Disclaimer: Dark Shadows doesn't belong to me. If it did, there would be many more tasteless scenes like the one you're about to read.
Episode 295
Maggie was back. She was feeble, she was fog-eyed and childlike, but she was back, and this could send everything spiraling straight to hell.
It was a disaster that could end in his discovery and demise, and this infuriating woman had the audacity to say she had the situation under control.
"How do you consider this under control?" he growled at Julia Hoffman, his body effectively pinning her against the counter in the drawing room. He'd threatened to dispose of her just a minute prior and he wasn't backing down just yet. She didn't look effectively intimidated, though. She looked away from him with a triumphant gleam in her dark eyes, lashes squeezing together as she concocted a response.
"Because I'm going down there. And when I finish with Maggie Evans, there won't be the slightest possibility of her ever remembering anything." A smirk was draped across her features, full lips upturned in a decidedly dominant smile, and he realized (exasperatingly) that he still needed her. There was still hope that the Evans girl wouldn't give everything away, and while that hope existed, he was forced to cling to it.
But he could continue to keep her aware of his displeasure of her arrogance. She was still balancing on a dangerous precipice, and she knew it, or she should, anyway.
"For your own sake, I hope you are correct, doctor," he breathed, stepping an inch closer and snaking a hand to her slender neck. Instead of choking her as per his habit, he brought his hand to her hair and yanked her head back. She made a startled noise and her hands flew to his arms, gripping them as if to push him away. He leaned into her and his breath brushed the soft skin of her jaw. "For your sake," he repeated softly, almost gently, and as his fangs protruded from his teeth, he allowed them to graze her throat—not hard enough to puncture, but enough for the threat to be dangerously prominent, enough for a twinge of pain and a promise of suffering.
Her grip on his arms tightened and she shoved. Stumbling back a few steps, he glared at her for her audacity, but was taken aback by the expression on her face.
"You don't want to threaten me, Barnabas Collins," she said, her voice low, gravelly. There was a flush across her cheeks and a challenge in her eyes. He felt a palpable twinge in his stomach and stepped back to her instinctively, grabbing her upper arm and squeezing.
"You're going to wish you hadn't done that, Doctor Hoffman," he said, his voice low. He couldn't break her gaze—a hard and determined glare, a stubborn promise of a personal agenda. He'd never seen such fierceness in a woman, with one exception he'd rather not focus on. And that particular witch was unhinged, anyway, while this woman was decidedly and dangerously sane.
"Am I?" she said. "If you kill me now, Doctor Woodard will tend to Maggie. After a while, the memories will begin to come back to her."
"Not if I kill her first."
"And risk whatever backup plans I may have made to expose you in the case of my demise? That's quite a chance, Barnabas." Her glare was unyielding. "One, I daresay, I doubt you'll take."
"You think you know quite a lot, Doctor." His grip tightened and he backed her further against the room's fixture. "You might find your well-being isn't as secure as you'd like it to be."
He could feel the warmth of her now, pressed so tightly against him. Her heart was racing and the proximity of her throat was toying with his self-control and he wondered why this woman was so stubborn, why she couldn't just feel threatened already.
And then—she started to move. Her free hand ran its way up his arm, resting on his lapel. Startled by the motion, he didn't move to stop her, but kept his firm grip on her other arm.
"You need me, Barnabas," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know what I can do for you. You're enticed by the idea. You're not going to let me die now." He was struck then by the peculiar brand of femininity she bore. Her words were careful: not manipulative but aggressive and confident, something sharp and distinctly different from the women he'd always been attracted to in the past. There was a distinct sexuality in this sharpness, in the brazen words she spoke, in the cool intelligence of her gaze. He hadn't noticed it before. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced, and he found himself uncomfortable with the effect it had on his own sense of control.
She shifted against him and he was painfully aware of all the parts of her that were pressed against him—the softness of her breasts, the sharp angle of her hip, and the curve of her thigh. She leaned in and said, so softly in his ear, "you need me, Barnabas," and he gave up on the whole concept of control.
With a feral noise of indeterminate origin, he grabbed her other arm and flung her against the wall next to the mantle. Before she could protest, his lips were on hers, hungrily taking whatever they had to offer.
And she writhed against him. Her motions were as aggressive as his; she tugged hard on his hair to bring him even closer, her teeth closing over his lower lip somewhat painfully. He had released her arms to run his hands over her lithe body, and at this motion, he allowed his hand to grip her thigh as he pushed her even harder into the wall. She brought her hands to his shoulders and leaned her lips away from his, redirecting her attention to his neck, where she suckled the curve of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. He responded in kind by forcing her head back by the hair, much like he had earlier, and pressing hard, violent kisses to the soft, salty skin between her neck and shoulder. She squirmed and he pulled harder, attempting to enforce his dominance with this infuriating woman.
Her hands, small and strong, found their way to his chest where she slipped her hands into the sleeves of his jacket, pulling the garment from his shoulders. He shrugged it off, releasing his grip on her hair, and she took that opportunity to seize control and push him up against the wall, reversing the power dynamic and smiling into his jaw.
"Julia," he said lowly as her hand traveled down his torso, nearing the uncomfortable bulge in his pants with vexatious slowness.
She kissed him long and hard, fighting his tongue with hers and tracing the sharp curves of his teeth, all while stroking the aching area through his pants, a sensuous motion dripping with promise of fulfillment.
But then she stopped. She stepped back and straightened her hair, gazing at him carefully. "See," she said huskily as their eyes locked, "you do need me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go see to Maggie."
She exited the room, leaving him angry, unraveled, unfulfilled and, worst of all, uncertain.