by Renea Mason
Stanton’s admiration served to whet my appetite. “Is he undead? Does he drink blood? How can he move like that?”
Stanton shook his head, amusement crossing his features. “He’s very much alive, eats food like you and me.” He paused. “I’m afraid I have officially said too much. We have a housekeeper on site. Her name is Mary. I’ll send her up with refreshments. When Cyril is home, I’ll let him know you need to talk.”
“Thank you, Stanton. Before you go, just two more things, please?” I gave my best pleading, damsel-in-distress look.
“Go ahead, but I won’t guarantee I will answer.”
“So you’re obviously not the butler. Are you and Cyril…ah…I mean… Do you live together? He never mentioned having family.” He raised an eyebrow, but before he responded I interjected. “And who helped me into these clothes?”
He smiled and laughed again, a seemingly common response of his when dealing with me. “Are you asking if we are a couple?”
I nodded.
“No.” He shifted his weight for one foot to the other and sighed. “Anyway, as for your clothes, Cyril tossed me out of the room. No one was to see you but him.”
I was elated to know Cyril was not involved with Overton, but still pissed off he undressed me. “All right…thank you.”
He paused before leaving. “I have a question for you. Do you really not know how you got his blood?”
“Of course I know, but I certainly didn’t steal it. It was an accident, but I think I’ll leave that explanation for him if you don’t mind.” Two could play this game.
“Fair enough. Rest well, Miss Hill.”
* * *
Later, Mary, the housekeeper, brought in a cart. Strange. She didn’t look me in the eye or make a sound. She nodded at my questions, but never answered out loud. Perhaps she couldn’t speak English or was unable to talk. Whatever the reason, I doubted she’d be a good source of information.
The cart contained food, beverages, and toiletries. The tray of fresh fruit was a welcome sight. The deodorant almost made me giddy.
Exhausted, I still found it impossible to fall asleep. The awful scene earlier, combined with being in a strange place and all my unanswered questions, left me weary. I was confident Cyril was not planning on making good on his promise to kill me, but the fraction of doubt that lingered made it hard to close my eyes.
I couldn’t quite piece everything together. Was Michael like Cyril? Too bad for Michael; my days of grieving were over. Didn’t anyone stay dead anymore? What was I in the middle of?
Beginning to think I might wake up in a straitjacket, I turned my focus to more productive feelings, like anger. If it was a game to them, they’d find out I had enough suppressed rage to do serious damage. I grabbed the bottle of chardonnay and a glass. Not a drop would survive to see tomorrow. I decided to consider my vengeance against those undead bastards when I had more energy.
With the wine bottle empty and the glass sitting on the side table, I drifted off to sleep sprawled in the gray chair with the crimson throw wrapped around me.
The sound of running water woke me. I got up to investigate.
I walked through the archway, leading to the bathroom and gaped at the size of the room. The small doorway was deceptive. Light gray slate covered the floor and walls, and was interspersed with randomly placed decorative tiles. A large cauldron-like tub took up most of the far corner. A small seating area, consisting of two oversize chairs and a stand, contained books. Candles accented a large modern sink and vanity to my right and above it hung an ornate, red-framed mirror.
Movement in the far corner of the room, beyond a three-quarter wall blocking most but not all of my view, caught my eye. I shifted until a large glass-enclosed shower—big enough to hold six people—came into sight. More impressive than the shower was the man about to get into it.
Cyril had already removed his sword and clothes, except for his pants. The markings on his back were barely visible from the short distance, but the planes of muscle? Clear. His arms moved, tending something in front of him, but with only a view from behind his task was obscured. It dawned on me he must be unlacing his pants.
Confronting a moral dilemma, I paused. Should I stay and watch, or leave and respect his privacy? My hormones voted for watch. Hell, no part of me wanted to leave. Earlier he undressed me, washed me, and then re-dressed me. It was only fair.
He moved his hands to slip his thumbs beneath the waist of his pants and started the laborious task of removing tight leather from moist skin. His actions slowed when he bent forward at the waist and wiggled the garment over his firm sculpted ass. I bit my lip, trying not to groan. Commando. Dear God.
His ivory skin flushed. The leather lingered over each peak of muscle as he lowered the pants to the floor. The knot in my stomach grew tighter. He pulled his feet free from each of the pant legs and leaned forward. I caught a glimpse of the manliness hanging low between his legs. The temperature in the room rose ten degrees.
He opened the shower door and reached in to adjust the water. I shouldn’t watch. It wasn’t right, but walking away wasn’t an option. I was entranced. The water cascaded over his body like a mountain stream over weathered river stone. He tossed his head back and soaked his dark hair in the flowing water while mumbling to himself. I couldn’t make out his words, but I admired how truly beautiful he was. Flawless. Not a scar or blemish beyond the branches of raised flesh.
“Mrs. Green, how nice of you to keep me company.” He turned to make eye contact.
My blood heated, and when I looked upon his face, it boiled. I could see all his glory. No longer hanging low between his legs, his cock stood tall and thick. Hiding my eyes, I pretended not to hear him.
“Mrs. Green, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your response. The water makes it hard…to hear.” He paused. “Did you say you were going to join me?”
