Seven - The Arrogance of Men
- VERONICA -
From the dark shadow of the corridor, Remus steps into the light and pauses to look at me.
"I thought I've told you these don't work on me." He raises a hand, and between his thumb and index finger is my silver bullet.
He's wearing a tux this time with the top three buttons of his white, crisply pressed shirt undone and a bowtie hanging loose on either side of the collar. The man looks like he's just returned from a wedding or some upper-class reception. No wings this time. This visit, I conclude from the evidence, hasn't been planned.
"Besides, I may be a little late, but there's really no need to shoot at first glance, Miss Wolf," he says, placing the bullet on the table and scowls at the blood on his hands in disgust. "May I use your sink?"
I stare at him in disbelief for a moment. The man strides into my home whenever he likes, puts poison into my drink when I'm not looking, leaves his underlings to babysit me like I'm some kind of a low-level subject he can't bother dealing with, and then he asks me for permission to use a sink. I don't know if I should consider him well-mannered or incredibly rude, but at that moment I can only nod in response. My head is only half working, and I can't even form a sentence to describe what I'm feeling.
He strides to my poor old sink that suddenly seems wrong when he stands in front of it. I grimace at that logic, at how he manages to make my entire middle-class kitchen seem out of place just for being in it. He turns on my faucet and washes his hands like he's in a marble powder room at some six-star hotel I can't afford. Then I see the blood spiraling down the drain, and it pulls me out of my stupor, reminding me that there is actually a severed head in my kitchen - and probably another somewhere outside my house - because of those hands.
Whatever food I've retained from the bar that night suddenly threatens to come back up. "I need to use the bathroom," I say, running over to the toilet in the living room. I don't know why I felt compelled to excuse myself in my own home, but as much as I hate to admit it, the man's presence does exude some kind of authority that demands it. Under normal circumstances, I should have been able to resist such an urge easily, but by that time I can only think of running to the nearest toilet to puke my guts.
A few minutes later, as I support myself on the toilet seat throwing up the content of my stomach, Remus appears by the door I'd left open in a hurry when I ran here.
"When was the last time you took the pill?" He asks agitatedly.
"Yesterday morning," I reply, pushing back my hair with one hand as I continue retching so I don't get puke on it. Thanks to my Victoria's Secret curls, the effort is pretty much useless.
"Here," Remus sighs in irritation and steps forward to gather my hair into his hands, holding it up and away from my face. I want to tell him to leave me alone, but I'm too busy emptying my stomach to make the effort. His careful fingers touch my forehead when I move, and I nearly jump from the coolness of them against my skin. I don't remember them being that cold the last time they grazed my hand, but then my fever must be sky-high right now and that could be why.
I head to the sink to clean myself up afterward, and despite my several attempts to dismiss him, Remus hovers nearby like a vulture over a soon-to-be-dead injured animal. I hate it that he's seeing me in this state, and he's not being at all discreet about his disapproval of my appearance.
It's bad enough that he has such leverage over me, now I have to suffer the sighs and irritating gestures he shows while witnessing how much of a mess I am. To make the matter worse, I happen to look like a tramp who can't stop throwing up from having had too much to drink - thanks to Chris. How absolutely fabulous.
"Take one now," he says, placing a small glass vial filled with clear green pills on the counter. While I can guess they're my new batch of antidotes, I hesitate a little for the fact that the last ones were blue.
"Why did you skip a dose?" he asks, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall and keeping his eyes on my reflection in the mirror. I notice then, for the first time, that he looks a bit pale. He's also been scowling periodically like there's a bad taste lingering in his mouth he can't get rid of, and I'm pretty sure it's not just because he can't stand the sight of me.
"Because I enjoy puking my guts out 24/7," I snap at him. My anger is seeping again from all the symptoms combined. Why, he asks. As if I want any of this to happen and that everything is my fault and not his. I pick up the antidotes and pop one in my mouth at that thought. I decided it doesn't matter if they're green or blue. They're my only chance at surviving this anyway. "I lost one, and it's not like you gave me spares." You insufferable, arrogant, prick. That part I manage to hold back. As mad as I am, I have to start minding what I say, or I might find a knife in my back from one of his overly loyal subordinates one day.
He grimaces and shifts his weight as if I'd actually sworn at him out loud. "You could have told Rae earlier. She can contact us to get you more in case of emergency. There's really no need to endure it just because you're too proud to ask for help. Try to be a bit more mature next time. It will make things easier."
