by Колин Глисон
Narcise fixed him contemplatively with her gaze. If she was experiencing similar discomfort, she hid it well. But then, she had a lot of practice. “I’ve yet to meet a vampir,” she said, using the old Romanian term for the Dracule, “who does not live only for himself, at the cost of life, dignity or pain of others. Including myself. Is it not the way we’ve been made? What we agreed to?”
Giordan could scarcely account for the fact that they were having such a conversation. Surely Lucifer would burn them alive through their Marks, for he was finding it difficult to even breathe in the presence of scalding pain. At least it had distracted him from the lust and desire she caused in him.
Perhaps this blunt conversation was due to the whiskey. Perhaps it was because she felt the same connection—albeit unconsciously—that he did. Perhaps she’d never had anyone to talk with about such things. He could hardly fathom her and Cezar having a discussion of this sort.
“It is possible to live an honorable life as a Dracule. I know of one who does, in fact,” he said.
“You?” She narrowed her eyes skeptically.
“Well,” he said, allowing a bit of levity into his voice, hiding the agony burning over his shoulder, “I have been known to make noble gestures. But I spoke of my friend Dimitri, who is the Earl of Corvindale. He has not fed on a mortal for more than a hundred years. He is, in fact, searching for a way to break the covenant with Lucifer.”
“Impossible,” she said.
“I know it. But he’s trying. He rarely comes out of his study for any reason except to search out new manuscripts or writings.”
“And so that is why…” Her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her lips together thoughtfully.
Giordan suspected he knew what she’d been about to say. Although he hadn’t been there, he was aware of the night in 1690, in Vienna, when Dimitri’s house had burned. That was the night that Cezar had forced his way into the place and presented Narcise as an offering to his host—who had declined, having not the least bit of interest in her.
How Dimitri could have been indifferent to the woman in front of him, Giordan couldn’t imagine, but he was grateful for that fact in many ways.
“What’s in the box?” he asked, once again noticing the small metal chest that sat amid the sorts of accessories the Marquis de Sade might use.
“If you truly mean me no harm…please don’t open it,” she said quickly. That tension had returned to her beautiful features.
“It must be your Asthenia,” he said. “And your brother allows it to be kept in here with you, when you are already at a disadvantage?” Anger chilled him. Cezar Moldavi was one Dracule who deserved to burn in hell for eternity.
Instead of responding, Narcise merely looked at him, which was as close to an admission as he expected.
“Perhaps someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me,” he continued.
He stood, walking over to the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself another drink. As he sipped, he turned back to look at Narcise. Overwhelming desire caused his heart to stutter and his breathing to alter, but he buried it firmly.
Not now.
Not here.
Not tonight.
He gripped his glass tighter, focusing on the scent of the alcohol and not the essence of woman that filled his consciousness. Not the enticing curve of her jaw, one that he suddenly wanted to brush his lips against, nor the ivory column of her neck, so slender and elegant.
“Why did you do this?” she asked.
“A variety of reasons, all of them—well, most of them—quite noble.”
Narcise’s eyes lifted, focusing on him over the rim. “Such as?”
“I’d seen you fence, and I wanted to test your skill myself. I wanted the opportunity to talk to you.”
Her eyes had narrowed and she flung the rest of her whiskey down her throat. “But we did not fence, Monsieur Cale,” she said, her voice even smokier, now baited with whiskey. “And you knew that I wasn’t at my best—”
“Which was precisely why I chose this way to do it. I wasn’t completely certain I would best you, of course, and so I thought it best to ensure that it all worked out in my favor.” Giordan realized that he didn’t at all mind admitting that fact. However… “I realize you don’t know me very well, but I confess that I find it no little insult that you assumed I wanted to win so that I could lock you in a room with me and rape you.” He sipped from the drink, his fingers so tight around the glass he feared it might shatter.
Her chin had snapped up at his blunt words, a shocked expression flickering across her face. “Why should I have thought any differently?” she asked…but the tone in her voice wasn’t accusing or even defensive. It was weary.
