Chapter 14 Siren Song

— 14 —

SIREN SONG

Oz

I'M NOT SURE what I expected to find behind the bedroom door, but I'm surprised to find Gemma exactly where I left her, sitting on the edge of my bed. Her gaze sweeps my face as I step into the bright room, then lowers to take stock of the items I brought with me.

I set everything on the dresser beside me to free my hands, then mutter a quick command for Angel to stay outside the room before closing the door. I leave the clothes, food, medical supplies, and her tan backpack from Eviction where I set them and pick up the plastic water bottle. I twist off the lid as I walk over, holding it out for her to take.

She throws me a suspicious look. "Did you put something in that?"

"Does it matter if I did? You need water. Drink."

Fuck, she looks tired.

She seems to have come back from wherever she mentally retreated, though she looks like she'd pass out if I gave her a little nudge to make her fall back on the bed.

I'm half-tempted to try it.

"Take it, pink. I'm not trying to drug you. I just don't want you to die of dehydration on my bed."

Her pretty eyes are on the bottle in my hand. She wants it.

I have half a mind to grab her by the chin, pry her lips open with my fingers, and force the water down her throat myself. But I need to have some self-control if I want her to trust me.

Like the self-control I had throwing her around on the stairs…

I wait, and eventually, she reaches out to take it. She holds it in front of her, looking down at it distrustfully.

"Earlier, you said something about taking a shower. So, you have running water?"

"Yeah."

She stands, walks across the bedroom, and enters the attached bathroom. I'm confused for a moment, but then I hear the crackle of the plastic water bottle being squeezed, and the glug, glug, glug of water being dumped out.

I move to stand in the doorway between my bedroom and the bathroom, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe to watch her. When the bottle is empty, she turns on the faucet, watches the water sputter for a few seconds until the flow smooths out and steadies, and then she refills the bottle from the stream.

I look at her reflection in the mirror behind the sink, watching as she turns off the faucet and raises her chin. She lifts the bottle to her lips, tilts it up, and drinks. The reflection of her stare meets the reflection of mine. The heat behind her eyes burns with defiance for her minor act of rebellion, and she holds me there for seconds as she sips.

But then, the relief of sated thirst washes over her, and her eyes fall shut. I watch the way her throat works as she swallows each satisfying drink. She quickly downs half the bottle before lowering it, then lets out a pleased sigh.

Goddamn, this woman is dangerous for me.

I haven't had such a strong desire to fuck a particular woman in almost a decade. Of course, I've wanted to fuck women in general, but this need to fuck one in particular is throwing me off. I'm intensely physically attracted to her—and that's really something, considering the fact that she's probably the least attractive today than she'll ever be again.

The orange jumpsuit doesn't exactly suit her, and though she was likely required to shower at the Transition Center, that may as well have been a lifetime ago—she's been out sweating her ass off in the desert all day. A light dusting of desert sand and dried blood coats her skin, and her pretty pink hair is twisted and tangled in knots from all our tumbling and fighting.

And I still find her breathtakingly stunning.

I'll probably have a heart attack once Salem cleans her up.

But there's also this other kind of attraction—something deeper than the physical. There's a magnetic draw to engage with her, an insistent obsession for the way she hates me. I would never tolerate the way she speaks to me from anyone else, so I don't know why I like it when it comes from her. The way I'm enjoying the power struggle is a total mind-fuck.

"For the record, I didn't put anything in your water."

"I wasn't willing to take that chance."

"So, should I get rid of the food I brought you, too? I don't want you tossing that shit in my bathroom sink."

There's a slight pause before she asks, "What do you have?"

"Turn around."

Something flickers through her expression, not exactly a flinch, but some brief twinge of pain as she acknowledges my command.

Did someone she know before give her commands?

Did they tell her to turn around?

Did they hurt her once she did?

She lifts the bottle to her lips, takes her sweet time swigging down another long drink. Once she's nearly emptied the bottle, she places it on the countertop and turns to face me with a relenting sigh. "So, this is where it starts… You command and I obey in exchange for food? I'm honestly too tired to play these games. Just tell me what you expect me to do so I can eat."

