Dark Prince (4 page)

Raven studied the room with awe. It was large, with a beautiful hardwood floor, each parquet piece a part of a larger mosaic. On three sides there were floor-to-ceiling shelves, completely filled with books, most leather bound, many very old. The chairs were comfortable, the small table, in between the chairs, an antique in perfect condition. The chessboard was marble, the pieces uniquely carved.

"Drink this."

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he appeared beside her with a crystal glass. "I don't drink alcohol."

He smiled the smile that made her heart beat faster. His acute sense of smell had already processed that particular bit of information about her. "It is not alcohol; it is an herb mixture for your headache."

Alarm slammed into her. She was crazy for being here. It was like trying to relax with a wild tiger in the same room. He could do anything to her and no one would come to help. If he drugged her… Decisively, she shook her head. "No, thank you."

"Raven." His voice was low, caressing, hypnotic. "Obey me."

She found her fingers curling around the glass. She fought the order, and pain sliced through her head so that she cried out.

Mikhail was at her side, looming over her, his hand closing over hers around the fragile glass. "Why do you defy me over so trivial a thing?"

There were tears burning in her throat. "Why would you force me?"

His hand found her throat, circled it, lifted her chin. "Because you are in pain and I wish to ease it."

Her eyes widened in astonishment. Could it be so simple? She was in pain and he wanted to ease it? Was he really that protective, or did he enjoy imposing his will? "It's my choice. That's what free will is all about."

"I can see pain in your eyes, feel it in your body. Knowing I can help you, is it logical for me to allow you to continue to hurt yourself just so you can prove something?" There was genuine puzzlement in his voice. "Raven, if I was going to harm you, I would not need to drug you. Allow me to help you." His thumb was moving over her skin, feather-light, sensuous, tracing the pulse in her neck, the delicate line of her jaw, the fullness of her lower lip.

She closed her eyes and let him put the glass to her mouth, tilt the bittersweet contents down her throat. She felt as if she was placing her life in his hands. There was far too much possession in his touch.

"Relax, little one," he said softly. "Tell me about yourself. How is it that you can hear my thoughts?" His strong fingers found her temples, began a soothing rhythm.

"I've always been able to do it. When I was little, I just assumed everybody else could do the same thing. But it was terrible to know other people's innermost thoughts, their secrets. I heard and felt things every minute of the day." Raven never talked about her life, her childhood, to anyone, least of all a complete stranger. Yet Mikhail didn't feel like a stranger. He felt like a part of her. A piece missing from her soul. It seemed important to tell him. "My father thought I was a freak, a demon child, and even my mother was a little afraid of me. I learned never to touch people, not to be in crowds. It was better to be alone, in places of solitude. It was the only way I could stay sane."

Gleaming teeth bared above her head, a predator's menace. He wanted to be alone with her father for a few minutes, to show him what a demon really was. It interested him, yet alarmed him that her words could bring about such rage in him. To know she was alone so long ago, had endured pain and loneliness when he was in the world, angered him. Why hadn't he gone looking for her? Why hadn't her father loved and cherished her as he should have?

His hands were working magic, slipping to the nape of her neck, his fingers strong, hypnotic. "A few years ago a man was murdering families, small children. I was staying with a friend from high school and when I returned after work, I found them all dead. When I went into the house I could feel his evil, knew his thoughts. It made me sick, the terrible things running around in my head, but I was able to track him and finally led the police to him."

His hands moved down the length of her thick braid, found the tie and loosened the heavy mass of silk, tunneling his fingers to release the woven strands, still damp from her shower hours before. "How many times did you do this thing?" She was leaving things out. The details of horror and pain, the faces of those she helped as they watched her work, shocked, fascinated, yet repulsed by her ability. He saw those details, sharing her mind, reading her memories to learn her true nature.

"Four. I went after four killers. The last time I fell apart. He was so sick, so evil. I felt as if I was unclean, as if I could never get him out of my head. I came here hoping to find peace. I decided I would never do anything like that again."

