Page 80 of Besieger
Victor chewed on the inside of his cheek. There was still the matter of bringing Erik to Stefan and the pack, before they came looking for him.
“Before we go to the pack, I have conditions of my own.”
Erik blinked and ever so slightly raised his eyebrows, eager to listen.
“One: you do not speak of my past and when we met. Two: you do not tell anyone that you are drinking my blood.”
Casting the book aside, Erik stood up and brushed down his clothes. His shirt hung open, buttons undone, as if he had put it on as an afterthought, to merely have something between him and the jacket. Victor hoped it was the result of a limited wardrobe rather than habit.
“And three?” Erik straightened the lapels of his coat, obscuring his naked chest for a blissful moment.
“Three: you drink only my blood while you are here.” Victor’s voice was hoarse. He kicked the covers aside, finally getting out of bed, and crossed to Erik.
“I fear you will have to enlighten me, then, as to why I have to go through the formality of meeting your pack leader. Why do I need his approval for hunting on his grounds, if I am to continue drinking only from you? Besides,” he cut Victor off before he could interject. “As much as I enjoy our little arrangement, it is not enough to sustain me. I need more than a few sips of blood.”
“Iforbid it,” Victor hissed, narrowing his eyes. That damn shirt, how he wanted to do the buttons up.
And I don’t want to share.He could not stop the thought from forming. It betrayed a hunger he had been trying to escape ever since their paths crossed.
“What was that?” Erik grinned and leaned closer, playing the fool.
“I said I do not want to share.” Victor uttered through gritted teeth. “And that brings us to my last and final condition: you will stop screening and scrambling my mind.”
“Hmmm, that might prove a challenge. Your thoughts are, oh, so…. loud. But for now—” Erik chuckled, but he was already there, beside him, taking Victor’s hand and lifting it as if to kiss his wrist. He turned the palm up and took another step closer, making Victor stiffen at the forced proximity.I should be used to this by now, he tried to remind himself and school his expression. Erik’s lips lightly brushed the skin before his fangs bit the flesh and, like a ripe summer peach nectar, the blood spilled into his mouth, his jaws closed on the wrist, holding Victor in place. A gurgling sound came from Erik’s throat as it strained and he swallowed.
Relax. If you do not relax it will hurt.Erik’s voice spilled in Victor’s mind, already breaking the barely given promise. His muscles tensed anyway, causing another sound, a moan, to escape from Erik’s mouth. The sound sparked a memory in Victor, a fragment from long ago, buried under so many layers of sand, the memory of the vampire feeding off him in Berlin under the watchful green eyes of a man whose face Victor could not see but whose voice was like a stalactite cutting through the membrane of the past.Is that who you are running away from,mein Freund? Using me as your distraction before he catches up with you?
It was quick, barely a mouthful, as it had been the night before, and the night before it. Erik lifted his head, eyes darkened with hunger, and ran his tongue over his sharp teeth, cutting the flesh. He licked the wound on Victor’s hand, their blood mingling, and watched the wound heal.
“Thank you,” he said, overflowing with gratitude, breathy, tongue licking at his lips.
Victor held back a growl, eyes fixed on Erik’s mouth. He really did not want to bring and reveal him to the pack.
“I promise not to share anything you do not want them to know. I will be your well-kept secret—yours alone.”
“In exchange for blood.”
“Blood, yes.” Erik sucked on his lip, still running the tips of his fingers over Victor’s forearm. There was no trace of the bite marks, only the ghost of teeth and a tongue lapping. Victor flexed his fingers and Erik looked up, meeting his gaze. He clicked his tongue and let go of Victor. “But come, there is a city to explorefirst. Let us indulge in the pleasure of each other’s company while we still can! I want to see that little bakery of yours.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
STEFAN, 2008
TROUBLE HAD A WAY of finding Stefan Kamenov. He seemed almost to thrive in the tangle of consequences that unfolded around him. Kids at school had never quite decided whether to bully him because he was Romani or because he listened to dad-rock and painted his nails black. In the end, they chose both: picked on him, made him stand out in the classroom and chased him down the corridors, until he grew tall and lanky, and dyed his hair blue and finally the kids got bored of the repetition. They tired of Stefan shrugging off their insults and going to band practice with the rest of the losers.
Stefan wanted to be like Brandon Lee inThe Crow: all black leather, torn, unstoppable even in death, ready to avenge his beloved. It did not escape his notice how hysterical it was that he had be?n born and raised in Vratsa—a city known as the Eagles’ Nest—where, according to a local hearsay, even a crow would not dare fly. It delighted him immensely when his friends, the other losers, agreed to name their bandThe Crows.
It was summer, but the band never rested. When they were not off drinking and skipping study sessions for the entrance exams, the boys practised, destroying their fingers with calluses and making as much noise in the basement as the neighbours would tolerate. That afternoon, before their meetup, Stefan decided to buy bleach and red dye. The idea had been on his mind for awhile, the thought of having fire in his hair made him almost giddy. He had the complexion for it and the wicked faerie-like glow in his green eyes. He might even put some colour in his wardrobe, replacing some of the black jeans and band T-shirts; make his mother sigh with relief that her son’s rebel phase had reached its zenith, and that now he would, at last, focus on his studies. Stefan did not see how having dyed hair or leather spiked jackets could possibly prevent him from becoming an architect. He already had his eyes set on Veliko Tarnovo University. He dreamed of combining the modern with the ancient, leaving his mark on the world, setting his name in stone. He was so enchanted by the idea of waking up one day asArchitect Kamenovthat he missed his bus stop. The walk had taken him around and past the old neighbourhoods, with their small houses, the very same ones he pictured himself living in one day, renovating the whole estate. All he needed was money... and a blessing from the city administration gods.
Just as Stefan was about to turn back and catch the first bus, he saw a group of men at the side of the road dragging something. The object in their arms squirmed and slipped from their grip, collapsing onto the ground with a yell. The form waved its arms and, as it unfolded its legs and tried to run, Stefan saw it for what it was.
The men were grabbing and shoving at a girl, no older than nineteen or twenty years, same age as Stefan, trying to force her into the back seat of a car. Stefan froze, staring. His mind screamed at him to move, to call out and stop them, call the police, call anyone. His body moved before he could form a plan and he ran to seize one of the men by the shoulders and yanked him back. His hand was instantly coated in dirt and some wet substance. A reek permeated the air and, when he opened his mouth to speak, he gagged.
“Get out of here!” the girl yelled, now trying to push Stefan away.
Stefan’s eyes burned and he grimaced both from the stench and the girl’s words. Was she tellinghimto run? That did not make sense.
“Girl,youget up and run!” he yelled back at her, and resumed his attempts at fighting off the men.
