Worthless: New adult paranormal romance (Age of Blood Book 2)

by May Sage

  Her eyes narrowed; sexy or not, she didn’t appreciate him telling her what she could or couldn’t do with her own body. There had been too much of that in her life already.

  “You can do whatever the fuck you like, except lie to the world and to yourself about what you are, Cecilia.”

  He may not have been yelling, but that hit her like a slap in the face.

  “Fucking stop with the self-depreciation, I can’t take it!”

  So much for not yelling.

  “You’re hot. You were born with a metabolism that makes you that way – that’s pure luck of the draw, and you’ve picked the long stick. That will get you one foot in the door wherever you go. But this,” he said, holding her wrists, scarred side upwards, “this is what makes you so goddamned beautiful. Hide them from the world and they’ll only see a pretty face. Show them, and they’ll understand what your smile is: power.”

  So, yeah. She was as suborn as the next girl, but she had to hand it to him: he’d totally won their first argument, and she said goodbye to turtlenecks.

  He had been right. People had looked at her; women with barely disguised contempt, men with a leer that made her want to crush hairy balls. Since she’d shown her scars, they still looked – but now, she read completely different things, like respect.

  “Agnes is here, if you’re ready.”

  Oh, yeah – the dress. She’d totally forgotten.

  Apparently, the kind of dress he wanted her to wear for the party in four days wasn’t available in any of the stores where they’d found the rest of her wardrobe. He’d called in Agnes Gardiner, a connection of William’s, although according to him, she was a nasty piece of work and a two-faced bitch, too. She had a reputation for only getting close to people long enough to double cross them.

  “And why are we asking for her help, again?”

  “Because she has the best designers in the city on speed-dial. Besides, she’s evil, not stupid. She won’t mess with me.”

  Famous last words.

  “I heard that. Get your sweet ass in the lounge.”

  Cece had a perpetual case of grin-o-pharengitis that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon: she just couldn’t wipe the damn smile off her face, with her crazy psychic vampire king doing his utmost to amuse, spoil and cherish her.

  But for how long? When would she be back to being the little nobody she really was? He’d lose his interest, eventually. He had to.

  Agnes was a piece of work alright. She took one look at her, from head to toe, and went into battle mode: her eyes narrowed, her expression hardened, and she was calculating how she could possibly mess with her, that much was obvious.

  Cece turned to Michael, all but ready to say, “how about getting the bitch out of here,” but something in his eyes stopped her.

  Fuck. He seemed fascinated. Despite what he’d said, was he actually interested in Agnes? Was she here as some sort of plot to make her feel jealous?

  Cece could feel the appeal. Agnes was perfectly polished, with sexy blond hair and the right make up. She’d look just right next to Michael.

  “Cecilia, I take it?”

  “Cece,” she retorted.

  “Right. Well, shall we get started then?”

  The woman took her measurements, blabbling about coloring, height and trends.

  “I’ve brought some dresses based on your description, Michael, but I don’t think any of them will suit.”

  All of a sudden, Cece was fascinated about the outfits she’d brought with her.

  “I’d love to see them.”

  Agnes did her very best to get out of it, dishing out one excuse after the next. “It wouldn’t do you justice.” “Really, I don’t think the size is right at all.” “They were just samples lying around.”

  In short, that meant that she’d brought the perfect dresses, but in the meantime, she’d planned a vendetta because she was just that insecure.

  “She’ll try the dresses, Agnes.”

  Michael’s tone was final, commanding, and every part of Cece responded to it. If ordered to by that voice, she’d kneel and crawl for him.

  Get out of the funk, she admonished herself.

  There were three dresses, all of them made of a little bit of heaven.

  The first one was a short black number with a sleeveless satin bustier and a tulle skirt with an over layer of red and green tartan. Her scars were completely on display and she didn’t give a damn.

  She put it on and pledged to sell both of her kidneys for it if it was what it took.

  As it turned out, there was no need for that.

  “We’ll take it.”

  Agnes was in a hurry to agree; she smiled.

  “Good choice; it’s a Chanel, just off the runaway.”

  “We’ll take it,” Michael repeated, “But it’s not suitable for the ball.”

  Cece couldn’t image one situation where that dress wasn’t suitable; she wouldn’t mind wearing it every day of her life and death. She’d be the sexiest corpse of all times at the wake.

  “Too casual,” Michael clarified, responding to her unsaid protest.

  Casual. He’d said casual. She took it as a personal insult. That dress was anything but.

  “You can get away with it at a Hollywood premiere, not at a gala. Let’s try the rest.”

  As he was footing the doubtlessly humongous bill, she just nodded.

  The second outfit wasn’t her thing. It was made of sheer material and lace, strategically placed to make it seemed like she wore nothing at all. It fell to her feet, and hid all the goods, but she couldn’t help herself from thinking that it made her seem like nothing more than a very, very expensive hooker.

  Then, she turned to Michael and saw the look he sent her.

  It was she who turned to Agnes and added, “We’ll take it, too.”

  She couldn’t boast to know him very well, but there was no doubt that he’d been about to say just that.

