Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  I kick my heels off, feeling the springy fibers spread between my toes. This room is noticeably more lived-in than the rest of the apartment had been before I arrived—crisp shirts are hanging everywhere, empty coffee cups clustered on the bedside cabinets. My eye is drawn to a large portrait hanging on the wall above an antique cabinet. I step closer, tilting my head. Even if the group in the painting weren’t dressed in old-fashioned clothing—frilly shirts, long-tail coats, the woman in a tight corset with an impossibly tall wig—I would know it’s centuries old by the cracked paint and the chipped gold of the gilt frame.

  Peering closer, I ask, “Who are they?”

  “My family,” Vincent says in a fragile voice.

  “You mean… Are you in it?”

  He nods and I step closer to examine the figures. The woman in the tall, silvery wig sits on a red velvet chair, a middle-aged man standing to her left, and around them are three children, presumably Vincent and his siblings. A little girl in the foreground kneels at her mother’s feet in a white, lacy dress—she looks about twelve and has a pile of golden ringlets cascading around her soft, pale face.

  The other two siblings are young men. One sits on a red chair similar to his mother’s, his father’s hand resting on his shoulder. The other stands beside him, a hand on the hilt of a sword at his waist. They each have the same build—tall and strapping—but the one sitting has dark eyes, a heavy jaw. The one with the sword, however, is undoubtedly Vincent—the angular bone structure, a tiny bump on the bridge of his nose. The only physical difference is the long hair tied back at the nape of his neck. Steely arrogance lurks behind the blue eyes of the Vincent in the portrait, a superiority that seems to shine from the depths of his ivory face.

  “Do you recognize me yet?” Vincent asks, standing beside me.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling. “But you look a bit mean.”

  He grins. “Like I told you, I was a different man back then.”

  I glance between Vincent and the painting, trying to reconcile the pair—to get my head around the fact that in another few hundred years, he will still be alive, whereas I’ll be long gone, fragments of bone and dust lost on the wind. His immortality strikes like a blow to the chest. There will be no growing old together, no pushing our grandchildren on the swings at the park. All the things you’re supposed to have with the love of your life can never happen with Vincent Ferrer. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep a sob from rising up my throat. The last few nights have been magical and perfect, but they were bubbles: beautiful but temporary.

  “Mila, say something. What are you thinking?”

  I turn to face him. “Nothing. It’s just—you really are a vampire, aren’t you?”

  He nods sadly, brushing my jaw with the backs of his fingers. “I’m sorry. I wish it could be different.”

  “No.” I hold a finger to his lips. “Don’t be sorry. There’s no need to apologize for who you are.”

  He takes my wrist and turns me around, his fingers threading themselves into my hair. “Mila,” he whispers, “beautiful Mila.”

  I let him kiss me, but mixed with the passion and desire is sadness, a broken dream. The kiss grows fierce—as passion always does when it’s to be short-lived—and I cup his face, rubbing my thumbs along his stubbly jaw as my tongue slides over his, surrendering myself to him. When we break apart and he leads me over to the bed, I say, “Will you bite me tonight?”

  His eyes widen. “Mila, I want you to know it isn’t necessary. I don’t need it in any way. You’re enough for me. More than enough.”

  I shove him gently onto the coverlet, positioning myself between his legs. He may not need it, but I do. Tonight, I need a physical reminder of why I’ll never get to keep him, so I can stop kidding myself, open my eyes to the reality lurking at the bottom of our situation.

  “But I want you to,” I whisper, leaning down to kiss him.

  He groans and falls back onto the bed, pulling me on top of him, his hands dropping to the hem of my lacy dress.

  “Take it off,” I urge between kisses. I straddle his hips, my trembling fingers already working on the buttons of his shirt.

  His fingers find the zipper, tugging it down, and he peels it over my head, his hands coming to rest around my waist, rough fingers rubbing circles into my skin. He gazes up at me, his blue eyes vulnerable, as if it’s him about to get his heart broken and not me.