It takes me a colossal amount of energy to not respond to that with a language that would shame a sailor. After everything I've suffered since he's shown up at my door, this arrogant prick manages to come to the conclusion that it's my fault and has the nerves to chastise me for being both proud and immature. I don't consider myself a person with a bad temper, but he seems to be an expert at making me one. On top of the fact that I've already been pissed enough to kill, thanks to the symptoms he'd so generously bestowed upon me, his attitude is sending my rage through the roof.
I push myself off the sink and wheel, ready to offer him a mouthful of my 'immaturity' as he calls it, only to realize that my body disagrees completely with me. My vision blurs and the room spins like I've just had ten shots of vodka, causing me to lose my footing and stumble towards where he's been standing. Remus grabs me by the upper arm before I fall face-first onto the bathroom tiles and tries to pull me back up on my feet. It doesn't work. There's no energy left in my limbs, my skin feels like it's being boiled from the inside, and yet I'm shivering like someone has just thrown a bucket of ice on me.
Remus swears under his breath and wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me up again, this time with more success. "You're burning up," he says irritatingly as he lifts me onto the counter next to the sink. "Where's the towel?" He asks, and I point to the tall cabinet near the door. My consciousness is slipping, and all I want to do is collapse on my bed, but I know as much as he does that something has to be done about my sky-high fever or I might go into seizure before the antidote kicks in. So I Iet him help me for now because there's nobody else and I can't do shit for myself in that state.
He returns with a small towel and turns on the faucet, testing the water's temperature with his hand before putting the cap on the drain. "I have to take off your jacket," he grumbles irritatedly like it's a nuisance and he just wants to get it over with, but for the sake of manner, he has to wait for my permission.
I nod, wondering if I've ever met a guy who asks for permission to take off my clothes before in my life when an opportunity knocks. His manner is impeccable, but it's definitely not out of a desire to please or impress. It's more like he's been trained to do these things, like a high born son of some lord who spends half his childhood learning how to hold a fork and walk in the way that makes the rest of us look like his lowly servants.
He peels off my jacket quickly, and even though I can feel his hand brushing my bare shoulders, he shows no intention to linger or savor any of it. I have a feeling he's in as much of a hurry as I am to get this fever under control as if he's also suffering from it. Why, I have yet to draw a conclusion. I have my suspicions, but I won't jump into it until I'm certain.
So I let him wipe me down as I observe him more closely, taking care not to show too much attention that it might alert him of what I'm trying to find out. From what I can see, he seems to be holding back a grunt as he wipes me down. Hip lips are pressed so tightly together they're almost white, and his unsettling gray eyes seem a little glazed over. He blinks a lot, and that girlishly long and thick, jet-black lashes make it more obvious. His jaw clenches tight sometimes, especially when my shiver grows intense. Then all the gestures relax a little when I'm a bit cooler, and my headache lessens to a more manageable degree. I look at my watch and fifteen minutes had passed since I've taken the antidote. The drug is already working, slowly, but working. All of the symptoms are down by maybe about thirty percent. I can feel it, but more importantly, I can see it on his face, in the way his stiff shoulders appear more relaxed.
I must have slipped a grin at my new discovery because he pauses and looks at me all of the sudden.
"You're enjoying this. Why?" He asks, his sharp eyes focus on my face as the towel in his hand comes to a stop on my upper arm. He's on to me, and I know it.
Or maybe not.
I figure there are two ways I can deal with this. I can try to deny his suspicions to my grave and hope he'll buy it, or I can turn it into something else.
"I'm being serviced by a vampire," I say, offering him a wider grin this time. "A vampire of rank, no less. What's not to like?" In a way, I'm not exactly lying. It does feed my ego to see him work for me for a change.
He lets out a small chuckle as he puts down the towel and lets the water out. "Perhaps I have an ulterior motive, considering what you're wearing," he says, and for the first time makes a point at staring at my breasts.
I hold back a grin and let him feast his eyes on me. So, he's not insusceptible to sexual desires, and, according to Rae, I need him to drink my blood to get even. I can work with that. "The fact that you're a thousand years old doesn't give you the right to preach on what I'm wearing."
He takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest and drags his gaze slowly over my curves. "The fact that I'm a man should tell you that that outfit is enough to give me a very, very vivid imagination of what's underneath it," he says and smiles at me arrogantly. "And I wouldn't put my faith on any man's capacity for self-control when it comes to sex, fifteen or five thousand years of age. But for your information, I'm just a little over three-hundred."