My heart hammered; embarrassment flooded my cheeks. Knowing he could see me in the mirror, I looked up and saw him sliding his palm along his erection with slow, languid strokes.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” I sounded like a petulant child. I tried not to watch his actions, but couldn’t resist the urge.
“What would you like to be called? Let me guess, a ridiculous pet name to make you think you are of some great importance to me? Something like baby or sweetheart, as an attempt to condition me,” he scoffed and continued his ministrations, never looking away.
I wouldn’t let him see his effect on me. Gathering my courage, I turned and stared directly at him. The only way to win was to take away his power. I’d never do it entirely, but I could be a decent actress. The situation needed an Academy Award-winning performance. Deep breath.
“Linden. I’d like for you to call me Linden, but if you just can’t help being a pompous ass, then Miss Hill will be fine.” I stood my ground and pretended my legs weren’t weak at watching him touch himself.
“Well, Linden, now we’ve settled that, why don’t you come here and tell me what I need to know.” He moved closer to the glass.
I’m not quite sure where my confidence came from, but my determination met him measure for measure. I closed the distance. “Now where would the fun be in that? You’d stop harassing me and I might actually like you again. We certainly can’t have that after all the effort you’ve put into being a prick.” I placed my hands on the glass.
He growled a barely audible noise. His body touched the glass, or at least one part of him was touching it. The water slid over his skin and he appeared more flushed than before.
“You are going to tell me how you got my blood and reveal who cast the binding spell for you?” He looked down at me, his hair plastered against his head, his breathing labored. With my hands against the glass I looked up. Every time I did, his demeanor softened. My words seemed to infuriate, but my eyes grounded him.
“Cyril, I don’t know what spell you’re talking about. You are the only person I have ever seen use magic.” I tried to co
nvey sincerity with my expression.
“And?”
“The blood was your fault.” It took a moment to realize I said too much.
“How is that possible? I would never share my blood.” His features turned hard.
I gave him one tidbit, but nothing more. Looking down, the steam from the shower caused my gown to cling to me, giving it a transparent effect that accented my hips and my extremely hard nipples. I stepped forward, raised my eyes, and pressed my body against the glass. He knew I wanted him, and I knew he wanted me—the evidence apparent on the other side of the thin pane. His nostrils flared and his breathing grew heavy. So beautiful.
“I was a teenager when we last knew each other. You were very different. I actually liked you. The night we said good-bye you asked to kiss me. You had been injured and your lips were bloody.” The next line I delivered with a provocative smile. “I didn’t realize what happened until I tasted you on my tongue.” I paused for effect and bit my lip. Our gazes locked. He groaned and pressed against the glass, leaving an imprint in the condensation.
“Since I didn’t know you were some kind of supernatural bastard with magical blood, I didn’t know to be cautious. Instead I focused on more important things.” My rage sparked instantaneously. “Like trying to save your immortal ass.” I slammed my hands against the glass in frustration. “That’s all you get. No more information. It’s my only weapon against you.”
His chest rumbled. He gripped his cock, so hard his knuckles turned white. “Come here!”
“No.” I backed away.
“You want me. I can smell you all the way in here.”
He knew when I was aroused. Lovely. “Cyril…please don’t do this.”
As I passed the open shower door in retreat, he grabbed me and dragged me into the shower with lightning speed. My body screamed fuck it! Give him what he wants! My mind screamed don’t. You might kill him.
From behind me he enclosed me in his arms, clasping them below my breasts. My nightgown became drenched as he held me against him. I wanted to give in, but I couldn’t bear to watch him die like Michael.
“Cyril, please. If we do this, you might die.”
He stilled for a moment then whispered in my ear. “You’re concerned about me?” His surprise sounded genuine.
I tried to make him understand. “I’m poison. Anyone I get close to dies.”
That got his attention. He loosened his grip.
I had to make one last plea before I lost myself. “You are right. I do want you, but not at that price. Please, let me go, even if it’s only for your own sake.”
He freed me enough so I was able to turn and look up at him through the falling water. “Why did you tell the man in the garden I’m yours?”
His hands never left my body, his erection pressed large and hard against my belly. “To protect you. Tell me. Tell me how I kissed you?”
I barely heard him over the running water. “What?” I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“You said I kissed you and gave you my blood? How did I do it? Soft and slow? Hard and passionate? How? Show me. Show me how I kissed you.”
I stood on a cliff’s edge trying to see how close I could get without going over. In the next moment, I jumped. I reached up and pulled his head down to meet mine. The water flowed over us. Parting my lips, I pressed mine softly to his. Our mouths danced as his hands glided over my water-slicked body. His tongue teased my lip. We kissed with slow and gentle caresses of lips and tongues. His tenderness confirmed, under all the brawn, he was the same man. As though his kiss bypassed the surface armor he wore and accessed his deepest recesses, he grew more passionate than in our first encounter. His hands were needy as they gripped the hem of my gown.
I breathed against his lips. “Cyril, please. Please, I don’t want to hurt you.” I stared up into his eyes.
He let me go. “Would you like to wash up?”