“Because,” he replied, watching her, “when you fed on me three weeks ago, I didn’t so much as breathe lustfully in your direction, Narcise. Although all I wanted to do was drag my arm away from your mouth and push you up against that wall and dig my own fangs into your shoulder…and then your arm…and your breast…the inside, that very tender, most sensitive part of your thigh…” His voice grew lower, unsteady and rough. “And then I would use my tongue, long and slick and warm…all along your skin.”
She gasped audibly, and the color rose higher in her face. Their eyes met, and he allowed her to see the glowing flame of desire in his. The bald need.
“I wanted to fill my hands with you, taste you. I suspect you’ll be rich and warm, like a custard, sweet and yet strong. I wanted to slide my warm body against yours, feel the two textures of our skin melding. The heat generated by the friction.”
He knew his words were so soft they barely reached her ears, but the rise and fall of her chest and the growing blaze in her eyes told him that she heard him.
“When you sank into me,” he continued, making love to her with his words, caressing her with his tones, “I realized it was you. It would only be you. Narcise.”
She moved sharply, that high color easing from her cheeks. “Lovely words, Monsieur Cale. But what a ridiculous thing to say, from a man who will live forever.”
Giordan shrugged and concentrated on the way his feet were planted on the floor. Rooted, cemented there, keeping him from moving to her, and taking her face into his hands to show her how certain he was. “I’ve never felt that way before, Narcise. And I’ve lived a long time.”
He felt the weight of her own gaze on him, and saw the bare hint of a glow there. His gums tightened, swelling more, and he thrust away the memory of her mouth closing around his arm, and her lips tracing the ridges of his wrist. He couldn’t dismiss the memory of her tongue sliding through the heat of his blood, and the need burning in her eyes.
“I said I’m not going to touch you,” he heard himself saying. “But that doesn’t mean that you cannot touch me.”
5
Narcise’s breath caught and a rush of heat flooded her.
That very thought, that very temptation, had been teasing her, and now it bloomed, full and hot and sudden, in her thoughts.
“You would allow that?” she said carefully.
“I would welcome it,” he replied. His voice, so low and filled with desire, sent a stab of desire into her middle. “Narcise.”
The thought was titillating…and freeing. To have control, here, in this very chamber that epitomized her captivity, her complete dependence. And to have such a man beneath her hands and body and fangs.
His unique scent, fresh and warm, tinged with cedar and wool, had already seemed to overtake all of the other smells of memories—dark, awful ones—in this chamber, and now sat fully in her consciousness, reminding her of how he tasted and felt.
“But then…” No. She shook her head.
Temptation thrilled her…and eased into despair. But no. How long would his resolve last, if indeed he truly had resolve and it wasn’t merely a trick?
As if he read her mind, Cale said, “I won’t touch you. Even if you bid me.” He glanced at the manacles on the wall, then back at her. His eyes challenged her, dark
and intense.
Narcise was aware of a light fluttering in her center, broadening and spreading like the delicious heat of a fire on a cold Romanian night. Those compelling eyes still fastened on her; he walked over to the smooth white wall, marred only by the chains that hung there.
“I understand why you hesitate to trust,” he said, slipping one of the cuffs over his wrist and locking it into place, where it held his wrist just away from his head. “Perhaps this will help.” Then, unable to close the other manacle with his chained hand, he stilled and met her gaze. A sharp twinge pierced her inside.
“Narcise. Believe me when I say nothing you could do would make it more difficult for me than standing here, keeping my word not to touch you.”
Trust me, he’d said before. He seemed to be saying it again, wordlessly this time.
She looked at the band encircling his wrist, wide and, she knew, cold. He would give her that control?
Wholly? Willingly?
In a place where she’d fought for so long to keep her own?
The irony touched her deeply.
And then all mundane thoughts of irony and the like fled as she realized what she had. Here. Giordan Cale: handsome, strong and virile. Offering whatever she wanted, great or small, as she wished.
