Kiernan awakens, gasping for breath.

There's a heavy weight on his chest and warmth on his cheeks. His eyes open slowly. He expects to be met with dark-violet eyes and not Gianna's familiar grey.

He makes a whimpering noise, that he'd rather die than relive. She's speaking to him in a low, soft tone, but he hears no words and only sees her lips moving.

He knows that it's Gianna's forearm across his chest, half-laying over top of him, and that it's her soft hands that are on his cheeks. But he cannot calm down. His hand rises, and he grasps her brown hair with shaking fingers.

His heart is a wild beat against his chest, and he's still in that dream. The memory. His last night free.

At the last moment, he'd moved the gun away. He never understood why. The bullet had burned his skin. Then, he'd awoken in hell. Mercalli had given him blood. Not enough to turn him, but enough for him to suffer the vampire's presence in his mind and heart.

From that point on, he was never free of Mercalli again.

He'd made sure that Dante would never look for him. Through a locked door so his brother would not notice anything amiss, Kiernan had said the unforgivable, spouted lies that hurt him just as much.

Dante moved on with his life. He forgot about him. His brother's factories continued to be a soaring success. Mercalli promised this and kept to his word. Dante married a beautiful woman and had five children, but one, a girl, didn't make it past infancy.

His brother was happy when he died.

Kiernan spent ten years under the depraved tutelage of Mercalli. It could be more, but he doesn't recall. Time melds together when Mercalli is involved. He's not entirely sure when he was turned, just that the night was intimate and horrible. He dreams of that era often and doesn't know what memories are real or concocted when his sanity had shattered.

Ten years. He's been alive for decades upon decades, and those years with Mercalli still haunt him. He doesn't understand.

No. That's a lie. He does know. He just doesn't want to admit why he, beyond all else, invades his dreams. And why his heart has never been whole since.

Gianna's voice breaks through the ringing in his ears. She's trying to soothe him in her abrasive way. "Look at me, Dickhead. You're not even seeing me, are you?" She coos, "It's alright. You're alright." She shakes her head a little. "Are you still asleep?"

"No," Kiernan whispers hoarsely.

He's slowly awakening. The pine headboard he can see with a flicker of his gaze up has a string of lights around the short pillars. He's confused. He's not in his hotel room or his car, where he last remembers drinking the rest of the scotch.

Gianna waits for him to look back at her, and when he does, her lips rise into a warm smile. "Hello, sexy."

"Hello, Gianna," Kiernan returns coolly. Sexy isn't how he'd describe the mess he is in right now. He wipes drool from his face with a palm. He feels the sheets brushing his bare skin and seems to have misplaced everything except his boxers. "I'm in your apartment."

He blinks at her apathetically, waiting for elaboration. Her apartment is a small, three-story brownstone, not far from the hotel where he's been staying.

"Home, sweet home," Gianna drawls and rises to sit, pulling her long, bare legs under her. She's wearing black underwear, and his shirt, buttoned halfway, gives a glimpse of her collarbone and the enticing curve of her breasts.

Kiernan asks coldly, "Why am I here?"

"You called me last night. You wanted me to pick you up. I swung by. You were drunk off your face."

Even though Gianna's moved away, he can still smell a pleasant feminine scent from the sheets covering his lower half and clinging to him like a perfume, which prompts him to declare coolly, "We had sex."

He doesn't know how to feel about this. Part of him is disappointed that he doesn't recall, and another part of him is angry at himself for doing what he said he wouldn't. Gianna doesn't hide her interest, but she's off-limits.

Gianna blushes and looks to be thinking of words. She sucks at her bottom lip, and he's momentarily taken when her fangs nick the pink skin, pearling a few drops of blood that her tongue catches. She still has many years before she heals quickly.

He has an urge to lay a palm on the nape of her neck, pull her closer, and lick at the wound. His eyes must flash dark with hunger awakened from his thoughts because her grey gaze answers in kind, shifting to black pools of desire.

The air around them shivers with anticipation.

"No," Gianna rasps. "I would never. You were drunk. Like scary drunk. You kept passing out, waking up, and saying that craziest shit." She laughs without humor. "I thought I was going to have to resuscitate you by ordering in and letting you eat the pizza guy."