I gave him a bright smile. “No, thank you, someone already took care of it while I was unconscious.”
Instead of smiling back, he closed his eyes and leaned down to kiss the top of my head.
His arms tightened around me again, and then loosened. “Go. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He let go again and patted my hip.
I paused and looked at him.
He growled. “Go! Before I change my mind.”
I grabbed a towel from the rack and discarded my clothes in the hamper by the door, careful not to expose myself further. In the bedroom, I pulled on a pair of fresh new panties and a nightgown from the cart, the only thing provided for me to wear. I’d have to find some new clothes tomorrow.
About ten minutes later Cyril emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Cyril? I want to go home.”
He looked in my direction and raised an eyebrow. “No, Miss Hill.”
Progress! The small success gave me hope, but I had to try something else. Getting under someone’s skin was something I was good at. I used the technique many times at the symphony when trying to crack someone difficult who needed to open up to new ideas regarding where they should spend their money.
“I shared with you. What about your secrets?” I said casually, like asking about the weather or what he might want for dinner.
“Miss Hill, surely a general wouldn’t tour the opposition’s army through his arsenal?” His usual condescension returned.
Just when I thought we were turning a corner… I could play his game. “He might if he’s trying a hand at diplomacy? A good-faith effort to show that both armies can work together.”
He laughed, stepped up on the platform, and then moved to stand in front of me. Still draped in his towel, his pants in hand, he stepped into my personal space as I sat on the bed. “Diplomacy in war is for fools. Besides, it’s completely pointless. Any army you could command would be no match for mine.” He then dropped the towel.
He dropped the fucking towel! I was pretty certain my entire autonomic nervous system shut down for a minute.
“Do you have no sense of modesty?” I choked, while being extra careful not to make contact with the “the general.”
I looked up to see his satisfied smirk.
“Linden, if I can disarm you with something as innocuous as nudity, what chance do you stand against me?”
I looked away from him as he bent to pull his black silk sleep pants on. “That’s exactly it, Cyril, I don’t stand a chance against you. There is no contest; no war. I’m not your enemy.”
He adjusted himself, for my benefit, I was sure. “Fair enough.” He looked into my eyes. “You can ask three questions and I’ll answer two of my choosing, then I must be off to finish up in my study.” He smiled as he sat down on the bed beside me and waited.
Not fair. I needed weeks to select the right questions to trap him. So many damned questions.
“Question number one, a few clarifying points.” He groaned in annoyance and fell back on the bed to lie beside me. “I know you are a man or at least, male.”
He sat forward slightly and grinned at me with a self-satisfied smile.
“You are obviously not human. I’d like to know what you are.” I looked back at him, not missing the erection tenting his silk pants. Gosh, was he always hard? Pushing away the images conjuring in my head, I looked to him for his response. I turned my gaze from his cock to his chest, and then finally to his face.
“I believe the rules were two of three, my choice. Continue.”
I paused. “How did you know the man in the garden?”
He glared at me. I guessed it must be a touchy subject. The trouble was, every question triggered a hundred more.
“Are you really going to kill me?”
He sat up. “No. That’s one.”
“Huh?”
He stared at me like I was daft. He said it again, slow and drawn out, “No, Linden, I’m not going to kill you. That is the answer to your last question. Now, of the other two. Let me see.” He stroked his chin
with his thumb and forefinger.
“You are right, I’m not human, but what I am is hard to explain. Some call me the Maker, you can call me Morgan Peters.” He smiled and winked.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, all right, you can call me Cyril. I am truly one of a kind and I don’t say that out of arrogance. I have a few talents you might find unusual, but all you need to know is that I’m here and will protect you.” He leaned forward and placed a light kiss on the top of my wet hair.
“But—”
He raised a finger to my lips. “I upheld my end of the bargain, so no matter what you ask I will not answer it. Save it for another time.”
Disappointed he wasn’t going to give in, I acquiesced with a nod.
He refocused with a menacing stare. “I do have one rule you must follow. Do not leave this room or let anyone other than Mary or Overton in, under any circumstance. Do you understand? No one!”
“Yes, but can’t I just go home?”
“No. That’s not possible now.”
“When?”
“When I deem it time.” He stood to leave. “Remember what I said. Do not leave this room and do not let anyone else in. It is for your own good.”
“OK. I got it. Where are you going to sleep if I’m in your bed?”
“I don’t sleep.”
“What do you mean you don’t sleep?”
True to his word, he didn’t answer, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch as though he caught himself before speaking.
I pressed my luck. “What about my job?”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“Taken care of how?” If I get fired because of this asshole…
Making his way to the door, he did not look back, but simply said, “Good night, Miss Hill.”
Chapter Five
Maker
The housekeeper proved useless since she couldn’t communicate. There was no TV or any other source of entertainment to help pass the time I spent locked in the room.
For the greater part of the day, I watched boats and barges navigate the rivers below, and took in sights of the city from the opposite shore. Where in the hell was Cyril? I needed to get in touch with Clarence and get an update on Olivia. Even though the drama of the past few days overshadowed most things, my concern for Olivia continued to grow. I paced the room, formulating a plan.