Mikhail, above her head, closed his eyes for a moment to calm his mind. That she could feel unclean. He could look into her heart and soul, see her every secret, know she was light and compassion, courage and gentleness. The things she had seen in her young life should never have been. He waited until his voice was calm and soothing. "And you get these headaches if you use telepathic communication?" At her solemn nod, he continued, "Yet when you heard me, unguarded, in pain, you reached out to me, knowing the price you would pay."

How could she explain? He was like a wounded animal, radiating so much pain that she had found tears streaming unchecked down her face. His loneliness was hers. His isolation, hers. And she had sensed his resolve to end his pain, his existence. She could not let that happen, no matter what the cost to herself.

Mikhail let out his breath slowly, astonished and shocked by her nature, so giving. She was hesitant to put into words why she had reached out to him, but he knew it was her nature to give. He also knew the call had been so strong because that something in him that reached for her had found whatever it needed. He inhaled her scent, taking her into his body, enjoying the sight and smell of her in his home, the feel of her silky hair in his hands, her soft skin under his fingertips. The flames from the fire put blue lights in her hair. Need slammed into him, hard and urgent and, as painful as the ache was, he reveled in the fact that he could feel it.

Mikhail seated himself across the small table from her, his eyes drifting lazily, possessively over her alluring curves. "Why do you dress in men's clothes?" he asked.

She laughed, soft and melodious, and her eyes lit with mischief. "Because I knew it would annoy you."

He threw back his head and laughed. Real, genuine, incredible laughter. There was happiness in him and the stirrings of affection. He couldn't remember what those feelings were like, but the emotions were sharp and clear and a sweet ache in his body.

"Is it necessary to annoy me?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, realizing that her headache was completely gone. "So easy," Raven teased.

He leaned closer. "Disrespectful woman. So dangerous, you mean."

"Mmm, maybe that, too." She slid her hand through her hair, pushed it away from her face. The action was an innocent habit, incredibly sexy, drawing his gaze to the perfection of her face, the fullness of her breasts, the smooth line of her throat.

"So just how good a chess player are you?" she challenged impudently.

An hour later Mikhail leaned back in his chair to watch her face as she studied the board. She was frowning in concentration, trying to puzzle out his unfamiliar strategy. She could sense that he was leading her into a trap, but she couldn't find it. Raven leaned her chin on the heel of her hand, relaxed, in no hurry. She was patient and thorough and twice had gotten him into trouble simply because he was too sure of himself.

Suddenly her eyes widened, a slow smile curving her soft mouth. "You are a cunning devil, aren't you, Mikhail? But I think your cleverness may have gotten you into a bit of trouble."

He watched her with hooded eyes. His teeth gleamed white in the firelight. "Did I happen to mention, Miss Whitney, that the last person impertinent enough to beat me at chess was thrown in the dungeon and tortured for thirty years?"

"I believe that would have made you about two at the time," she teased, her eyes glued to the chessboard.

He sucked in his breath sharply. He had been comfortable in her presence, felt totally accepted. She obviously believed he was mortal, with superior telepathic powers. Mikhail lazily reached across the board to make his move, saw the dawning comprehension in her eyes. "I believe what we have is checkmate," he said silkily.

"I should have known a man who walks in the forest surrounded by wolves would be devious." She smiled up at him. "Great game, Mikhail. I really enjoyed it." Raven sank back into the cushions of the chair. "Can you talk to animals?" she asked curiously.

He liked her in his home, liked the way the fire burned blue in her hair and the way the shadows clung so lovingly to her face. He had memorized every inch of it, knew that if he closed his eyes, the picture would still be there, the high, delicate cheekbones, her small nose and lush mouth. "Yes." He answered truthfully, not wanting lies between them.

"Would you have killed Jacob?"

Her lashes were beautiful and held his attention. "Be careful of what you ask little one," he cautioned.

She curled her legs beneath under her, regarded him steadily. "You know, Mikhail, you are so used to using your power, you don't even stop to think if it's right or wrong."

"He had no right to touch you. He was causing you pain."

