by Allie Gail
Oh, stop it! You're being ridiculous. Get a grip, dufus. Does this look like Hell to you? Don't let your imagination go nuts here.
Slipping my legs out from under the covers, I dangle them over the edge of the bed before sliding to the floor. It's nice and warm in here, even with me dressed in next to nothing. Still, an underlying chill hangs in the air, hinting at the freezing temperatures outside. I expected the hardwood planks to be cold against my feet, but they aren't.
Heated floors, I realize.
My, my. Swanky. Someone sure lives in the lap of luxury.
And speaking of the devil, where is he? It's so quiet. Surely he hasn't gone off and left me here by myself. Oh, crap – what if he did? What if he went somewhere and left me all alone with that creepy-ass assistant of his?
The thought of Silas prowling around has me scrambling in search of something to wear. Thankfully, my bag has been left on a chair nearby, so being caught sans clothing is one thing I don't have to worry about. Snatching it up, I hastily locate the bathroom and lock myself inside.
And instantly discover that I've just stumbled into Shangri-La.
For a full minute, all I can do is stand there and stare. Never in my sheltered life have I ever seen such a lavish bathroom. And by lavish, I mean freaking unbelievable. The kind of thing you might expect for a movie star or, I don't know, a famous musician or something, but definitely not your everyday Joe.
Then again, Loc isn't exactly your everyday Joe.
The walls are cedar paneled in here too, except for one. This one is stone from floor to ceiling. It's the focal point, the first thing that catches your eye. The tub, a huge whirlpool spa, is set in a gorgeous base of the same stone that blends into the rustic gray wall. Above the tub, several outcroppings of rock hold cream-colored pillar candles for a touch of romantic ambience.
I'm in love with this tub. True love. Seriously, if I could run across a beach into its arms, I would. It's absolutely exquisite.
Picking my jaw up off the floor, I quickly scan the rest of the room. There's a separate tile shower. Tropical potted plants. Double sink with swirled marble countertop. A skylight, for cripes sake.
I may barricade myself in here and never leave.
I only intended to brush my teeth and throw on some clothes, but somehow I can't resist the urge to try out that huge, roomy shower. A built-in shelf holds a variety of soaps and body washes and some kind of white tea shampoo that smells divine. I linger in there for a sinfully long time, just standing beneath the multiple jets, eyes closed in bliss as the neverending hot water rains down on me. It's heaven. Pure heaven. The only thing that forces me out is the fact that my fingers and toes are starting to prune.
The towels I find are of the highest quality, large and thick and fluffy-soft. A far cry from the threadbare discount specials I'm accustomed to. It's hard to fathom living in such affluence. I guess that's because I come from a lower-middle-class background. Money wasn't something you squandered on Turkish bath towels and designer shampoos and custom-designed spa tubs.
Hell, my idea of extravagance is hitting up Bath and Body Works for some three-dollar shower gel during their semi-annual sale.
Quickly drying my hair, I dress in jeans and a hoodie, then finally exit Shangri-La. I wish I could say I'm surprised to find Loc stretched out on top of the bed, ankles crossed, hands folded casually behind his head as if he's been waiting for me this whole time.
But I'm not.
His lips curve into that familiar serpentine smile as he drawls, “Hello, sleepyhead.”
“Where the hell are we?” No sense mincing words here.
“Colorado.”
“Could you be a little more specific, please?”
“Silverton. San Juan County. I'm not sure of the exact coordinates, but I could always Google them if you want specifics.”
His candid reply comes as a relief. Now that I know where I am, I feel a little more in control. I recall him mentioning a residence in Silverton. So he was actually telling the truth about that? Huh. Somehow it strikes me as odd that he would bring the enemy into his home. Doesn't it concern him that I might have shared that little geographical tidbit to Russ or Max?
Nah, probably not. He knew pretty much everything that went on around that house, so it stands to reason he knows darn well I never said a word.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask.
“Are you well rested?”
“Yes.”
“Then long enough.”
Furrowing my brow, I try again. “What did you do to me?”
“Was the trip here an inconvenience?”
“Hard to say, considering I don't remember any of it.” Except the initial kinky part, that is. Just the thought of it makes my cheeks burn.
“Then I suppose I did you a favor, didn't I?”
He's impossible. He really is.
“Well, whatever it was, don't do it again. I don't like that.”