Kiernan feels dread churn his stomach, but he keeps his expression neutral. "Thank you for answering my call, but next time, if I don't text coherently first, ignore me." He doesn't return Gianna's fond smile, swallowing nervously. "What did I...say last night?"

"You kept taking your clothes off."

"I can see that."

"Kept taking mine off too."

Kiernan inhales deeply. He's more worried about what he might have revealed. "Anything else?"

Gianna grins. "You said that you were taking me to Fawnhill. Kept shouting that Gabriel can go fuck himself because I'm yours and Dallas doesn't deserve me."

She laughs at Kiernan's horrified expression. "You were so passionate that I needed to wear your shirt. I don't know. You went off a little at that point—something about having me smell like you. It was really hot."

Kiernan keeps his expression neutral, even though within, he's screaming. What is wrong with his subconscious? Did he think he was a werewolf? Scenting her?

Her cheeks are flushed pink. "Then you pinned me down and got really generous with your mouth." She adds hastily, "I literally couldn't fight you off, so don't think I took advantage."

Kiernan rubs his palms over his face. He's recalling pieces.

He was very adamant that Gianna wear his clothes. He then had a wonderful idea that only his drunken mind could concoct. If Gianna were left writhing on the edge of madness and thoroughly satisfied, then Dallas and all the other despicable vampires she's forced to deal with would be less enticed by her.

He has no clue why he thought that stupidity would work. It would make her more enticing because they would use her to hurt him.

Kiernan stares at the white ceiling. "Fuck."

"That's what I screamed," Gianna returns heatedly. "In between, keep going. I'm going to die. Then, the loudest, don't stop or I'll kill you." She laughs softly at his deepening frown. "My neighbours are probably going to file a complaint."

Kiernan chokes, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Gianna returns, laughing. "You blew my mind, babe."

Kiernan grimaces. Babe? He's immensely relieved that he didn't force her—not that he ever would, but he was drunk. He called Gianna and came to her apartment voluntarily. He was not right-headed.

He rises to sit and winces at the aching throb giving his head its own heartbeat. Hangovers usually quell once he has blood, but until then, he'll be contemplating his reasoning for remaining alive only to suffer like this.

Dramatic, Dante would declare.

He quickly shoves the awakened thoughts of his brother down, locking them up in his mind to never contemplate again, or he will lose his sanity.

Gianna stands. Her bare feet pad across the dark wood floor, and the hem of his shirt grazes the tops of her thighs. She opens the ajar door fully with a soft creak of the hinges.

Instead of moving into the blue-painted hallway beyond, she lays an arm against the edge of the door, leaning forward. The position arches her back lewdly, and he doesn't give in to the siren wiggle of her rear, his gaze pointedly on her face. 

He's not strong enough to resist peeking at the tongue licking across her pink lips.

He wonders if he kissed her last night. He hopes not. To not remember would be a travesty.

She stares at him through long lashes, silently, and he stares back. She must not know that this is his game. He can remain silent, gladly, for years. She will expire where she stands before he is the first to speak.

After an entire minute of intense eye contact, Gianna breaks their stalemate, asking, "Do you drink coffee?"

"No."

"Milk?"

"No."

"Sugar?"

"No."

Gianna grins, flashing her fangs. "Black it is."

"I don't—"

But Gianna's already gone. He stares miserably at the empty doorway. He can hear her footsteps moving around in the apartment. She's singing happily, and her happiness dissipates some of his anger for her constant impudence.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and tries to collect himself to a semblance of normality. His clothing is folded on a round chair of fluffy black fabric beneath the large window overlooking the street below. He finds his phone and his car keys on a wooden nightstand beside the bed.

He should call Alexander or send a text. The man must be wondering where he went last night. They were supposed to go to a vampire club during the late evening and ask around, but the early morning sunlight streaming onto the bed through the white, thin drapery tells him that won't be happening.

He bypasses his password. He swipes to his call log, which has a red notification for his attention. Cold dread chokes his breath, and he drops the device.

The phone hits his knee, bouncing off, and he tries to catch its descent to the floor. He doesn't, but fortunately, it thuds softly against a circular grey rug.

He doesn't move to retrieve it, blinking at the dimming screen.

He made five calls last night. Two to Alexander. Three calls to Gabriel.

