Chapter 9

Gift

He had eaten, Dante noticed, and he was pleased about it. Both boys sat at the counter and stared as Dante stood in the entryway. Ollie eyed him with exasperated judgment, and his thrall was on edge and wary, a sudden move away from action—either bolting or attacking, Dante didn’t know which.

Dante slowly walked into the kitchen with the box in his hand. It contained something he’d picked up before returning to the apartment, and he knew his thrall was going to hate it.

Jimmy jumped up from the sofa, looking no worse for wear, and joined them in the kitchen.

“Liam could use your help at the Greens Port warehouse,” Dante said to Jimmy. “Luther’s going to send us more product soon.”

Dante watched the boy stiffen at his words.

“Okay, Boss. I’ll be off then,” Jimmy said. Dante nodded as the young vampire hurried out of the apartment.

Ollie set down a napkin and slid off the barstool. “Welcome back, Lord Dante,” he said. “I think you need to have a good chat with your new thrall. And explain a few things to him.”

“Indeed I do,” Dante replied. “You can head home now. I’m sure Abram can’t even pick out his tie without you.”

Ollie laughed, easy as a summer breeze. “I set one out for him before I left,” he said, then turned to the boy. “Can I come back and visit sometimes?”

He couldn’t quite mask his stunned bewilderment as he’d watched the exchange between Dante and Ollie. The boy nodded before remembering words.

“Yeah,” he said.

Ollie sent him a brilliant smile. “Good.” Then for Dante, he replaced his smile with firm scolding eyes. “I’m going to order some clothes for him. I’ll have them sent here.”

Dante had noticed the boy wore Ollie’s borrowed clothes, and he regretted not getting to see his own clothes draped loosely over that lithe body.

“Black,” Dante called to Ollie, as he was already making his way to the entryway. “I like the color on him.”

Ollie looked at the boy questioningly. “That okay with you?”

Again, it appeared he was taken aback. “That’s… that’s fine,” he answered.

Ollie gave him a last warm smile before leaving the apartment. Then Dante and his thrall were alone. Expectation crackled around them, the boy waiting to see what Dante would do. He focused on Dante’s movements, the way he casually leaned against the counter, holding the box and observing him right back. The boy let nothing slip by him.

“Would you like the grand tour? Or should we get straight to business?” Dante asked.

“What’s in the box?”

Dante let out a low rumbling chuckle. “Business it is then. Let’s talk in my office.”

He almost gestured an after you, having no doubt the boy knew the way to his office. But Dante went ahead, sparing the boy from feeling like a threat was at his back.

Dante set the box down on his desk. Though nothing was out of place, he could tell that the boy had been in here. The scent of soap and deep forests clung to the air. Dante turned for the liquor cabinet. The boy stood just inside the threshold, and Dante thrilled that he hadn’t heard him follow—impressive little thing.

Dante grabbed a lowball glass and asked, “Would you like a drink?”

“No.”

Unsurprised, Dante dropped in two ice cubes from the small freezer. Then he poured himself an amaretto. Abram had tried to get him to enjoy whiskey or bourbon ever since the time of the American Old West, but his roots were too strong, and he preferred the milder nutty flavor of amaretto or the unparalleled wines of the Italian countryside.

Dante turned, the ice clinking within the honey-colored liquid. “Alright then. The box is for you. Go ahead.”

The boy narrowed his fierce eyes but said nothing as he went to the desk. Every move he made was sleek and gracile. Dante took a sip of his drink and followed. When the boy lifted the lid and revealed the item inside, Dante crowded close to his back, not quite touching, and peered over his shoulder.

The little rebel took the collar in his hands. Rather than the typical hard-to-break metal, this one was black leather, about an inch thick. It was spelled by witches to be just as unbreakable as the metal, and Dante had already programmed the clasp to his touch.

Slender fingers tightened around the collar as if to rip it into shreds, and Dante felt the anger coiling through the boy’s body. Dante pressed closer, setting down his glass and caging the boy between his bigger body and the desk. Dante placed his hands over the boy’s and freed the leather from his grip.

“This will ensure your safety. No other vampire will dare touch you.”

“I don’t want it.” The words came out pained and raw, with more emotion than the boy had shown so far. Even the whipping hadn’t affected him like this. And Dante knew why. With too much clarity, he remembered the collar forced on him as if it wasn’t an eternity ago. Torture, pain, or death—all were preferable.

But Dante wrapped the collar around his thrall’s neck and locked it in place. It fit perfectly. Most collars were designed thinner and fit lower on the neck, displaying the thrall mark. But Dante quite liked how this one hugged the boy’s long slender neck, one fang mark showing just above the leather.

Dante turned him by the hips, and steely gray eyes pierced Dante’s own. Defiance tried to shield the boy’s pain.

“Your name,” Dante said.

“Do you even care?”

He did but doubted the boy would believe him. “Should I keep calling you little rebel? My pet? Sweetheart?”

“—Echo. My name is Echo.” 

It was a rebel’s name, and Dante wondered what the boy’s real name had been. He stroked the collar around Echo’s throat, fingertips softly brushing. Dante enjoyed the feel of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the supple leather as he swallowed hard.

“Echo,” Dante said, deep and rumbling.

Echo shivered, affected but fighting it. At least his body was honest. Dante felt his thrall’s hard length press against him. He smirked as Echo tried to lean away, but it only pushed their lower bodies tighter together. Dante ran his hands down to Echo’s chest, appraising the compact muscles—no doubt a product of intensive training. He roamed lower, until a sharp fire went for his heart.

Dante snatched Echo’s wrist before the blade ended things prematurely. But it had pierced him, and blood made hot from the silver bloomed over his white shirt.

For the first time in a long while, Dante experienced surprise. He’d left the knife in his pocket for the boy to take, but he thought for sure he would sense the moment—he hadn’t. And Echo surpassing his expectations was deliciously exciting.

Holding onto Echo’s slim wrist, Dante removed the tip of the blade from his flesh. More blood seeped from the wound. It would heal slower, but he wasn’t permanently damaged.

“How about we make a deal?” Dante stated.

Echo had been trembling but now froze. He peered up at Dante with a mix of fear, confusion, and hostility.

“I’ll let you keep your knife,” Dante said. “And in return, you don’t try to kill me with it… Not until King Luther is dead.”