“You don't like sleeping?”
“I don't like...whatever you did to knock me out!”
“Insomnia preferable. Duly noted.” He sits up and gazes at me expectantly. “I assume you must be hungry?”
I just love the way he changes the subject whenever I bring up something he doesn't want to discuss.
Now that he mentions it though, I can feel my stomach rumbling. It's been a long time since breakfast. I get the feeling it's really late, too. Like after-midnight kind of late.
“A little,” I reluctantly admit.
“Shall we, then?” Languidly swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stands and offers me his arm.
I take it and allow him to usher me through a hallway, down a curving timber staircase, through what I assume is the main living area. Even in just the quick glimpse I get in passing, I am awestruck. I've never been in such a chic home before. The gabled ceiling with its arched trusses creates a spacious, almost cathedral-like effect. There is a lovely rustic stone fireplace with a huge wreath of pine cones and berries hanging above the mantel. Even the wall sconces are strikingly unique – they resemble vintage lanterns. Everything about the place radiates warmth and class and coziness, the antithesis of everything he represents.
Did he pick out the furnishings himself, I wonder? No. There's no way. He must've hired an interior decorator.
What a weird thought.
The kitchen is a work of architectural mastery as well. It boasts a stone tile floor and the most modern of appliances while still managing to exude an air of earthy simplicity. During the daytime it must be very bright and airy in here, if you take into consideration all the windows. They stretch from floor to ceiling, framing a view currently cloaked in darkness.
What's out there, I wonder? Mountains, probably, if this really is Colorado. Are there any neighbors? Or are we secluded in the middle of nowhere, isolated from the world?
Ever the gentleman, Loc pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. The table is already set, and an array of food has been laid out. Spinach and cheese strata, Belgian waffles, a variety of mini quiches, caramelized bacon, chocolate banana crêpes...to my empty stomach, the spread looks positively mouthwatering. I refrain from asking who the chef is. If this stuff has been prepared by Silas, I'd rather not know.
Loc fills a plate for me first, then one for himself, and I'm not sure whether to find his attention courteous or presumptuous. What am I, four? I'm perfectly capable of serving myself.
But in the interest of keeping peace, I say nothing. And when I dig into the waffles...oh, my. Can a tongue have an orgasm? These aren't your ordinary, everyday Belgian waffles. It takes me a moment to recognize the flavor, but I soon discern that they're red velvet with a sweet cream cheese glaze.
Whoever thought of this is a culinary genius. It's divine.
After only a few bites, however, I begin to find swallowing difficult. Sitting across from Loc is making me nervous. Is he staring at me like that on purpose? With that weirdly contemplative expression, ra
rely shifting his eyes away from me. The predatory gleam in those radiant orbs is twisting my insides into knots. Making my throat tighten and close up.
Reminding me why I'm here.
“What time is it?” I ask, not because I particularly care but because I'm desperate for something to break the silence.
He takes a sip of juice before shrugging indifferently. “Time has no meaning here. There is day, followed by night, which is all that really matters.”
I mimic his movements, lifting my glass as well. The juice is pineapple with a hint of something else. Mango, I think. “Humor me.”
“Why are you so hung up on the time? Maybe it's 10:15; maybe it's 3:46. What difference does it make? You have nowhere to be. I know you accountant types have a thing for numbers and all, but having them confirmed isn't going to change anything. Morning will come when it comes.”
His logic is maddening. Shifting in my chair, I scan the kitchen until my eyes light on the microwave's glowing digital numbers.
“It's 1:20,” I inform him, a little snarkily.
“Feel better now?” He bites into a quiche, his gaze still penetrating me.
“I don't know why you have to be so obstinate about everything.”
“Mm. Obstinate, you say? If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black.”
“All I mean is that getting answers out of you is like trying to pull teeth.”
“You know, I never did understand that idiom,” he muses. “Pulling teeth really isn't that difficult. Not if you tune out the screaming and put some muscle into it.”
Great. Seems like the only time he does provide an answer, it's just to creep me out.
Noticing my distaste, he breaks out in a broad smile. “I'm joking. Lighten up some, will you?”
“I never know with you,” I mutter, frowning.
“No, you always just assume the worst.”
“Well, what do you expect? You're a demon, in case you've forgotten!”
“Half,” he reminds me patiently. “And in case you've forgotten, the other half is human. Just like you.”