  “That’s a Zuhair Murad from thirty years ago. There aren’t many left, so you’ll definitely make a splash in that…”

  “You’re not wearing it Saturday, either,” he growled. “Next.”

  And just like with goldilocks, the third one was just right. For that dress, she’d give her firstborn. Suddenly, the Rumpelstiltskin story made an awful lot of sense.

  It was long, halter neck, with a plunged neckline that went down there, and a back going right down to the bottom of her spine; there also was a high split on her thigh, for good measure. The dress was forest green silk, and looked like it had been poured over her.

  “Michael?”

  “Mh?”

  “This costs more than a brand new car, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh.”

  “We’d still get it if it cost more than a three story townhouse in the city, precious.”

  Agnes wasn’t very pleased with the outcome of her visit, that much was obvious. She offered to take the dresses away to get them adjusted at least a dozen times, until Michael quite literally pushed her out of the suite, handing her a check with way too many numbers on it.

  She felt a little pang of guilt at that; he could have bought a little house with that sort of cash. Or at least an apartment in the slums.

  Cece was just about to open her mouth to ask whether they should return the two dresses she wouldn’t wear but Michael had other ideas in mind.

  Just as her lips parted, he appeared right in front of her, and captured them under his. Shit. His kiss was hungry, angry and tantalizing, making her want more. The frame he pressed against her was hard everywhere, awakening a white hot, restless need in her groins.

  But just when she lifted her arms to throw them around his shoulders, responding to his kiss, he stepped away.

  “That was to clarify a little misunderstanding. Agnes Gardiner is most definitely not the woman I want.”

  On that note, he retreated to his own room.

  Oh, great, he’d been listening in again. Psychi
cs really sucked balls.

  “I heard that!”

  Eight

  Michael sighed reluctantly, before pushing the call button. He’d ignored William for days, which had resulted to a good dozen missed calls, but he couldn’t exactly cut him off from what he’d just found out.

  “Finally! Done with your tantrum? Because we have a situation here,” his brother said on the other end of the phone.

  “Likewise. I’ve just seen Agnes out of our hotel room. Her mind has been shielded.”

  He’d tried hard, but nothing had made the walls around her thoughts crumble – only a witch could have done that. Some people learned to protect themselves from mental invasion, but it was a lengthy process, requiring a lot of focus and determination. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been an open book – so it was a new development. He just didn’t believe that she might have learnt how to keep him out within six months. Even if she had, what was her motive?

  “Shit,” William curse under his breath. “I’ll look into it. The Gardiners are under my protection.”

  “If she’s in the middle of a conspiracy, it becomes my problem.”

  He knew his brother cared about the family of human servants; to be frank, he understood it, the Gardiners had been loyal to him for centuries.

  But every family had one black sheep, and William was too invested to take care of the problem.

  “Never mind that. I need you to bring Cece back here.”

  Michael was quite literally stunned for a moment.

  “There’s been a… development.”

  He knew that reluctant tone.

  “Speak. I’ll fetch it out of you as soon as we meet, brother.”

  “Fay is a White.”

  There was exactly only one thing he could mean by that, but he had hopes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean her freaking mother belongs to the White clan. She cornered her to give us a message about not being responsible for what will happen or some shit. She also gave us a counter spell for Cece’s bond with Vincent.”

  Michael laughed out loud. There was nothing else to do.

  “Mike, I swear to you, Fay isn’t part of this.”

  His brother knew him too well.

  “Yes, she is. Unknowingly, I hope, but she is – you know how the Whites operate. This is a chess game for them. Push a pawn in the vampire’s bed, reap the results.”

  “Michael!”

  “Enough! That counter spell isn’t going anywhere near Cecilia. As for Fay, pack a bag for her. She’s going to be interrogated. If she has nothing to hide, she has nothing to fear.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  There was only one thing to do and if William was too much of a pussy to see it, Michael would play the bad guy.

  “So be it.”

  He wasn’t surprised to find Cecilia behind him, gawking from the door frame.

  Great, she’d heard that.

  “You know what they say about eavesdropping.”

  “Does that stop you?”

  Michael hadn’t thought he’d regain the ability to smile for quite some time, but after a glare contest, he felt the corner of his lip hike up; she didn’t give in, and he was damn proud of her.

  “I heard something about Fay.”

  “She’s got White blood.”

  As that obviously didn’t mean a thing to Cecilia, he had to explain.

  “Every hundred years, there’s an election to choose the leader of the witches and every single time, the winner is a White Witch. They are ruthless, lethal and merciless.”

  Cecilia just snorted.

  “Fay? Merciless?”

  “I’ve dealt with a White Witch before. She wanted some of my blood and I had no intention of giving in. Believe me when I say I know what they’re capable of.”

  “Did she win?”

  He shook his head. No, she hadn’t – but he’d actually had to kill her to get her off his back.

  Michael didn’t kill whenever he could help it, and nothing else he’d tried had worked against her.

  “Why did she want your blood?”

  “Witches use vampire blood to prolong their life.”

  Cecila frowned.

