Page 33 of The Serpent’s Bride (Bloodlines #1)

SEVENTEEN

Sharp nails traced through her hair, waking her from her sleep.

Nadi’s hand tightened around the handle of the knife under her pillow. But as she slashed at whoever was over her, fingers cinched around her wrist, stopping her before she could strike.

“Ah-ah.” A voice, deep and dark, rumbled over her, followed by a chuckle. “I’m not falling for that a second time.”

Raziel.

Nadi’s heart was pounding in her chest as she blinked herself awake. The vampire—her husband— was sitting on the edge of the bed, smirking down at her. She had been about to stick a steak knife into his throat, but he had been smart enough to predict the attack.

With his other hand, he pulled the blade from her grasp and tossed it idly to the nightstand. It was clear he didn’t give much of a shit about her attempt on his life. He was already standing, having let go of her wrist. “Get up. It’s time.”

She rubbed a hand over her eyes, sitting up, trying to wake up enough to process what was happening. And now that her eyes were adjusting to the darkness of the room, she noticed something was odd about him. Namely, the way he was dressed.

Furrowing her brow, she tilted her head to the side slightly as she studied him.

Usually, he was dressed to the nines—all expensively tailored clothing, every stitch in the perfect place, his hair impeccably combed and clean.

But now, his shoes were scuffed and dirty and his pants were a dark denim with gashes in the edges.

He wore a dark gray wool vest over a linen shirt and a long black wool coat, none of which looked as though they had been cleaned in a very long time.

A flat woolen cap was pulled low over his head, and his hair was oily, tied back at the base of his neck with a cord.

He looked like he had come from one of the steel plants at the edge of the metropolis, complete with the dark stains along his cheek and his neck.

If it weren’t for the fact that she’d recognize his face anywhere , she would have passed him on the street and thought him any other human worker—just another cog in the machine. If a particularly handsome one.

He jerked his head toward the dresser. Following his gesture, she noticed a stack of clothes there, waiting for her. Not the usual overtly sexual fare that he had for her. They looked much more functional—downright matronly . Without a word, she climbed out of bed and went to dress.

It was time to go to war. She still hadn’t decided what to do once she got there. Would she turn on Raziel when she had the chance, and kill him? Or help him kill Luciento in the name of her larger revenge on the Nostrom clan? Bet small, or bet big? She…honestly didn’t know.

The idea of slaughtering her own uncle in the name of her revenge was—it felt horrible. It felt wrong. Could she go through with it? She honestly didn’t know. Could she kill her family, even estranged from them as she was, in the name of tearing down the Nostroms? At what point was it worth it?

She was so lost in her thoughts that she forgot that she slept naked. Not that it wasn’t anything Raziel hadn’t seen before. But his gaze was burning into her as she walked across the room.

“You heal quickly.”

That was exactly what she was afraid of. He was too observant to let things like that slide. It meant she would definitely have to keep reopening the bullet wound.

It was a statement, not a question. And it was more of a growl than anything else.

His words twisted deep inside her, feeling almost like a threat—like it was something he was interested in testing out for himself.

She’d only been back from the kidnapping for less than thirty-six hours, and some of the scratches and bruises were already fading.

She shrugged, keeping her back to him, focusing on pulling on the old stockings he had brought her as part of their obvious ruse. “Always have. Grew up on a farm, lots of sunlight and fresh air. And I’m used to getting knocked around a lot, working with cows. They’re big, and?—”

Raziel was suddenly behind her. She gasped as he stepped close, forcing her to step into the dresser.

Her hips pressed against the wood surface, trapping her between him and the furniture.

She didn’t know which was the harder object.

She had to bite her lip to keep from either whimpering or reeling around and tearing out his eyes with her fingernails.

His nose pressed into her hair as his hands settled on her bare hips. One of his hands was directly over the bandaged wound. It itched like mad, the skin healing around the stitches faster than it should for a human.

He pressed his hips forward against her at the same time he dug his thumb into the bandage. The sting of the pain combined with the raw feeling of him behind her was too much.

