“You got me,” he whispered back, like a promise.
He put his arms around her and held her close while he turned and put his back to the tree. Sank down so he was sitting in the grass at its base, Trina on his lap, straddling his hips.
He pressed gentle, sucking kisses to her jaw, and throat, and along her collarbones when he tugged her shirt to the side. Until heat gathered like a weight low in her belly, and she was rocking against him, teasing herself against the hard line of his erection through both their jeans.
Getting her jeans and underwear off was awkward, her movements drugged and clumsy. Lanny tried to help, and chuckled when she accidently elbowed him in the face.
“Oh, are you alright?”
“Pretty sure I’ll live,” he said with a laugh, and pulled her in close, closer, his hands warm and heavy on her hips. “Hey, come here.”
One hand slid in, along the join of hip and thigh, calluses on his fingertips sending goosebumps racing across her skin when he touched her inner thigh.
She tried to kiss him again – and it turned to a gasp instead, lips hovering above his, when his hand went right there. Fingers teasing against her damp folds, teasing them apart.
That had been the big surprise the first time – the only time – they did this. A part of her – a disappointed part – had always worried that Lanny would be the sort of guy who pawed at a woman down there. Clumsy, inexpert, just a lot of wild groping while he asked her how good it felt.
Instead he was almost delicate. Exacting.
He worked her with his fingers until she was riding them, chasing for more, panting. “Attagirl,” he murmured against her temple, and kissed her there.
She shivered all the way down to her toes and reached with shaking, clumsy hands for his belt.
He hissed when she wrapped her hand around his cock.
“Hey, do you think vampires can get humans pregnant?” she asked.
His voice was tight, strained, hips lifting as he sought friction. “Like…I don’t think? I dunno. Nik said it…shit…wasn’t likely.”
She froze. “You asked him?”
“Well, yeah!” Even in the shadows, she could see that his jaw was clenched, his gaze desperate.
She had to bite back a sudden giggle.
“You’re mean,” he protested.
“I know.” She guided him to her entrance and sank down slow.
She rode him, hands braced on his shoulders, denim of his opened jeans rough on the insides of her thighs. His hands skimmed, restless, across her ass, and hips; down her thighs, and then up under her shirt, over her waist. Small, almost-pained sounds built in his throat, little growls and grunts, and he lifted his hips, chasing her when she pulled off, back bowing when she slid back down.
It wasn’t the rough, frantic fucking she’d expected when he first touched her in the shifting shadows, but something more real and imperfect. And because of that, it was better.
For a little while, for a few minutes, they didn’t have to be cops, or crusaders, or humans or vampires. They could just be themselves; friends and lovers. A stolen moment.
When he reeled her in for a kiss, and called her baby, she resolved to steal a whole lot more. All that she could.
*
The others were still at the picnic table when they walked back, smoking. Nikita sent them an unreadable glance, and Jamie blushed a little, but no one commented on what they’d so obviously been doing.
Trina blinked when she realized a pale-haired figure in velvet waited at the end of their table. “Val.”
“Having a public tryst? How classy,” he said, dry and faintly amused.
“How long’s he been here?” she asked Nikita.
Val made an affronted noise. “I’m right here, you could ask me yourself.”
“A few minutes,” Nikita said, shrugging. “He says it’s important.”
“It is,” Val huffed. “It’s a trap.”
“What’s a trap?” Trina asked.
“It–” He flickered. Jumped and skipped like a TV with rabbit ears, and his voice cut out. His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. And then he froze. And then was gone.
The warm, gooey, post-sex flush drained out of her in a heartbeat. “Val?”
Jamie got up and swiped a hand through the space where his projection had stood. Nothing.
“Val?”
But he was gone.
37
The Ingraham Institute
Subbasement Two
Val returned to himself to the sound of growling. Two different kinds: wolf and vampire.
He blinked off the last of his walk and sat up straight against the cell wall, the scene clearing as vision returned. The baroness stood with one small hand curled around one of the bars of his cell. Her husband stood in front of her, shoulders bunched, head dropped – protecting his throat – as he growled at…
Vlad.
Vlad looked as cold and impassive as ever, hands on his hips, staring at the snarling baron with a bored air.
“Shit,” Val murmured, and all eyes came to him. “What’s happening?”
Annabel looked completely unlike herself: white-faced, big-eyed, lips pressed together into a thin, pale line. Unspeaking.
Fulk kept growling.
Vlad said, “I came to see if you could be convinced to cooperate, and instead found you consorting with the enemy. As usual.”
Vlad had known. How had he know? Val glanced at the baroness – her expression stricken – and wet his lips. “What in the world are you talking about?” he asked carefully.
“Sometimes you talk to yourself when you dreamwalk,” Vlad said. “You used to as a boy. And you did it now: you were warning someone of a trap.”
The bottom fell out of his stomach, and he tried hard to keep his face blank.
I’m sorry, Annabel mouthed.
Vlad said, “You and the wolf bitch–”
Fulk snarled again, a rolling, barking, furious sound half-panic and half-murderous intent.
“Have some respect for the Lady Strange,” Val said. His heart beat wildly; his skin seemed to shrink over his bones. His brother was known for many things, and leniency had never been among them.
Vlad continued, unconcerned. “She’s a Familiar, and doesn’t know any better. But you, brother.” His gaze could have nicked steel.
Val took a series of short, insufficient breaths. Lifted his chin high. “My lord and lady, don’t defend me, please.” Even though they weren’t; Fulk’s only worry was for his mate.
“Leave us,” Vlad said.
Fulk put an arm around his wife and hustled her out, still growling under his breath. Neither of them looked back.
When they were alone – their breathing echoed off the stone around them, competing rhythms; one regular, one erratic – Vlad stepped forward, and pressed a flattened hand to the bars. “The problem with you, Radu” –
Val didn’t correct him, only ground his teeth together.
– “is that you never understood that actions have consequences. Even for princes.”
Val lifted his hands so that his chains rattled. “I’m already a prisoner. Would you punish me further?”
The first sign of emotion flickered in Vlad’s gaze, there and then gone again. He frowned. “I have never punished you, brother.”
Val scoffed.
“I have only ever done what was necessary for the good of my people, whether you liked it or not.”
Val’s pulse reached a new crescendo, a rabbit-fast tattoo in his wrists, against the quelling silver of his cuffs. He lurched forward, and the chains made a snapping sound as they grew taut. “Liked it? Whether I liked it? You make it sound like I disagreed with your taste in castle construction,” he spat. “You abandoned me. You left me there with that – when he had–” He bit off the rest of the words with a physical effort that brought sweat prickling up along his hairline. Swallowed them down, choked on them. Endured the way they made his stomach cramp.
“I knew where you were,” Vlad countered, emotionless. “You were safe.”