He slowly picks up the cell phone and swipes back to the logs, feeling faint. The first call to Gabriel took ten minutes. The second was fifteen minutes. And the last, twenty-two minutes.

He doesn't remember talking to Gabriel for forty-seven minutes, nor does he wish to, in truth. He could have said anything.

He accepts that his life is likely forfeit. Perhaps someone is coming to assassinate him right now. He's Gabriel's second. He cannot be left alive due to the power he holds over Fawnhill.

He reluctantly presses the call button and holds the ringing phone against his ear.

There's a click of the call going through, and then Gabriel rasps tiredly, "Kiernan."

Of course, the man was sleeping. Gabriel is awake in the evening. But he doesn't sound angry, so that bodes well for Kiernan's desire to remain alive.

"I called you last night."

"Yes."

"Forgive me."

There's a heavy silence where Kiernan's fast heart beats loudly in his ears, and then Gabriel laughs. "Whatever for?"

"I was drinking."

"I'm aware," Gabriel drawls. "You should know, I am flattered that you think I am... What did you—ah, yes. I am not a fopdoodle. No, you were very passionate about that, very." He laughs a little. "In the end, you were adamant that I know I am...lush."

"Fuck."

He recalls it blearily. His drunken mind thought it imperative to assure Gabriel that what happened in the office wasn't meant to be a slight.

His drunken mind is an imbecile.

"Contrary." Gabriel's voice is husky with fatigue. "I would be pushed to call you lush. The drunkard kind." He hums thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps both. When you wear red, especially."

Kiernan hangs his head. "Red?"

Gabriel hums. "Yes." And he leaves it at that. "Kiernan..." He pauses, and Kiernan waits with bated breath. "If you wanted Gia, you could have simply asked. I would have given her to you."

Kiernan rubs his face with a palm. "Thank you." He agrees with his drunken mind on that, at least. She can't remain in the city any longer. After helping him with Dallas and if anyone saw them together tonight, she'll become a target for his enemies. "I'll have her work with Silas. He'll utilize her—"

Gabriel's short laugh quiets Kiernan's words. "You want her."

"She's an excellent sharpshooter."

"She's beautiful, and you want her," Gabriel says, sterner. "Don't equivocate. You made it abundantly clear last night. She's yours. In truth, I'm pleased. You've been alone far too long."

Kiernan stares at the grey rug his bare feet rest upon. Gianna is not a slave to be bartered, even if she'd certainly come willingly. He keeps that to himself, however.

He does want Gianna, selfishly. She annoys him to no end, and he often wants to jump out of a window to be free of her, but she's also exhilarating.

But he cannot have her.

To have her would be equivalent to ripping his heart out and leaving it vulnerable on his kitchen table, with the door unlocked, while hoping no one comes for what is his. And they will. There's no doubt. He has many who want to see him suffer.

"No," Kiernan lies coolly. He shuts his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair. "I don't want her. I was lonely and lost my head to the scotch. Silas will make use of her skills."

Gabriel's quiet for a moment. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You're lonely?"

"Yes."

"Then I will make it a habit to come see you more often."

Please, don't. "Thank you."

They say their goodbyes, and Kiernan, when the call ends, still wonders what they spoke about for over forty minutes. He decides he'd rather remain ignorant of the rest of the appalling phone conversation.

He rises from the bed. He has his pants on and is fastening his belt when there's a soft knock on the door of the bedroom. He's confused as to why Gianna doesn't just walk inside. She's abrasive and rude. She's never been polite before.

"Come in," Kiernan says coolly.

The door opens, and Gianna enters. She's in a yellow pullover sweater that reaches mid-thigh. She outstretches his shirt for him to take, and he doesn't, not right away, because her fallen expression has him frowning deeply. She looks miserable.

Kiernan begins, "Are you—"

He's quieted by his shirt whacking his face. He reaches up, pulling the fabric off his head. And when he frees his vision, Gianna is already gone, her happy singing replaced by angry stomps and sniffs of held-back tears.

Of course. She heard the phone call.

He grips his shirt tightly and stares at the wrinkled fabric. This is better for her. For both of them. She wouldn't last if she knew that he awakens like that every night. Sometimes it takes hours for him to find his way back to reality. If she knew the things he'd done to others and what he'd allowed to be done to him, she'd be disgusted.

They could never work.

He knows this, but his heart aches anyway.