  “Your turn,” I say, finally freeing the last button. “I command you to disrobe.”

  He chuckles but makes no attempt to move. Instead he continues to gaze into my eyes, his hands moving from my waist to my hair, where he pulls it back at the nape of my neck, running an index finger along the line of my jaw.

  “What if I refuse to bite you?”

  I smile, moving a hand to the thick, hard bulge in his trousers. “You won’t,” I say, watching his eyes narrow, eyelids growing heavy with lust. “Now strip before you make me angry.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs. “I’m the one with the handcuffs, remember, Little Miss Pokémon Card Thief?”

  “In that case, maybe you should take control.”

  In the blink of an eye, he shifts our positions, rolling on top of me. I push the shirt off his muscled shoulders, digging my fingers into his satiny flesh, spreading my legs wide so he rests in the juncture between my thighs.

  His belt rattles as he eases himself from his clothing. I unhook my bra, flinging it across the room, and then his bare skin is on mine, delicious, warm friction the only thing between us. He moans and I sigh, and we pause for a second, locked in a tight embrace, enjoying the warmth of our bodies pressed together.

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever get over this,” he says hoarsely, burying his lips into my neck.

  “That makes two of us,” I murmur, as he kisses his way up to my mouth.

  He places his hands on either side of my head, lifting his chest and torso to create a gap between our bodies, before running a flat palm over my breasts, pausing only to pinch a hard tip as he works a hand between my legs. When his fingers find my wet warmth, I cry out, arching against his hand as he pushes a finger deep inside me.

  I writhe around like a woman possessed, an aching wave of ecstasy building as he explores my inner walls.

  “Don’t stop,” I say, panting. “Please don’t ever stop.”

  “Mila,” he whispers into my neck.

  I open my eyes and rake my hands through his hair. “Your fangs. I want to see them.”

  He raises his head and I lift a finger to the sharp, white canines. Without meaning to, I press too hard, a droplet of crimson beading on my fingertip. Vincent takes my wrist and sucks the blood off, moaning low in his throat.

  “God,” he says, his voice little more than a crackle. “You taste sweet. Like ripe fruit in the sun.”

  “Then have more,” I say. “Take it.”

  Eyes burning, he trails kisses over my breasts and stomach, working his mouth lower and lower until his tongue reaches the slick folds between my legs. I moan loudly, all thoughts of Davies out in the lounge disappearing from my mind. There is only Vincent and me in the whole world.

  My hands grab fistfuls of his blond hair as he buries his face in my heat. His tongue flicks at my bud, sending tiny electrical jolts of pleasure shooting through me as his hands knead my buttocks. When he pushes his hot, wet tongue into my core, I’m unable to hold myself together—my walls clench, my whole body shuddering as wave upon wave of smoldering ecstasy washes over me. No wonder the French word for climax translates to little death—it feels like I’m burning, shattering into a million pieces ready to be snatched away on the wind.

  Just when I’m about to lose myself to the stars exploding behind my eyes, Vincent’s lips work a path back to my face. He positions his hard tip at my entrance and thrusts inside me, making me die all over again, contracting and
spasming in white-hot pleasure as he plunges in and out in a glorious rhythm, my hips bucking from the bed. Then he stills, shouting my name before exploding in an orgasm of his own, oozing warmth mingling with mine.

  “Bite me,” I manage to say between ragged breaths. Even though he’s inside me and we’re as close as two people can get, I still need more.

  Between my thighs, his body tenses. My back arches from the bed and I tip my head, exposing my throat. “Do it. Don’t hold back. Please.”

  “Mila,” he breathes, brushing tendrils of hair from my neck and pressing a soft kiss into the hollow at the base of my throat.

  I lean back farther into the coverlet, my body still tingling from orgasm. “Please,” I repeat, wrapping my legs around his hips and balling the quilt in my fists. “I don’t care about the life essence. Just do it.”