Narcise’s mouth dried and she found it hard to swallow as she walked toward him, her bare feet padding from cool stone floor to lush rug back to stone again. Her middle was filled with fluttering moths, her gums swelling as they pushed out her fangs.
All the while, their eyes met and held, and it seemed as if she could feel his heart, thudding inside her own chest. Their heartbeats pounded together, their breaths seemed to work in tandem, and for the first time, in this room, she felt…womanly.
Womanly, and powerful, in a way she hadn’t felt since she’d loved Rivrik.
Standing there in front of him, Narcise lifted his free arm, and felt the little ripple of a shudder beneath his skin. Her upper fangs brushed her lower lip, and without thought, she took him and brought his wrist toward her mouth.
Cale went still. Even his breath ceased as she watched the blue veins seem to surge and pulse amid the tendons in his golden skin. Instead of plunging in her fangs, Narcise flicked her tongue over the delicate ridges there, tasting the salt on his warm flesh, sensing the flavor of his scent and the essence of lifeblood pounding beneath its thin covering.
When she lifted her face, she heard the soft hiss of his breath and saw the faint smile lifting his lips. There was heat in his eyes, but no tension, no conflict in his face. Merely pleasure.
For some reason that comforted her, and she allowed her eyes to narrow and crinkle at the corners. Allowing almost a smile. And then she clicked the second manacle around his wrist, and stood back to survey her captive.
As the thought flitted into her mind, at first her reaction was one of horror that she should even have thought the word. She knew what it was like to be a captive, held immobile and helpless and at the mercy of the whims of others.
But this was different, she told herself. He gave up control willingly. He offered. He wanted to be here, he wanted her to touch him…and whatever else she chose to do.
And, she found, there was no doubt that she wanted to do…many things.
That alone was a welcome revelation, a relief, to a woman who hadn’t willingly responded to the touch of a man for decades. For once the fangs protruded and the bloodscent filled the air, and the penetration began, even Narcise couldn’t control her own body’s instinctive reaction. But those occasions hadn’t been real pleasure, or true satiation. They’d been wrung from her like some unwanted and terrible purging.
But now, tonight, this was for her. All for her. And Cale seemed to have understood that.
“Are you going to stand there all night while the blood flows from my arms,” he said in that mellow voice, “and make me only imagine what you might do? Or are you going to kiss me and make the discomfort worth my while?”
“I never kiss,” she told him, nevertheless moving closer. Her fingers itched to tear that shirt away and see what was underneath. She had a sudden fantasy of muscles shifting and bulging from the effort of pulling on the chains, in his biceps and rippling over his chest, and she wanted to see if it could be real.
His shirt was made of the finest linen, warm and damp from his skin. She tugged it loose from his tight breeches, noticing the very healthy bulge rising behind them. The sight and accompanying thought sent another spear of lust into her belly, and she boldly smoothed her hand down over that tempting ridge.
Cale gave a soft sigh and when she looked up, his smile had grown that much hotter and his eyes darker. “Is it becoming warmer in here, or am I imagining it?” he managed to say.
“I’m perfectly comfortable,” she replied and smoothed her hands beneath his loose shirt. His firm belly, warm and textured with a light dusting of hair that she imagined would be as dark as that on his head, skittered and trembled beneath her fingers. And as she slid her hands farther up beneath the shirt, she covered hard slabs of pectorals and then her fingers curled up over smooth shoulders. The tips of her fingers brushed over what must be the ridges of his Mark from Lucifer: slender, raised, veinlike markings spreading from beneath his hairline down over the back of his shoulder. As she slid over that unholy branding, her own Mark twinged and she brought her hands to rest flat on the front of his chest, pressing into the wiry hair growing there.
Narcise was aware of him watching her as she stepped back and removed her hands from those warm planes, then realized there was no way to pull the shirt over his head while his wrists were chained.
“Cut it if you like,” he said, reading her thoughts. “I have many more.”