I push off the doorframe and move in front of her, slowly filling the space between us. She backs up as I close in, but there's nowhere for her to retreat. Her ass collides with the edge of the counter behind her, and I take advantage of her position to cage her in. I stretch my arms around her, placing both palms flat on either side of the countertop.

I wasn't gonna make her do anything for the food, but if she's gonna insist on me being another villain in her story, then I'm gonna have a little fun letting her think she's right.

She might not be wrong…

"What would you be willing to do for me, Gemma?" I tilt my head and watch her carefully. "How badly do you wanna eat tonight?"

Her gaze briefly drops to my lips before she gives me her eyes, showing me all the intensity she can muster despite her exhaustion.

With a steady, quiet voice, she says, "I can go without."

"Not forever."

"Long enough to get away from you."

"You think denying yourself food is gonna keep you strong enough to escape me?"

She lets a vicious, adorable smile tug at the corners of her lips. "I'll be stronger than you when you're dead."

"No, you won't, baby…" I lean close and her hands shoot up between us. Her palms brace against my chest, though she doesn't push me back. With my cheek pressed to hers and my lips brushing the shell of her ear, I whisper a promise—one I have no business making, "When I die, I'm taking you with me."

I expect her to shove me or scream at me, so I grip her hips with both hands, hoisting her up to sit on the counter before she can react. I press in close and stand between her knees so she can't escape me.

Surprisingly, her fingers twist, bunching the fabric of my shirt as she uses it to pull herself up against me. Her spine stretches as she lifts her chin over my shoulder, bringing her lips to my ear to speak, just as I did to her.

"I'm already a ghost," she whispers. "You can't kill someone who's already dead."

She leans back, pauses just long enough to show me how easily I inspire her tears; a glossy sheen has appeared over her hazel eyes, and it makes the bronze hues glimmer like gold under the sun's glow. Her hands glide down my chest. Her fingertips brush lightly, though they burn like fire, trailing down through the trenches of carnal lust already etched into my soul.

And then she relents.

She slumps as her hands fall away. She lets her head drop back against the mirror. Her palms rest on the counter, one beside each hip, and she turns her eyes away from me, gazing off at nothing.

She's entirely at my mercy. I could do anything I want to her. I feel my self-control slipping, falling away to make room for depraved urges that insist on thoughtless action. I dig my fingers into her hips, drag her ass to the edge, and push my cock against her pussy. My body shudders at the mistaken perception that relief is coming for the throbbing ache in my cock.

Relief isn't coming.

I'm not fucking her.

I can't… not like this.

In a vain attempt, I take a deep breath to steel my resolve, then try to get her talking.

"So, they call you the Siren." My eyes wander, roving across her face. "I have to assume that's a reference to mermaid lore. Sirens would sing to lure sailors to their death, right? The men you killed… Did you sing them a song before you ended their lives?"

She's dead in the eyes—resigned. But she hasn't fully retreated like before. I can still sense her fighting spirit there, only shielded behind a wall of glass.

She doesn't speak, but slowly grants me a subtle nod.

"What song did you sing?"

Muted amusement rolls through her features. "I'll sing it to you one day, I promise." She holds my stare for a beat, and then she looks away. "Just do it, okay? Use me if that's what you want. I just can't…" She sighs, and her heavy eyelids fall shut. "I don't have the fucking energy to fight you anymore tonight."

"Is that what you want, Gemma?" I drag my palms down her thighs before running them back up again, sliding them over her hips and reaching around to grip her ass. "You wanna be used?"

My cock thickens, straining against its denim cage.

My self-control is fading quickly. The darkness I've been hiding within me for so long is rising to the surface, and it begs me to give in.

It tells me to forget all the rules.

It tells me I could use her if I wanted to.

It tells me I could fuck her right here, right now.