"But he didn't know he was. And you had no right to touch me, but you did anyway," she pointed out reasonably.

His eyes glittered coldly. "I have every right. You belong to me." He said it calmly, his voice soft, with a hint of warning. "More importantly, Raven, I did not cause you pain."

Raven's breath caught in her throat. Her tongue moistened her lips with a small, delicate gesture. "Mikhail"—her voice was hesitant, as she chose her words carefully—"I belong to myself. I'm a person, not something you can own. In any case. I live in the United States. I'm going back there soon and intend to be on the next train to Budapest."

His smile was that of a hunter. Predatory. For a moment the firelight gleamed red, so that his eyes glowed like a wolf's in the night. He said nothing, simply watched her unblinkingly.

Her hand fluttered defensively to her throat. "It's late; I should be going," She could hear the pounding of her own heart. What was it she wanted from him? She didn't know, only that this was the most perfect, frightening night of her life and she wanted to see him again. He was utterly motionless, menacing in his complete stillness. She waited breathlessly. Fear was suffocating her, sending tremors through her slender form. Fear he would let her go; fear he would force her to stay. She drew air into her lungs. "Mikhail, I don't know what you want." She didn't know what she wanted either.

He stood up then, power and grace combined. His shadow reached her before he did. His strength was enormous, but his hands were gentle as they pulled her to her feet. His hands slid up her arms, rested lightly on her shoulders, thumbs stroking the pulse in her neck. His touch sent warmth curling in her abdomen. She was so small beside him, so fragile and vulnerable. "Do not try to leave me, little one. We need one another." His dark head bent lower, his mouth brushing her eyelids, sending little darts of fire licking along her skin. "You make me remember what living is," he whispered in his mesmerizing voice. His mouth found the corner of hers, and a jolt of electricity sizzled through her body.

Raven reached up to touch the shadowed line of his jaw, to place a hand on the heavy muscles of his chest in an attempt to put space between them. "Listen to me, Mikhail." Her voice was husky. "We both know what loneliness is, isolation. It's beyond my imagination that I can be this close to you, physically touch you, and not be swamped with unwanted burdens. But we can't do this."

Amusement crept into the dark fire of his eyes, a hint of tenderness. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck. "Oh, I think we can." His black velvet voice was pure seduction, his smile frankly sensual.

Raven felt his power right down to her toes. Her body was boneless, liquid, aching. She was so close to him that she felt a part of him, surrounded by him, enveloped by him. "I'm not going to sleep with someone I don't know because I'm lonely."

He laughed softly, low and amused. "Is that what you think? That you would be sleeping with me because you are lonely?" His hand was at her throat again, stroking, caressing, heating her blood. "This is why you will make love with me. This!" His mouth fastened on hers.

White heat. Blue lightning. The ground shifted and rolled.

Mikhail dragged her slender form against his male length, his body aggressive, his mouth dominating, sweeping her into a world of pure feeling.

Raven could only cling to him, a safe anchor in a storm of turbulent emotions. A growl rumbled deep in his throat, animal, feral, like that of an aroused wolf. His mouth moved to the soft, vulnerable line of her throat, down to rest on the pulse beating so frantically beneath her satin skin.

Mikhail's arms tightened, pinning her to his body, possessive, certain, his hold unbreakable. Raven was on fire, needing, burning, hot silk in his arms, her body pliant, liquid heat. She was moving against him restlessly, her breasts aching, nipples pushing erotically against the thin yarn of her sweater.

His thumb brushed her nipple through the crocheted lace, sending waves of heat curling through her body, making her knees go weak so that only the hard strength of his arms held her up. His mouth moved again, his tongue like a flame licking over her pulse.

And then there was white-hot heat, searing pain, her body coiling with need, burning for him, craving him. Waves of desire beat at her. His mouth on her neck was producing a combination of pleasure and pain so intense that she didn't know where one started and the other left off. His thumb tipped her head back, exposing her throat, his mouth clamped to her skin, his throat working as if he were devouring her, feeding on her, drinking her in. It burned, yet fed her own craving.