“As you will,” she replied, but instead of reaching for one of the daggers, which had been used on her, she grasped the shirt at his throat and ripped. The heavy linen made a satisfying, powerful sound as it tore, and left his chest bare to her avid eyes. “It’s no wonder Suzette talks about you the way she does,” she commented, and tore one of the sleeves free, jolting his arm against the wall.
The chains clinked with her violent movement, but he made no attempt to pull or wiggle in his confinement. She eyed the bulge of muscle in his arm as his elbow bent in an L-shape, his wrist fixed at the level of his head. His skin, even beneath his shirt, wasn’t the normal pasty-white of the sun-banned Dracule, but was golden, as if tanned by a sun that never touched it.
“In what way does Suzette talk about me? I do hope it’s—” His breath caught as she plunged her fangs into the soft inside of his bicep, and he gave a short, sharp groan as his lifeblood burst free.
The taste and scent of his skin, so silky and soft around that firm bulge of muscle, mingled erotically with the rush of coppery blood over her tongue, and Narcise closed her eyes as a long-subdued desire rushed through her. His bare chest brushed against her cheek, and the long line of his legs paralleled her body as she pressed flush against him.
The hard rise of his cock nudged her hip, so close to that suddenly throbbing, hot and damp center between her legs. She held on to his forearm with one hand, and the other planted flat on the rough hair covering his chest. Texture, taste, scent…and his lean, muscular body sandwiched between her and the wall.
She pulled away after two long drags on his veins, swiping her tongue over the wound in a delicate little farewell, and looked up at him.
His eyes burned bright red-gold, and yet the centers were dark and intense. He had a sort of pained half smile fixed on his full lips, a bit of fang showing. For a moment, she almost shifted to cover them with hers, to taste him in yet another, more intimate way.
But she didn’t. Instead, testing herself and testing him, she stepped back, realizing that her breathing had become unsteady and shallow. Her nipples swelled behind the bindings she wore beneath the suddenly too-tight tunic.
“More,” he said, his eyes compelling her. “More, Narcise. I want to feel you against me.”
>
She saw no reason to hesitate, and peeled off the close-fitting tunic. The freedom to do what she wished, to be in control and to enjoy the pleasure of the moment, emboldened her. Flinging the shirt aside, she untucked the binding around her breasts and began to unroll it, conscious of his intense regard.
Her relief at the release of her bosom was echoed softly by his rough intake of air when she pulled the last strip away and at last jounced free. She raised her arms, feeling the pleasant sensation of her breasts lift prettily.
“More lovely than I’d imagined,” he said, the timbre of his voice skimming over her like a low and deep caress. “Will you take your hair down?”
“For one who has given over control,” she said wryly, “you certainly have many requests, Cale.” But nevertheless, sparked even further by her power and the pleasure simmering beneath the surface, she began to pull the pins from the huge knot of her hair.
“My given name is Giordan,” he said. “Use it.”
Narcise paused in the process, one heavy hank of hair tumbling down her back while the rest remained anchored in a sagging bundle. It was the first time she’d heard that tone of command from him. She found it curious…and unsettling.
As if reading her thoughts, he spoke again. “Very well, then, cher. No real intimacy yet. No kissing, no familiar names. When you’ve come to trust me, then I would that you’d call me Giordan. But to me, already you are Narcise.” His eyes blazed fiercely, not with lust or desire, as before, but now with annoyance.
“I think you’re mad, Cale,” she said. “We’ve hardly met, and barely spoken. How can you say such absurd things when you don’t even know me?” Of course, she was thinking of Rivrik, back when life was life and not infinite rote…and much easier than this. Back when she knew she would die someday, and when she was naive and young and in love with someone who truly knew her.
Cale gave what passed for a shrug, and despite the awkward angle of his arms, it was smooth and laced with conceit. “Sometimes, a man just knows.” His eyes fastened on her, the glow receding into an intense brown-blue gaze.
