"That's right. As I was saying, darling"—a growl now—"you're of no use to me."
Which meant . . . what? Nothing good, that was for sure. Get yourself under control before you push him too far! "I just remembered! I know someone who, uh, disappears. Like you said."
His own smile was slow and wicked, the best of a charmer and the worst of a bastard. "Now you're lying, and I believe I warned you of the dangers of that. I murdered the last Walker who did."
The rest of her anger drained, and more intense tremors rocked her. He'd committed murder— do not think about that; don't you dare think about that— and once again she tried to pop to her feet and run. Still her body refused to obey. "I . . . You . . . Please. Let me go. I'm not a walker or whatever you think I am. I'm just a girl."
"Ah, there's my little mouse. I missed her."
This time his mockery failed to chase away a single thread of terror.
"I wonder . . . Do you have any fighting instinct?" Before she could form a reply, his fist whipped out.
She didn't have time to flinch. Could only squeeze her eyelids closed . . . waiting . . . dreading . . . but impact never came, and her lashes cracked open.
He had stopped just before contact. Now he sighed and lowered his arm. "None, then. Too bad." He unfolded from the chair, his form as dark as the sky outside and as menacing as a blade.
"That would have made our next dealing more entertaining."
Oh, God. "What are you going to do during our next dealing?"
One step, two, he strode away from her. At the table, he poured crimson wine into a waiting glass. Rather than drink it, he stood there for a moment, his back to her, fingers drumming against the surface. Thinking of the best way to dispose of her?
There was no better time to run. But yet again her brain issued the command, and yet again her muscles ignored it. Truly, what held her down? She wasn't bound. That you can see . . . She shuddered. If he really was responsible, that would mean he was powerful in a way she couldn't comprehend. And maybe . . . maybe he had been telling the truth.
Finally, he nodded, as if he'd just reached a decision, and returned to her, arm outstretched, eyes glittering. "Drink this."
Hell, no! If he thought to poison her... "I'm not twenty-one." The only excuse her frantic brain could come up with.
"Well, I won't tell if you won't."
"No, I—"
"Drink."
Another steely command. With trembling fingers, she claimed the glass. She drained the contents before she could talk herself into defying him. And possibly getting herself killed "slowly and painfully." The thick liquid burned her mouth, leaving a metallic taste, then scalded her throat before cooling in her stomach.
After taking the cup from her and tossing it aside, he knelt in front of her, clasped her wrist—his skin, so warm, so calloused—and lifted. She was ashamed of herself for not trying to pull away.
But how could she? Where he touched, the ache inside her finally subsided, offering her the slightest glimmer of relief.
Gaze intense, he stared down at her open palm. And there in the center, her skin split. He hadn't moved, hadn't even raked a nail over her, yet blood welled. Her jaw dropped in shock. She'd felt no pain, then or now.
Oh, yes. Powerful in a way she couldn't comprehend. "What—"
Without a word, he raised the wound to his mouth and licked.
Her stomach quivered and she told herself it was in disgust. "That's gross." Oops. She'd sounded breathless rather than creeped out. "Why did you do that?" Still embarrassingly breathless.
Another sweep of his tongue, and the skin wove back together. Rather than answer, he said,
"Wherever I walk, so, too, shall you. Now you," he prompted. He maintained a firm grip on her.
"What?"
"Say those words. Only I want you to say them for yourself, not me."
Her brow furrowed in confusion. " 'Wherever you walk, so, too, shall I'? Like that?" What did that mean?
"Yes. Now, this next part might hurt a bit. Say my name."
"Vasili." A wave of heat suddenly slammed through her, burning her up, blistering her inside and out, and flaming her to ash. But before she could scream, cry, beg for mercy, those ashes began to rebuild, locking together, re-forming her into a new person. A person who hungered for the man in front of her. Desperately. The ache he'd assuaged? Once again caught fire and spread, leaving no part of her untouched. It was harsher now. Harder. More commanding and utterly consuming.
What. The. Hell? She tried to jerk free, but he held firm. "What did you do to me, you—"
"Hush. Vasili's talking. I've decided I can use you after all. Tomorrow, you'll wake up at home. I suggest you do whatever it takes to find out if there are others like you. Find out who they are and when they travel here."
"And if I don't?" Breathless again, damn it. All that ferocity could be hers—all she had to do was lean into him. . . .
"Then you'll be of no use to me when you return, just as I first assumed, and I'll have to kill you."
This threat lacked heat and conviction, something the others had had in spades. She trembled.
Don't lean. Don't you dare lean. Wait. When she returned, he'd said.
"How am I supposed to find them?" she squeaked out. She'd address his concern first, then hers.
"I'm sure you'll find a way. Also, you should know that you can return here anytime you'd like now. The gate will always be open for you, but you should also know that I will —"
No, no, no. "I don't ever want to return." She shook her head to emphasize her refusal.
"Sorry, darling, but you'll return on your next birthday whether you wish to do so or not." His thumb traced the lines in her palm. "You'll return every birthday for the rest of your life. That's just how the bond to this world works."
She had trouble focusing on his words. That touch . . . the intensified ache . . . She moaned.
More. Discarding all common sense, she finally allowed herself to lean toward him.
"Another suggestion," he whispered, stopping her. The space between their gazes crackled.
"Use the next year to prepare. Learn how to fight, and fight dirty. With guns, blades, even your hands." He placed a soft kiss on the hammering pulse in her wrist before at last releasing her and straightening. "Or don't. Survival will be up to you."
Chapter Two
One year later . . .
Exactly five minutes until midnight.
Perched at the edge of her bed, Rose stared at the clock sitting on her desk. Dread coursed through her, as did anticipation. And fury—so much fury.