I lift a brow and play with a lock of hair around my finger, pretending to look for split ends. The moment he mentioned the word sex, I know he's taken the bait. Good, I think, I can totally play this game. "Even for a vampire of rank?"
He grins. "Especially for a vampire of rank," he says and shifts his weight a little. "I see the antidote is working."
It probably is, because now I don't feel so bad anymore. More importantly, neither does he.
"I suppose you figured that out from looking at my breasts?" I give him a sweet, innocent smile. I want to see how far I can lead him down that path. How much capacity for self-control he really does have when it comes to sex.
He catches my eyes, holds it, and rises to the occasion. "As much as I enjoyed looking at your breasts," he says, rubbing his thumb on the sleeve of his left arm, "I figured that out from the way you utilized your tongue -which is rather impressive, by the way -but perhaps it's better suited for something else."
"Don't get your hopes up," I tell him. "I'm not about to suck your cock anytime soon."
He sucks in a breath, and I congratulate myself inwardly. The smile he gives me afterward makes me nervous, however.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to let you sleep your way out of this, Veronica," he says, rolling my name on his tongue like he's already tasting me in his mouth. "My discipline is quite intact when it comes to work, I assure you."
"I never gave you permission to use my first name," I cross my legs as I tell him, his breath hitches a little as the tip of my boot brush softly against his trouser.
He steps closer and places his hands on the counter, trapping me between his arms. "I figured since you had the audacity to address my cock, we've passed that point of formality a while ago, wouldn't you say?"
I lift my chin up to sneer at him. My heart is thumping so loudly that I start to worry how capable his vampire's ears are and if he can hear it. If he can, he's not giving me any indication. "On the contrary," I say, "I was only addressing your inappropriate imagination."
"My inappropriate imagination," he repeats, draws a long, sharp breath and makes sure I see it. "Have a care, Veronica," he says, tracing each syllable of my name with the same scrutiny as a chef trying to size up a dish. "You don't want to know how inappropriate my imagination can be, or what I've considered doing to you just now."
I know what he's doing. He's trying to turn the table on me, to see if he can make me squirm and beg for it. While I admit he's hot enough to melt the leather off my boots, and the thrill of playing with this fiercely intelligent, highly dangerous creature excites me to no end, I'm not exactly a harmless little mouse he can intimidate into submission. You can't change the arrogance of men, but you can always turn it into their weakness and use it to get what you want, someone once told me. Some men are a lot easier to bend than to break, and I'm about to find out what Remus Valentin is really made of, among other things.
Uncrossing my legs, I attempt to send something through the bond, even though I have no clear idea of how to do it, or whether it will work. I send him an image of me, doing exactly what I think he wants, and a little more.
Remus stiffens as he stares at me, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. The moment he closes his eyes and lets out a ragged, unnaturally long breath, I know I hit the jackpot. When he opens them again, the smile he gives me sends a torrent of shiver down my spine.
"I don't know who told you about the bond." I hold my breath as he leans closer and sniffs my hair, his lips brush softly on my left cheek. He puts a hand on my right knee and drags it up my thigh, before clamping down on it with an abruptness that nearly makes me whimper in response, "but try to play me again, and I'll make that image you put in my head a reality - a much, much worse reality than you can imagine with your pathetic level of experience, I promise you."
It's my turn to swallow. He knows I know about the bond, and that I'm testing it to see if I can use it against him. I'm also aware that I'm walking on dangerous grounds, that it only takes a flick of his wrist to rip my head off or do whatever it is he wants to do with me. But there's always a catch if one chooses to look for it. I have nothing to lose and he does, and I happen to know what he's afraid of. The very fact that he hasn't crossed the line and appears to have no intention to cross it confirms my suspicion.
According to Rae, the bond is complete if he drinks my blood, and the connection would no longer be one way. It means I'll be able to sense his strong emotions, his pleasures, his pains, the way he's probably feeling mine. That, there, is my leverage if I can get him to feed on my blood- a task that might be as simple as biting my lip during a kiss or smearing my blood on a limb, among other things. The problem is that he knows it, and he's going to try to not let it go that far, but I have to wonder what he treasures more, his ego, or his control.
"Do you know what my pathetic level of experience tells me?" I ask, tracing a finger down the exposed skin of his chest from the collarbone to the third button that has been left undone. "That you don't have the guts to do it even if I give you an impression of me on all fours with my mouth around your cock."
And then I send another image down the bond.
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