  “So she could have used anyone’s.”

  That was exactly his point.

  “But she wanted mine and nothing else mattered. Trust me…”

  “I do,” she replied without hesitation, shocking him because after what had happened to her, she wasn’t one to extend her trust to just anyone.

  Unbelievable as it sounded, because he was just a stranger, she really did trust him. He could have hurt in so many ways, without anyone stopping him; he hadn’t, so she believed he never would.

  “And I’m asking you to trust me. Fay isn’t our enemy. Never has been, never will be. Before the world screwed us both, I played in sandboxes with her. She lived at our place from the day her parents disappeared – she believed them dead. We all did. I’ve held her in my arms and told her everything would be alright because we were together, us Turners. She’s Fay Turner. Not Fay White.”

  How easily she’d forgotten those years; she wouldn’t begrudge Michael for doubting her words… but she knew that everything she’d said was true.

  If Fay’s mother was a witch, if she’d just abandoned her to her fate when she could have helped, Fay wasn’t likely to help her evil master plan. She’d want to kick her ass.

  “Okay.”

  She wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

  Michael grabbed his phone and pulled it to his ear.

  “Loosen up, bro. I’m not coming after your girl.”

  Hell.

  He’d actually listened to her?

  He hung up, throwing his cell on his bed.

  “William says thank you.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, he said I’m a total asshole. But yes, he asked me to thank you.”

  Michael had a lot of things to work out and very little time until the ball, where he suspected everything would unfold, so he’d decided to avoid the beautiful woman he couldn’t stop thinking about and concentrate on work.

  The next day, his plan shattered into a million tiny pieces when his nose caught the heavenly whiff of a rich, buttery, spicy thing he needed in his mouth. Like the zombie he’d been turned into by some baker’s sorcery, he didn’t even try to fight the pull leading him to the kitchen.

  “Fuck, tell me it’s ready.”

  The woman was bent over, and at first, Michael was distracted by her perky, perfect little ass, but then, he saw the tray of brownies.

  Hell to the yes.

  “Oh hi,” she said hesitatingly, self-consciously pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “Don’t be cute. If there isn’t a law against baking and being cute, I’ll draft one.”

  It gave her an unfair advantage against the rest of the world.

  “Shush!” she frowned, tapping his fingers when he reached out to grab a brownie.

  “What do you want?” he asked darkly. “I only own two thirds of my soul, but I’m ready to sign it away.”

  When she smiled, there were freaking dimples appearing in her plump cheeks.

  Oh, hell.

  “You just have to wait. They are very hot right now – and they should rest to set,” she lied, slowly cutting even squares.

  This was nothing more than torture, plain and simple.

  “Cecilia,” he said solemnly. “I’d like to propose an agreement. If you agree to bake every day, I shall, in return, be your humble servant for an hour. May it be noted that I’m quite proficient at foot rubs.”

  “Every day?” she repeated.

  “Oh yes, baby. That part is the only non-negotiable element of the deal.”

  “You’ll get bored of it if I was to do it too often.”

  He looked at her as though she’d grown a second head, unable to comprehend what she’d just said.

  “Never mind.”

  “Now y
ou’re making sense. Good.”

  His smile changed to a frown as he caught the change in her expression. She’d stiffened and withdrawn from their playful conversation.

  “What is it?” Then, after a little while, he got it. “Oh.”

  Vincent was having his session.

  At first, Michael had been more than happy about the arrangement, but Cecilia was moving on, she smiled more and more every day, until her body reminded her of his existence. It had to stop, and soon.

  Michael thought about the remedy William had mentioned, and like every time he considered it, he dismissed the idea just as quickly. It came from a White. Might as well have “trap” written all over it.

  “You’re alright?”

  Cecilia shrugged, resuming her activities as though nothing was happening. As though her burning skin wasn’t letting her know that her former master was currently getting flogged.

  She had been sincere when she’d told William it wouldn’t do anything to her body: she felt it, and it aroused her, but there was no pain, only pleasure. However, they hadn’t counted on what these sessions where doing to her mind.

  “Cecilia…”

  “It’s Cece.”

  “It’s not. Cece is what he called you. It’s the name of the girl he could control. Cecilia, I think we should stop his punishment – until we’ve broken the link between you, in any case.”

  She shook her head fervently.

  “I need this. I need to know he’s suffering. And dammit, I need to feel…”

  She didn’t finish that sentence. She didn’t need to.

  She needed to be taken; she needed sex. Every adult did, really; some ignored it, curbed the need, abstained for a reason or another, but their body demanded it. Hers more than the rest. Vincent’s sessions were taking the edge off, messed up as it was.

  The reason why she hadn’t jumped from one available male to the next was because she was smart. She knew what it would do to her practically non-existent self-respect.

  But dammit, right now, he didn’t give a shit. All that mattered was wiping the stupid weasel who’d broken her from her mind.

  Michael crossed the room slowly, giving her all the time in the world to see him coming to her.

  He captured her by placing his hands on the countertop, either side of her, and dropped his head to her neck, where he inhaled her tantalizing floral scent.