Read Online The Shifting Price of Prey by Suzanne McLeod - Free Book Online
Authors: Suzanne McLeod
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the penthouse to be the ubiquitous luxury hotel suite. Instead it was a smallish function room, albeit still luxurious with varnished
woods, brown-on-beige décor, and art large enough to be a talking point but bland enough not to offend.
The room had a post-party feel: the huge art-deco-style lights recessed into the sloping ceiling were dimmed to almost nothing, chairs were stacked along one wall, and the four tables in the
room – all of them round and each large enough to hold at least a full coven of thirteen witches (though I doubted the hotel ever seated thirteen, even witches; some superstitions just
won’t die) – were draped in white cloths, holding only a domed centrepiece of rose heads— the same dark crimson colour as the one Malik had sent with the ring.
Malik was at the far end, looking out of the windows that stretched from one side of the room to the other. I vaguely registered the lit-up pods of the London Eye, glowing deep blue against the
night sky, as I strode towards him, Rosa’s ring clenched in my fist.
I slowed as I neared. His hair had grown. It had been buzz-cut last time I’d seen him, now it was pulled back and bound in a queue that cut a silky black line down his white shirt to his
shoulder blades.
Briefly I wondered how he’d got it to grow that long in the last couple of months, then any curiosity was eclipsed by fury.
‘I am not Rosa!’ I yelled. ‘I don’t want her fucking ring or her magic flowers!’ I threw the ring at his head. It missed, chinking loudly off the window—
He snatched it out of the air. And turned.
Shock stripped away my anger. He was beautiful, his face all perfect lines and angles, his part-Asian heritage shaping his black eyes, but his forehead was marked. Branded. With delta, the
fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, in the lower case: δ. The brand was delicate rather than disfiguring, and gave him an almost mystical air. I
looked
: it emanated with low-level
power and some sort of Veiling spell. I forced my
sight
past the Veil, and the brand turned from matt black to a pulsing painful red.
My stomach heaved. ‘Why haven’t you healed it?’ I demanded.
‘Genevieve.’ His eyes darkened with grim mockery. ‘The correct greeting of blood-property to their master should carry more reverence. An offer of the throat is ideal, a wrist
acceptable, a deferential falling to your knees the bare minimum.’
An image flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him; what I was doing took deference to a whole other level. Lust spiralled within me like a tornado and slick heat bloomed between my
thighs.
I dropped my backpack to the floor with an incensed thud. ‘I am
not
your blood-property, Malik.’
He moved faster than I could track and was behind me, one steel-hard arm clamping my arms and chest, trapping me against him, his other hand thrust in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my
throat.
I yelped in shock before snapping my mouth shut. My heart pounded, flooding adrenalin through my veins, urging me to flight or fight. Instead I froze, my childhood training kicking in:
struggling over-excites vamps, and over-excited vamps, even one as normally übercontrolled as Malik, are more likely to forget whatever
fucking infuriating game they’re playing
and tear your throat out.
‘You are my blood, Genevieve.’ His breath seared along my pulse. ‘As such there are expectations on both of us.’
My mind stuttered as his words penetrated. Had I missed something: like maybe we weren’t alone? I pinged my inner radar. But all I could sense was Malik . . .
His dark spice scent wove around me like smoke, his lips cool against my skin, a certain part of him pressing hard against my arse. Damn, it wasn’t just the blood-sucker in him that was
excited. Though to be honest, blood and sex are two sides of the same coin with vamps.
‘You didn’t expect anything before.’ I kept my voice quiet and calm.
‘Before you had not admitted
woods, brown-on-beige décor, and art large enough to be a talking point but bland enough not to offend.
The room had a post-party feel: the huge art-deco-style lights recessed into the sloping ceiling were dimmed to almost nothing, chairs were stacked along one wall, and the four tables in the
room – all of them round and each large enough to hold at least a full coven of thirteen witches (though I doubted the hotel ever seated thirteen, even witches; some superstitions just
won’t die) – were draped in white cloths, holding only a domed centrepiece of rose heads— the same dark crimson colour as the one Malik had sent with the ring.
Malik was at the far end, looking out of the windows that stretched from one side of the room to the other. I vaguely registered the lit-up pods of the London Eye, glowing deep blue against the
night sky, as I strode towards him, Rosa’s ring clenched in my fist.
I slowed as I neared. His hair had grown. It had been buzz-cut last time I’d seen him, now it was pulled back and bound in a queue that cut a silky black line down his white shirt to his
shoulder blades.
Briefly I wondered how he’d got it to grow that long in the last couple of months, then any curiosity was eclipsed by fury.
‘I am not Rosa!’ I yelled. ‘I don’t want her fucking ring or her magic flowers!’ I threw the ring at his head. It missed, chinking loudly off the window—
He snatched it out of the air. And turned.
Shock stripped away my anger. He was beautiful, his face all perfect lines and angles, his part-Asian heritage shaping his black eyes, but his forehead was marked. Branded. With delta, the
fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, in the lower case: δ. The brand was delicate rather than disfiguring, and gave him an almost mystical air. I
looked
: it emanated with low-level
power and some sort of Veiling spell. I forced my
sight
past the Veil, and the brand turned from matt black to a pulsing painful red.
My stomach heaved. ‘Why haven’t you healed it?’ I demanded.
‘Genevieve.’ His eyes darkened with grim mockery. ‘The correct greeting of blood-property to their master should carry more reverence. An offer of the throat is ideal, a wrist
acceptable, a deferential falling to your knees the bare minimum.’
An image flashed in my mind of me on my knees before him; what I was doing took deference to a whole other level. Lust spiralled within me like a tornado and slick heat bloomed between my
thighs.
I dropped my backpack to the floor with an incensed thud. ‘I am
not
your blood-property, Malik.’
He moved faster than I could track and was behind me, one steel-hard arm clamping my arms and chest, trapping me against him, his other hand thrust in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my
throat.
I yelped in shock before snapping my mouth shut. My heart pounded, flooding adrenalin through my veins, urging me to flight or fight. Instead I froze, my childhood training kicking in:
struggling over-excites vamps, and over-excited vamps, even one as normally übercontrolled as Malik, are more likely to forget whatever
fucking infuriating game they’re playing
and tear your throat out.
‘You are my blood, Genevieve.’ His breath seared along my pulse. ‘As such there are expectations on both of us.’
My mind stuttered as his words penetrated. Had I missed something: like maybe we weren’t alone? I pinged my inner radar. But all I could sense was Malik . . .
His dark spice scent wove around me like smoke, his lips cool against my skin, a certain part of him pressing hard against my arse. Damn, it wasn’t just the blood-sucker in him that was
excited. Though to be honest, blood and sex are two sides of the same coin with vamps.
‘You didn’t expect anything before.’ I kept my voice quiet and calm.
‘Before you had not admitted
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