your liquor can heal me?” she asked dryly. “Rather than make me pass out?”

“Yes.” Perfectly serious.

Was that why he'd been drinking it earlier? Had someone hurt him? That blood on his pants . . . Her stomach clenched. In fear? At the thought of this man injured? What was wrong with her?

Angry—with him, with herself—she claimed the glass and drank. Unlike the red wine/blood of last time, this went down smooth and warm, little butterflies taking flight inside her and spreading fairy dust. “If you poisoned me, I'll . . .” Within seconds, cuts wove back together, bones realigned, and the threat died on her lips.

“There's my pretty girl,” he said, and if she wasn't mistaken, there was affection in his tone.

Affection? No way. Her imagination, surely. Not once had he copped a feel or tried to kiss her.
The bastard.

Yes, something was definitely wrong with her.

“Rose, darling. You should know that next time, if you don't have the answers I want, I'm going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed. I'm going to make you bleed and beg for mercy I don't have. So I'd be careful about visiting unannounced, if I were you.”

Vasili remained in his war tent a long while after Rose disappeared. Twelve hours. That was as long as a resisting Walker remained before their world sucked them back—unless they were bonded to someone here and returned on their own. Then
they
could decide how long to stay. Would Rose dare?

He breathed deeply. The scent of her lingered. Roses, like her name. Dewy, uncut. Unexpected.

Beautiful female.
Foolish
female. She had no idea of the danger she was in.

She should have died a spy's death that first night here, for that was what his army had assumed she was. A spy from one of the three kingdoms surrounding his. And as protective as they were of him, spies
suffered.
But Vasili had been in camp and they'd given the honor of killing her to him. One look, though, and he'd known. Not a spy. A Dimension Walker.

Had his men realized the truth, a spy's death would have felt like foreplay to her. But unlike Vasili, they hadn't spent most of their life hunting Walkers. Slaughtering them. Most Walkers were male, and that was what his people expected, but every so often, a female came. Rose had been far too timid to be a spy, and he'd recognized that wild, confused look in her eyes. Many a Walker had died by his sword wearing that same expression.

Foolish
man.
He should have killed Rose himself. Anyone else would have.

Walkers were born in her world, but bonded at least one day a year to this one, just as he'd told her. Why, he didn't know. What he did know: Walkers were the only ones capable of moving between the light—her world—and the dark—his.

Decades ago, his people had welcomed them. Given them food and shelter, protection. They had been taken to the royal palace, questioned by the king himself, for the king had hoped to find a way for his people to travel into the light. But though many Walkers had mated and decided to stay here, they'd never gotten over their fear of the Monstrea, the “monsters,” and decided to destroy them.

Thus began the process of the Walkers finding one another, building their army, planning the perfect way to strike and cut down the royal family.
Vasili's
family. As a boy, he'd watched his father, mother, all three of his sisters, and one of his brothers fall to guns and grenades. He and Jasha, his youngest brother, had barely escaped alive.

The Walkers would have gotten away with their crimes, never to be punished, but like Rose, they had to return at least once a year. Though Vasili had been crowned king of the Northern Realm immediately after his father's death, he'd spent most of his time hunting—and slaying—Walkers rather than leading his people.

And even though he'd already punished the ones who'd taken his family from him, others still came. Others he hunted. They'd learned how to hide, and hide well, but he always found them. Or so he'd thought.

Rose might not have hurt his family, but she was one of them. And if she was to be believed, she had found Walkers he had not. What if they did as before? What if they worked together to destroy him?

Yes, he should have killed her. But at that first meeting, he'd thought,
I can use her to learn about the ones I cannot find.
He could learn how many were out there, where they traveled, when they traveled, their strengths, their weaknesses. Yet at this second meeting, she'd given him nothing. And
still
he hadn't hurt her.

And he looked forward to their third meeting, not to learn from her but to see her.

“I'm more than a fool,” he muttered.

He'd had his men prepare this tent in the woods surrounding his palace. On his way here, he'd been ambushed. A fight had broken out—damn King Greer and the Eastern Realm—and he almost hadn't reached the tent in time. Rose would have appeared wherever he was, out in the open and in front of his men. There would have been no denying her origins then.

She would have been put to death, and his questions wouldn't have been answered. Questions he'd had no business entertaining. Like, how had time changed her? Like, how would she react to him? Like, what would she say to him?