It tells me I could do whatever the fuck I wanna do to her. I could be the vicious annihilator the judge and jury claimed me to be. I could live the lawless life they sentenced me to lead.

Fuck.

My stomach twists, wrings out knots of lust that send a flood of need rushing straight through my cock. One hand remains on her ass while the other sinks into her hair, my fingers catching in tangled strands as they reach around to the back of her head. I cradle her skull in my palm as I pull her away from the mirror, drawing her close against my chest.

I twist her knotted hair, tightening my grip around a dense section, and jerk her head sideways. She lets out a whimper, but she doesn't cry out, she doesn't fight the pull. She just lets me do it. I search her face for a few seconds, but all she gives me are quiet tears, and even those seem to be drying up.

Come on, cherry blossom… Give me something.

I hold her in place by her hair and bend down to run my tongue along the tender flesh just beneath her jawline. I start beneath her chin, and lick all the way up, sweeping behind her ear until my tongue reaches her hairline. I taste her skin, her sweat, the iron-tang of dried blood.

Fuck, her filth tastes good.

There's a bloodthirsty beast inside me, and he howls at her raw taste. It makes me move. It has me grinding my cock against her softness. It wants me to let go and say my final goodbye to my self-control.

I can't lose control… not now.

I'll lose everything I've built.

Stop.

Step back.

I fight for power over this pure, carnal lust. Somehow, I manage to drag my hips back, but another shudder of desperate need ripples through me. I thrust, slamming my dick so hard between her legs that it's nearly painful. A strangled groan escapes her, though she's still limp in my hold, lifeless and disengaged. Her lackluster response only tempts me to be rough with her.

I trail down the beautiful slope of her neck, kissing and nipping at her flesh as I follow the curve toward her shoulder. She tenses at my scraping teeth, and the subtle protest is fuel to the fire. It has me groaning, pressing hard, kneading her flesh with grinding thumps.

"Goddamn, you feel so good, baby."

I get nothing in response.

I lift away from her neck, shift my grip in her hair, and yank it straight back to aim her chin at the ceiling.

I'm fucking panting.

I don't remember the last time I was this stupidly desperate.

"Tell me to stop," I plead.

She doesn't speak. She just looks at me, blinking away the remaining tears from her unfocused eyes as my hips work.

Shit. Have I lost her again?

"Tell me to fucking stop, Gemma."

"What would be the point?" Her voice is low-pitched and flat, but there's enough movement in her expression to tell me she's still present.

If she's mentally present, then she's capable of telling me to stop if that's what she wants… And if she tells me to stop, I'll stop.

Fucking liar.

A baneful laugh crawls out of me from the darkness within, rumbling across her skin as I dip to press a kiss to her throat. My hand falls from her hair to wrap around her back, and I hug her to my chest. I burrow my fingers into her ass with the other hand and lift her off the counter. Her thighs instinctively squeeze around my hips, which helps me move her, though I only make it through the doorway into the bedroom before desperation begs me to get her on her back.

I fall to my knees, drop her on the carpet, and climb over her.

The rough motion seems to have woken her up a bit. She tries to slip backward and get out from beneath me, but I grab her wrists, slam her arms to the carpet above her head, and pin her body beneath the weight of mine. Her legs are spread on either side of me, and she moves them with slow kicks, almost lethargically testing her range of motion. There isn't much. She can bend her knees and draw them back or stretch them out straight, but my insistent hips hold hers in place.

She starts to shake her head, but the beast doesn't want her protests. I shift to hold her wrists in my left hand, bringing my right hand to her throat and squeeze.

Gemma stills.

Her eyes widen, but only just a little before she forces her eyelids to stop mid-rise, as though she's attempting to hide her fear. I don't actually want her to fear me in this way, but my intolerable appetite for sparring with her takes a bite of her unease, and it finds that satisfying enough.

My hips grind, pulsing against her.

"Are you gonna tell me to stop now, professor ?"

Something inside her snaps at the nickname—I feel it crack and ripple like an earthquake between our bodies.

