Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Carmine spent most of the next two nights of their long drive contemplating how one went about being defiled. She knew the mechanics. They'd given brides all sorts of lessons about anatomy, reproduction, and sexual health. Spouses paid top dollar for their brides, so that meant they had to arrive fully educated and ready to do their duty.

She learned ways to pleasure a partner, no matter what anatomy they sported, and she understood the intricacies of reproduction. Carmine knew it might take a year or more to become pregnant, since her body needed to acclimate to her groom's venom first, and that both the process of becoming pregnant and giving birth would be deeply challenging.

She also knew the facts she'd faced on her slab: what a body looked like when it carried a child and when it hadn't and the various shapes and colors of sexual organs.

But seduction? Enticement? Carmine had no basis for that. It was always a given that she would be the one who endured advances, not the one giving them. She had no idea where to start.

It didn't help that Atticus was hugely intimidating. There wasn't a single moment when she wasn't aware of him. Every rustle of his clothing, every soft sound, every brush of his fingers — he took up more space in her mind than he did in the RV, which was really saying something.

It didn't help that she was fairly certain he wasn't interested in her. That should have been a relief, but for some reason it rankled. Fuck no, he'd said.

Good. She didn't want to be anyone's blood bride.

But she needed him to defile her so no one would want her, and also… Well, it didn't feel nice to get that reaction.

Whatever. I can still do this.

Carmine only needed one chance, one moment, one person. If not him, then maybe he'd know someone who could do it. Surely there had to be a person out there willing to take her virginity who wouldn't expect to keep her, right?

It certainly sounded like there were a lot of people on Empire Estate. Atticus had filled her silences between unremarkable facts about her life with his low, raspy voice. He told her about how it used to be a gold mine, and that Harlan had a good crew of men he'd taken with him from the New Zone. They all lived on or around the estate and worked for him, either helping him with his many businesses or doing security, and not all of them were vampires, so she didn't have to worry about unwanted advances. Someone would always be around to keep her safe.

Would one of those men help her? It was a risk to wait that long. What if Atticus was lying? She was beginning to believe he wasn't, but she knew well that anyone could lie or change their mind. Carmine was entirely powerless. If it turned out he wasn't driving her to the fairytale land of stone cottages and witches named Zia and all the glittery eyeshadow she wanted, then what could she do?

Nothing. Nothing but ruin the one thing the crypt's matron told her was most important.

No one wants a bride who's been sullied. Be like the Merciful One. Be pure so your line will be untainted and your blood sweet.

Carmine's virginity was a weight around her neck. A target. A glaring neon sign that marked her as prey. She wanted to throw it out the RV's window and watch it burst into a thousand pieces. Maybe ask Atticus to reverse over it.

Her mind churned as she rolled a bottle of synth between her palms. Atticus kept trying to get her to drink, but she didn't like the taste of the brand he bought to replace what was in the RV already. The other was too chemically. This one was too bland.

He kept casting her dark looks that usually preceded a command for her to drink, but she ignored him. If he hadn't punished her for her escape attempts, she felt reasonably confident he wouldn't do it over a little synth.

"Who's Michael?"

Atticus didn't jump at her sudden question, but his rough, tattooed knuckles went white on the steering wheel. "Why?"

"You said he was going to pick me up. When you were talking to Harlan the other night."

"He's one of the boss's crew," he answered, scowling. "A demon. Nice enough, but he's not a talker."

Neither was she. Carmine could work with that.

She tilted her head, considering, flipping through the few demons she'd met on her slab. They were very interesting. They had horns or antlers, depending on the clan, and they were built so sturdy it took extra effort to prepare their bodies for burial. Her needles liked to bend when she pushed them through, fixing whatever was broken or torn or contorted in death, and she had to use pliers to get a good enough grip.

A demon could probably protect her. She'd read things about how devoted they were to mates. That could work.

Her goal was to lose her virginity and disappear, but there was always another option: She could find a good, strong mate. It didn't sit right with her, not when she knew they'd expect her to give up her work, but maybe things would be different if he wasn't a vampire — something she'd never even contemplated.

The bland synth went sour in her stomach at the thought of throwing herself at a man she'd never met, but she asked, "Does he have a mate?"

Atticus's head whipped around. His eyes went narrow and dangerous in a way she hadn't seen since that first night when he peered at her over the barrel of his gun. "Why the fuck are you asking?"

Carmine tried very hard not to tense. The fear that he'd discover her plan was a cold, hard weight in her gut. He can't know. If he knows, he'll try and stop me.

Forget about not being able to seduce him. If he suspected she was trying to lose her virginity by any means necessary, he wouldn't let her leave his sight. She'd never get the chance.

Lying was not her strong suit, but she'd learned that sometimes saying a part of the truth was good enough.

"I was curious," she hedged. "You made it sound like only Harlan has an anchor. Are all the other men single?" Please say yes.

Atticus looked like he'd just smelled something foul. Moving his attention back to the road, he bit out, "Yes."

Another thought occurred to her. A zing of something went down her spine. It wasn't pleasant. It was very much not like the times he smiled at her. "Do you have an anchor?" Please say no.

"No." And going by his tone, not to mention how he'd reacted to the idea of her being his bride, she guessed he didn't want one.

That was a good thing. It meant that if she did seduce him — by the gods, she still had to try, her ego be damned — he wouldn't try to keep her. She could be sullied and then on her way.

"Drink your synth," Atticus growled.

Carmine wasn't a fan of how it made her feel knowing he didn't want her. She could understand logically that it was good, but when she looked at him and felt that deep, dark pull in the pit of her stomach, she wanted something she had no name for — not to mention a hunger she couldn't satisfy with synth and an ache in her fangs that made her want to rip them out by the roots.