  His fangs scrape my collarbone and then two sharp points slide into my skin. A hiss of satisfaction escapes my lips as they sink deeper, pleasure and pain intermingling, melting into waves of bliss. I hear my pulse, fierce like a drum, and then I’m falling, like Alice down the rabbit hole, fading into unconsciousness, to a place where I’m no longer Mila at all.

  I’m standing beside a field of waving, yellow wheat, a golden sun hanging low in the sky. A woman emerges from the tall stalks, a beautiful young lady with waist-length, inky black hair and stunning amber eyes the same shade as the horizon. She calls my name by way of greeting—Vincent—and my chest is crushed by a fierce sensation of love. She beckons with one hand, walking backward into the field, inviting me after her.

  The scene shifts and I’m hurtling through undergrowth. The sky is dark, the moon a glowing smudge behind silvery streaks of cloud. I erupt from the trees into a clearing. Beyond is a drop, the ocean stretching before me on the horizon, the light of the moon glinting off the water like broken glass. Then I’m plunging forward, long wet grass soaking through my shoes. A woman screams and I see the same girl from the wheat field, only this time her amber eyes glow with terror. I call to her as she backs away, trying to shorten the gap between us, but she only yells at me to keep away, grasping at her left hand and tearing a gold ring from her finger before throwing it to the ground. She is perilously close to the edge of the cliff, but as I take a step closer, begging her to be careful, she recoils in fear, plunging over the edge.

  A shrill cry cuts through the air like a knife.

  I fling myself after her, finding her on the jagged gray rocks where the sea hits, white foam spraying up over her broken, twisted body. I haul her into my arms but it is too late; her gaze is dark with loathing as she takes her final breath of air.

  When the life goes out of her amber eyes, I rise up from the scene, out of the blackness and into reality where I am Mila once more.

  Vincent holds me against him, exactly like he once held the dying woman. Though my body still hums with pleasure, my mind is foggy. I blink up at Vincent, disorientated. “How long was I out?” I ask, lifting my head from his chest.

  “Only a minute or so. Are you okay?” Fear swirls within the blue depths of his eyes.

  I nod, too groggy to know what I feel. “Who was the woman?”

  “I should have told you last night,” he says, a knot forming in the middle of his smooth forehead. “That was Adrienne. Adrienne Moreau. She was the girl I grew up with. The woman I loved during the revolution.”

  My stomach clenches and I briefly close my eyes, remembering how she plunged into the darkness, her scream dying on the wind. I sit up in his lap, my gaze snagging on several spots of blood, bright red against the white cotton sheets. I put a hand to my neck, feeling two tiny puncture marks above my collarbone. “When did she die?” I ask, wanting to forget about what I saw but, at the same time, needing to know what happened.

  Vincent blots the bite marks with his thumb, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “After I freed my mother and father, I left Paris and headed south to see her. I was so naive, I had this crazy idea she might have the ancient turn her too, so we could be together for eternity.”

  I watch as his eyes darken with self-loathing.

  “She was afraid of you,” I say.

  He nods. “I should have broached the subject gently, in daylight, when there were plenty of others around. But instead I went at night, appeared at her bedroom window like a deranged Romeo, and asked her to walk with me. She came so willingly. Trusted me utterly. Back then, as a new vampire, I wasn’t good at controlling my fangs. They slid out as I kissed her. I bit her—it was an accident, but I drew blood. When she pulled away and saw both the crimson stain on her skin and my fangs, she was petrified. I tried to tell her what happened, but she wouldn’t listen. She ran away.”

  “She thought you would kill her,” I murmur, remembering her pretty face contorted in terror. She’d been as afraid as I was that night Jeremiah Lopez almost murdered me in the alleyway.