Like, would those liquid silver eyes of hers sparkle as her temper flared?

Time had indeed changed her, adding more curves to that slender body. She'd lashed out at him, dared him, defied him, and yes, those eyes had sparkled.

His neglected body had reacted. He'd wanted to touch and to taste.
Too young,
he'd had to remind himself. Over and over again. That hadn't stopped his mind from screaming,
Mine.
A hazard of the bonding, he knew, and not of a particular woman's appeal. Though she was. Appealing. God, was she appealing. She'd been soft under his hands, her height making her a perfect fit to the hard line of his body.

Would she have welcomed a kiss?

He was thankful he hadn't found out. Sex with a Walker—he would never live it down.

Should have killed her,
he thought again. Instead, he'd tested her strength, her endurance, her combat skills. He'd even
instructed
her on how to be better, wondering how
her
people would react to her origins if they ever found out. Thinking he wouldn't be there to protect her. Thinking if she ever decided to live here, she had to be prepared for
his
people.

What was wrong with him? Live here? She
couldn't
live here. His people hated her kind. And if Jasha ever found out . . . Vasili sighed. There'd be no living that down, either. Worse, his brother's disappointment and hurt would slay him.

As if his thoughts had summoned his brother, the tent flap rose, and Jasha strode inside. His right-hand man, Grigori, trailed behind. Both were dressed in the clothes of a warrior. Leather breastplates, pants, and dusters. Boots with daggers in the toes. Both men were dripping wet.

Jasha was a less . . . hardened version of Vasili. Wavy black hair cut haphazardly, violet eyes, tall, muscled. Though his first instinct wasn't always to kill—as Vasili's was—he was no less skilled with a sword. And no less savage when riled. Vasili had made sure of that. He loved his brother more than anyone or anything, and had wanted the boy well able to care for himself. He'd trained his brother exactly as he'd trained Rose: without mercy.

“There you are,” Jasha said with a grin. He spoke in Drakish, their language, and Vasili made a mental note to do the same. No more of Rose's English for him. “Are we interrupting something?”

Clearly, he'd been hoping to do so. “Not at all,” Vasili offered casually.

His brother's expression fell. “We heard female grunts and groans. Which means that after a yearlong abstinence, our king has finally shown interest in a woman. Who is she? More important, where is she?”

“Long gone,” he answered truthfully. And was that . . . displeasure in his tone? That she
hadn't
stayed?

Well, he hadn't wanted her to stay. After he'd so stupidly told her how to return to him at will
—after
going to such lengths to keep her out of the palace and hidden—all he'd wanted was her absence. No question.

His hands fisted. What would he do if she appeared in front of his brother? What would he do if she appeared during a battle?
Stupid, stupid, stupid,
he thought again. He'd known it then, yet still he'd told her.

And now he wondered if she would visit before her next birthday. If they'd spar and tease and touch . . .

Blood . . . heating . . .

“You should be embarrassed to have finished so quickly.” The picture of a confident male, Grigori crossed his arms over his chest. “Had I been here, she would still be shouting my name.”

Twelve hours was finishing quickly? What the hell did Grigori do with his women? Like half the beings in this world, Grigori was of the Monstrea. He possessed sharp, poisoned horns along his hairless skull, black-diamond skin, claws, fangs, and glowing red eyes.

The other three kingdoms considered the Monstrea to be nothing more than expendable soldiers. Slaves. Unworthy. Vasili did not and never had. He respected strength and loyalty, and that was what he got with the Monstrea.

“You wear them out, so they never want to come back for more,” Vasili told his favorite warrior. “Mine
always
come back.” Not that he welcomed them. When he was done, he was
done.

He should take Rose and finally be done with her.

“I just wish I could make
one
come,” Jasha muttered. His cheeks reddened when he realized what he'd admitted.

Vasili slapped his brother on the shoulder. His easier manner should have brought him favor with the ladies of their kingdom. Not so. Well, not anymore. Jasha was shy and bumbling around the fairer sex, and always had been.

At first, when he'd reached maturity, they'd wanted him feverishly and had thrown themselves at him. He'd had difficulty speaking to them, had sweated uncontrollably, and hadn't looked anywhere but at his feet. They'd teased him, which had only made his shyness worse. Now he avoided them.