She punches me in the gut with a single syllable. " Don't ." The word is scolding, intense, scorching me with the heat of a thousand suns.

The pain of that alone should stop me…

It doesn't.

"I couldn't hear you." I slip my right hand up her throat and over her chin to cover her mouth. "Say it louder." I feel a grin pull at my cheeks, though I didn't call for it to appear.

She comes to life beneath my hand. Her face scrunches in anger as she thrashes. She tries to scream, but her sounds are muffled as I stretch my palm wide across her face. I dig my fingers into her cheeks and press down, holding her head in place so she can't turn away from me.

And with my hand over her face, I see how flawlessly we fit.

I turn my palm and lift it higher, aligning the tattooed image of a partial skull on the back of my hand with her face. Two blacked out voids inked across the knuckle of my index finger represent the vacant nasal cavities of the skull which lays perfectly over the tip of her nose.

My index finger rests over the bridge of her nose, aimed straight up, and resting on the center of her forehead. I slide my other three fingers down toward her cheek, creating a gap between the middle and index finger, framing her eye between them.

With my palm stretched wide, and my thumb pressed to the opposite cheek, the tattooed grin of a skeleton spreads beautifully over her lips.

I can feel her thrashing beneath me.

I can hear her whimper and moan under my grip.

I can see fire in her eyes, the anger returning with such ease, despite the way she thought it left her.

And the way her pretty pink hair creates a halo of femininity to frame the masculine lines and edgy style of the black-ink tattoo… It stops my heart.

I'm mesmerized by the image.

Her hands grip my forearm, and she's pulling hard, but I'm not ready to look away yet. I press harder, though I can sense her gasping, tugging my arm, flinging desperately as she gasps for breath. It's not my intention to take her breath away, but I'm captivated by the wild beauty of the woman beneath my palm.

My mind fuses her skin with the image etched in mine, making her appear as though she's half dead and half alive.

But I don't just see it… I feel it.

Her feral pink soul is hovering between life and death, and I think that was true before I found her… She's hovering between life and death now as she fights for breath beneath my palm.

I blink.

Gemma disappears, and I see Emaline lying beneath me.

She's half dead, too.

She's looking up at me and smiling, though the grin is her own—not placed there by a smiling skull drawn on my hand.

There's a halo around her head, but it isn't pink.

It's red, and it's ever-growing.

It's blood, and she's dying.

She's dying.

Emaline is still. Her eyelashes flutter as she fights her heavy lids.

They flutter shut over dark eyes, and then…

They open wide to hazel shades of swirling green and bronze.

Fuck, she can't breathe.

I tear my hand away from Gemma's face and climb off her, scrambling to move away as she gasps for air, struggling to take a deep enough breath to satisfy her lungs.

I sit with my back to the wall, place my elbows on my bent knees, and drop my head into my hands. I watch her from beneath my lashes as she rolls to her side. Panting, she curls into the fetal position.

Minutes pass while she lies still.

Her breathing gradually slows to a normal cadence.

She doesn't move, she doesn't look at me, she doesn't speak.

Nothing happens until, softly, she begins to sing.

I lift my head and let my hands drop between my knees. At first, she sings so quietly, I can hardly understand the words, and there's nothing immediately familiar about the tune. I sit still, and I watch as she spellbinds me with her song. I know she's not singing for me, but I'm compelled to listen all the same.

She reaches the chorus, and I recognize it now…

Angel of the Morning by Juice Newton.

It's interesting because I think that's the same song the man with the Reborn was whistling at the Crevice—I remember how it caught her attention.

It must be her Siren song.

She cycles through every emotion as she sings the rest. Tears fill her eyes, run down her cheeks, and a sob cracks her voice during the refrain. Then emptiness follows, making the melody hollow, void of emotion. Next, she's struck by humor, and an oddly placed laugh breaks through her words. The rest is sung sorrowfully, mournfully, her sadness reframing the lyrics as a recollection of haunting memories.

And then, silence falls

It's deafening.