  Vincent lifts a hand to touch my face, but at the last moment thinks better of it, his gaze wandering to the droplets of blood on the sheets. “Yes. Before I knew where she was headed, we were at the edge of my father’s estate, near the cliffs that dropped into the sea. I was pleading with her, but she was screaming at me not to touch her. She tore off the family ring I gifted her before the revolution and threw it to the ground, cursing me to an eternity in hell. I stepped forward to grab her—I was worried she was about to fall—but as I reached out, she sprang backward, tumbling over the edge. She died hating me, believing I wanted to kill her, when all I ever wanted was for us to be together.”

  A thick silence flows into the room, the distant hum of the air-conditioning unit the only sound. Vincent’s features are twisted in torment; a tiny pulse throbs at the corner of his jaw.

  “This has haunted you ever since, hasn’t it?”

  His blue eyes meet mine. “Always. I can never forgive myself. After Adrienne died I left France. I went south to Italy, fighting alongside the Italians in the war against Napoleon’s army. Though I knew it was impossible, for years I hoped I’d be killed on the battlefields. I ran headfirst into every cavalry charge, threw myself in front of every weapon. I wanted nothing more than to die. After Italy came Russia. I followed a path of war across the globe, hiding among common soldiers from vampire society. It wasn’t until I came to London in the twentieth century that I finally stumbled across Ronin McDermott again, the ancient who turned me. For years I’d avoided him. But when vampires revealed themselves and I secured my first official job with the Met Police, I couldn’t hide any longer. Being part of society meant sacrificing my anonymity. Suddenly the whole world seemed to know what I was.” He averts his gaze, focusing on the tiny bite marks on my neck, his brows pulled low. “The truth is, I’m a coward, Mila. A coward who’s spent most of his life wanting to die. There’s nothing heroic about me. Nothing at all.”

  I take his hand, threading my fingers through his, feeling him jerk in surprise as I lay a palm on his warm cheek. “What happened to Adrienne was terrible and desperately sad. But it was an accident, a tragic accident—one you’ve punished yourself over for too long.”

  He shakes his head. “I completely understand if you want nothing more to do with me.”

  “Vincent,” I say, rubbing a thumb into his angular jaw. “This doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

  A crease dents the space between his brows. “It should.”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No, it shouldn’t. No one should be defined by their past. What matters is who we are today. Trust me, I’ve watched a shedload of Dr. Phil over the years.”

  “I caused the death of the woman I loved,” he says grimly. “I’m a monster.”

  I screw my face up. “Vincent, you’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Not every man would be willing to invite a stranger into his home and let her take over the place. There’s a nail polish stain on the sofa, by the way,” I say with a smile. “I hid it with
a cushion but now seems like a good time to mention it.”

  He chuckles, some of the anxiety melting from his face. “You could blow up the Porsche and I wouldn’t care.” He toys with a strand of my hair. “I wish I could believe I haven’t disappointed you.”

  I press a kiss into his stubbly jaw. “Believe it.”

  His lips curve into a smile as he draws me close, his mouth fastening to mine in a deep, consuming kiss.

  Suddenly he breaks away, staring down at me with worried eyes. “The bite… I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  My fingers drift to the marks. They feel bruised, as if I’ve had two tiny injections there, but they’re not painful. “I liked it,” I say. “Not so much the vision part, but the biting was erotic.”

  He smiles, leaning in to kiss me again but then pulling back at the last moment. “By the way—”

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s Dr. Phil?”

  Chapter 14

  Vincent

  Mila falls asleep around midnight, two tiny red bite marks visible on her slender neck.

  As soon as she drifts into slumber, a powerful surge of regret rears up inside me—I should never have bitten her, should never have risked her witnessing the night Adrienne died. It was ridiculous to think that, after all these years, my essence might have changed. I’d stupidly hoped she might see herself, recognize in it the depth of my feelings. But alas, the past is inescapable. Now, having seen the beast inside me, it’s only a matter of time before this ends.

  I brush blond tresses from her sleeping face, coiling them beneath her chin to cover the puncture marks. With her spill of golden hair against the white pillowcase and dark lashes feathered against her flushed pink cheeks, she looks like an angel. A knot as tight as a fist squeezes my heart at the thought of a future without her.