And that made her irritable. His bottle sat nearly untouched in the cupholder. What right did he have to order her to drink when he wouldn't?

"You drink your synth," she snapped back, pitifully churlish.

Atticus glowered at the road, lit by the beams of the RV's headlights. "I have plenty of mass to burn. You don't. Drink, Carmine."

Never in her life had she lacked an appetite. Except for immediately after a meal, she always felt the rumblings of hunger. Like most venom neutral vampires, she struggled to keep on weight. They had higher metabolisms than most vampires. She'd read that it had something to do with their predisposition toward consuming the blood of other vampires and their unusual venom production that messed with their nutritional needs, but the research on the subject was inadequate.

Whatever the reason, brides drank nearly twice as much synth as an average vampire. Their appetites were endless, which made it a perfect target for exploitation. The best punishment for a bride was simply cutting their meals down.

Atticus seemed to know she needed more synth than him. He was constantly hounding her to drink more. To finish his bottle. To go grab another and sip as he drove.

Unfortunately, for the first time in her life, Carmine didn't want synth. She wasn't sure if it was all the upheaval and stress or just that she was unlucky with the brands he'd chosen, but it tasted foul. She could barely force it down, no matter how empty her stomach felt.

Complaining wasn't going to get her anywhere. He paid for the synth, so what could she say? She knew that she ought to force it down and be grateful. But her venom gland wouldn't stop aching, her fangs hurt, fear about her future held her by the throat, and she was hungry.

She didn't think it through before she dropped her bottle into the cupholder beside his. Agitated, stifled by the air that tasted like him and the restless need that couldn't be named, she fumbled with her seatbelt until it unlatched. An alarm went off, presumably to alert her that she needed to put it back on, but she didn't care.

"What are you— Carmine, sit your ass down." One big, tattooed paw reached for her, but she was already squirming out of his reach. The vehicle slowed, the sudden change in speed making her sway and clutch the wall as she tried to make her way to the back.

"Where are you going?" Atticus barked. "Carmine, you need to be strapped in. If we got into an accident?—"

She wasn't sure why she was so mad at him or where her temper came from. Carmine wasn't a fighter. She was a thinker. A listener. A planner. And yet… "Are you a bad driver?"

It sounded like it came from between his teeth when he answered, "No."

"Then don't crash."

"Doll, if you don't sit your ass down, I'm gonna pull over."

She planned on curling up in the bed and stewing on how to rid herself of her virginity, but she wasn't about to tell him that, so she asked, "So? What'll you do then?"

There was a moment of taut silence. Her heart raced. For a second she thought it was dread that made her blood rush, but that wasn't right. She knew the anticipation that came just before a punishment. The fear. The swooping feeling of helplessness.

This wasn't the same.

She kept walking, determined to keep her footing as the RV jostled over the road, but she was keenly aware of the vampire at her back. He could do anything to her. Atticus hadn't punished her yet, but that didn't mean he wouldn't. A couple of trinkets from a gas station didn't mean he was a good guy.

So why wasn't she afraid?

Just as she reached the bed, Atticus breathed deep and said, "You're upset."

Well, she had nothing to say to that, did she? So she didn't reply. Carmine pulled the covers back with some force, yanking the blankets out of the tight corners she folded every dusk, and slid rebelliously beneath the covers.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd simply gone back to bed. It never would have been allowed at the crypt. There was always some lesson to be learned, some work to be done. Taking a nap would have been seen as slovenly behavior.

Maybe that was why she was pitching a fit. She'd never sat so long in one place in her life. She didn't have her work to occupy her. Just her thoughts, her worries, and him.

Fuck no, he'd said.

Drink your synth, he'd ordered.

Well, if he wasn't going to be her groom, then he could shove his orders somewhere tender.

Jerk.

"Carmine—"

"I'm sitting down like you wanted," she told him, using a tone she never would have gotten away with in the crypt. Adrenaline raced through her veins as she turned on her side to face the wall.

She blinked. All at once, her ire deflated like a popped corpse. Why am I challenging him? I've got nothing to be mad about. Not really.

Carmine understood that she was stressed and physically uncomfortable, but that had never made her so reckless or irritable before. It'd simply never been safe enough for her to risk it.

Oh. That embarrassed, crawly feeling washed over her.

She wished she'd had the forethought to change into the shirt he let her borrow. The matron had included two plain night dresses in her box of clothing, but she'd conveniently left them in the trailer. Atticus's shirt was more comfortable and it smelled better, like something spicy and rich that made her mouth water.

"Dollface, if you talk to me, I can make whatever it is you're upset about better." There was a pause, then, quieter, "I'd like to make it better."

Her stomach cramped with hunger, and she was forced to swallow a mouthful of saliva as a wave of need hit her. It wasn't just the need to eat, but an impulse that made the muscles of her jaw flex. It was the instinct to bite.

The madness that had possessed her to throw a fit was gone and replaced by another sort: the urge to be near the person who made her feel safe.

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him. Carmine desperately wanted to believe that everything he said was true, that she could trust him to help her, but what if she was wrong? The risks terrified her. If she told him that she needed him to take her virginity, he'd see all her cards. The only bit of power over her own life she had left would vanish in an instant.

So she didn't tell him. Instead, she reached beneath her pillow and retrieved her treasures. After sliding the scrunchy onto her wrist, she occupied herself with reading the instructions on the back of the eyeshadow palette and the ingredient list on the lip gloss tube.

She read it and she thought, How hard can seduction be, anyway?