The noise it pulled out of her was instinctual. It came from somewhere deep inside her. Somewhere she had no control over, somewhere animalistic and wild. Somewhere that howled in hunger. Some part of her that she didn’t even know existed until right there and then .

It wasn’t a sound of pain.

And it betrayed her.

Raziel growled.

A sound that was just as inhuman as the part of her that had inspired the moan he had pulled from her. The pressure from his hips relented only to redouble.

She dug her fingernails into the surface of the dresser so hard she swore she must have scratched the surface. It felt like the air had been pulled from her lungs.

His lips pressed to her throat, and she felt the tips of his fangs. By the lords of the deep, this was it. Maybe in a few moments, she’d be dead.

It’d solve her internal debate, that was for certain.

But the primal part of her mind had taken over, unable to listen to reason. It could only beg. Plead. Whimper.

Yes, gods—yes!

His growl turned into that unnatural purr, sounding like the rumble of a deep car engine. She tilted her head away from him, inviting him in.

When his fist slammed against the dresser, it was like a light switch had suddenly been thrown, a floodlight cast over the moment. He was gone just as quickly as he had been there, standing across the room, his hands over his face.

“Get. Dressed.” Each word was bit through clenched teeth. “We have work to do.”

She was trembling. It was like being woken from a drugged sleep. She was still half unconscious, still in that stupor—ready to be ravaged—and now she had been plunged into an ice bath. She shook her head, trying to wake herself. “I?—”

“I’ll be in the car.” Raziel slammed the door on his way out.

Stunned, she finished getting dressed. Her outfit matched his—two paupers.

She went to the bathroom and mussed up her hair.

Taking the cork from the bottle of wine she had drunk half of the night before, she stuffed it in her pocket.

Putting on the ratty shoes and her own wool cap that Raziel had included for her “costume,” she sighed.

To say she was conflicted would be to put it lightly.

Heading downstairs, the guards barely gave her a second glance as she went to the driveway.

Sitting there, idling, was a canvas-sided truck that had seen better days.

The back was stacked with wood crates. They looked like munitions, if she had to take a guess.

He’d mentioned crates of weapons from Deniel.

Raziel was sitting behind the driver’s seat, his hands resting on the thin metal steering wheel. He was glowering through the dingy windshield.

She climbed into the passenger seat, holding out her hand. “I need to borrow your lighter.”

That earned her the arch of an eyebrow.

And she shot him a flat look in exchange. “Oh, just hand it over.”

He placed it into her palm a moment later.

Flicking it open, she lit the wick and took the cork from the wine bottle she had put into her pocket. Lighting the cork on fire, she clicked the lighter back shut. She let the cork char for a little while before blowing it out.

Using the rearview mirror, she smeared some of the black char on her face as soot, then blended it in with her fingers. “Makes for the best fake dirt. Learned it from some traveling entertainers.” She lit the cork again. “Show me your hands. You did your face but not your hands, I bet.”

Raziel looked down. Sure enough, the backs of his hands were spotless. Letting out a thoughtful hum, he let her smear the cork soot onto his knuckles, fingernails, and up his forearms before she did the same to herself.

She handed his lighter back to him and tucked the cork back into his pocket. “See? I’m not just a tempting piece of ass.”

He put the truck into gear. They drove for several minutes through the city in silence. “There’s a knife and a pistol in the glove compartment for you.”

Opening the metal hatch, she tucked both into her belt. The knife she figured she’d end up using more than the pistol. “Do we have a plan?”

“Luciento is at the caves overseeing an exchange of goods coming in from the Wild for trade. The guns we have in the back are a regular shipment—we’re simply taking the place of Deniel’s usual goons making their typical run, plus double for a peace offering.

” Raziel turned down a side street, taking a ramp down to a lower level of the metropolis.

The buildings got dingier and blacker with smog and dirt the lower they went. And the more tightly packed the buildings became, the windows into the abodes shrank in turn. It made the contrast with where they had just been all the more apparent.

“Wait. Deniel deals with the Iltanis?” She turned to look at Raziel. “He deals with the fae gang ?” She knew this. But Monica wouldn’t.