“You can have any woman you want. You just have to stop running from them. They only bite if you ask them nicely.”

Grigori laughed.

“What's her name?” Jasha asked, refusing to be baited. “The one you were with today?”

He saw no harm in answering. “Rose.”

“Rose?” His brother choked on a gurgling laugh of his own.
“Rose?”

“What? It's a fine name,” he growled, unsure why currents of fury blew through him. Rose was the enemy. Anyone could make fun of her. Especially his brother.

“Yes, but
Rose?
Like the tattoo you had inked into your arm last year?”

His jaw clenched so painfully he feared the bone would snap. “No. Not like that,” he managed, the words so raw they sounded as if they'd been pushed through a meat grinder. “Not like that at all.”

He didn't know why he'd gotten the tattoo. He hadn't wanted to analyze the desire then, and he didn't want to analyze the desire now. He knew only that when he looked at the night rose, he wanted to smile.

“You've known her all this time?” Grigori tsked, just as Vasili liked to do to Rose. Surely
he
wasn't that irritating. “And yet you never breathed a word about her.”

“He must have feared one of us would steal her away,” Jasha said with a mystery-solved nod.

Before Vasili could form a reply, not that he knew what to say, they turned to each other, cutting him from the conversation.

“No wonder he raced from the warm, dry palace to get here. He missed his woman,” Grigori said, then cooed mockingly. “The poor baby.”

Jasha stroked his stubbled chin with two fingers. “She must be hideous if he feels he must hide her away like this. Or perhaps she's too precious for our
poor baby
to share.”

Vasili felt privileged. No one else ever saw them like this, relaxed and teasing. To the rest of the world, Grigori was a snarling beast, too savage to handle, and Jasha was quiet and withdrawn. They saved their charm for him, as if he were special to them, and he was glad. They were the most important part of his life. Therefore, he didn't mind their teasing. Much.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asked, inserting himself back into their chatter.

They chortled.

“We must find him someone new,” Grigori continued to Jasha. “This one obviously didn't work him from his yearlong temper.”

More stroking of that chin. “We've tried, placing female after female in front of him. He sends them away in tears.”

“I asked you a question,” he said on a sigh.

And still they continued.

“Perhaps we should ask around,” Jasha said. “Find out what others know about this Rose. Where she lives, why she leaves her man in a bad mood.”

Grigori massaged the back of his neck. “And we should instruct her on the proper way to treat a king. I do my best instructing naked.”

Oh, no, no, no.
He couldn't have them asking others about her. And he couldn't even contemplate Rose and Grigori in bed. Not without foaming at the mouth. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

Finally. They focused on him. To his irritation, both flashed him unrepentant grins.

“We heard of the ambush,” his brother said, slapping
him
on the back now. “We came to offer you our aid.”

“As if I can't handle a few enemy soldiers on my own.” Greer, the king of the neighboring realm, wanted possession of Vasili's, and constantly struck at random times, in random ways, before scattering with the wind. “I sent the men back to their leader. Minus their heads.”

“Perhaps that's why he failed to satisfy his Rose,” Grigori said to Jasha. “She was too frightened of him to enjoy him.”

“Surely not. That would mean she rejected him, and my brother will be the first to tell you how irresistible he is.”

Enough.
“Let's return to the palace. I'm in need of dinner and a bath.” And a woman, damn his always aching body, but he couldn't have one of those. Unless Rose returned.

Too young, damn it!
She'd lived nineteen years. He'd lived thirty-three. Until twelve months ago, she'd been his fearful little mouse. He'd been a lion his entire life.

Part of him wished he could have followed her to her world, though, where he could have her without (much) worry. No one to disturb them, no one to threaten her, no painful past to remember. He hated that part of himself. This was his home. He wouldn't leave for any reason.

“Look at you. So serious all of a sudden,” Jasha said. “You're right, Vash. It's time to return to the palace and feed you. I want my impious, pain-in-the-ass brother back.”

He snorted, but allowed the men to lead him outside, puddles splashing at his feet. As the rain continued to pour from the darkened sky, he mounted his horse. Many Monstrea and human guards waited nearby, acting as his protection as he'd ordered, ensuring that no one entered—or left—his tent without his permission. Except for Jasha and Grigori. They always did what they wanted.