“Yeah. But still...”
“Have I broken my word to you yet? Reneged on any of my promises?”
I pick up my fork and poke at the strata on my plate.
“Have I?” he persists.
“No,” I concede in a low voice. “Not that I know of.”
“Then, please. Give me the benefit of the doubt. That's all I ask. You'll see that I'm not so bad.”
I glance up at him. Strangely enough, he seems genuinely sincere. And that, perhaps, is what makes him so dangerous.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask curiously.
“I'm alone when I want to be. But there are others about, here and there, whenever I need them. Those who assist me.”
“You mean like staff? Employees?”
“You might say that.”
“You don't mean staff. You mean others like Silas. Don't you?”
“They are still employees, in a sense.”
“Do they have to do what you say?”
“Yes.”
“Are any of them around right now?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“How do I know one of them won't do something demon-y to me?”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “You have a unique way with words.”
“Demonic, then. You know what I mean.”
“No one here will lay a finger on you. You're perfectly safe,” he assures me. “If it makes you feel any better, they've been instructed not to so much as speak to you unless you address them first. They are here to assist you if you need anything; otherwise, you'll barely notice their presence.”
I somehow doubt that. Especially if any of them bear a resemblance to Silas. “How long are you going to keep me here?”
“Keep you here?” He seems offended by my choice of words. “You aren't a prisoner, Jude. As my guest, you are free to leave at any time. Once our transaction has been completed, of course.”
“Our transaction?” I can't help but snort a laugh. “That's rich! And you said I had a way with words. You make it sound like I'm here to do your taxes or something.”
“Or something.”
I can almost see the devil himself dancing in his eyes.
I duck my head, staring down at the half-eaten food on my plate. It's hard not to let those eyes hypnotize me. Something about them is so intense, so expressive.
My father was wrong. The eyes of a cambion are not empty and dead like those of a shark. They are alive and intelligent and burn hot with desire.
“Did you bring a jacket?” he asks, taking me by surprise.
“Yes. Why?”
“It's cold out.”
Always so literal. “Are we going somewhere?”
“As soon as you've finished eating, I thought we'd take a little walk.”
“Now?” This seems one heck of a peculiar time to go for a stroll.
“Yes, now.” His voice is gentle, almost soothing. “I want to show you a more...human side of me.”
“And we have to go outside for that?” I take one last bite of my crêpe. Too bad I don't have more of an appetite. It's delicious.
“You'll like this. Trust me.”
Trust me. The two words that seem to be everyone's catchphrase lately. I'm no fool – I know better than to let my guard down – but while I'm here, I guess the only choice I have is to put my faith in him. For the time being, he owns me. I'm a caged animal, and he has the key.
My, how the tables have turned.
“I'm done,” I tell him, laying down my fork.
“Finish your juice.”
Raising an eyebrow, I do as he instructs. Is he always this bossy?
“All right,” I tell him, plunking the glass down. “Should I go get my coat?”
“By all means.” He smiles benevolently.
Scooting back my chair, I hurry upstairs, following the same route we took to get to the kitchen. I'm doing all I can not to let my nerves get the better of me, but it isn't easy. Where are we going? What is he scheming? I know why I was brought here, and it wasn't for midnight brunch or walks in the park. Sex is inevitable. It's only a question of when.
My hands shake as I fumble through the bag for the down parka I brought along. I try to tell myself it's dread. Fear, pure and simple. That my fingers are trembling and my heart is pounding because I am afraid. That I am terrified of what he'll do to me.
I try, but every part of me rejects it as a lie.
I'm not afraid of him. For whatever foolish reason, I'm not. Not really. I don't trust him, that goes without saying, but deep down I have this intuition that he meant what he said about protecting me.
He doesn't want to hurt me.
What he does want is to claim my body.
And that, whether I want to admit it or not, is precisely why I'm a nervous wreck. Why I can't stifle the fluttering in my chest. The excitement and apprehension and yes, the anticipation. I'm ashamed to admit that I want him. It's all so deviant, so morally reprehensible, so forbidden on every conceivable level, and yet...
It is what it is.
In for a penny, in for a pound. After what happened in the limo, it seems remiss to let guilt and denial creep in now. I've already crossed the line. It's going to happen regardless, so why not lower the walls of defense and just welcome it? Accept it. Embrace it. Acknowledge the dark desire that's been burning in my blood ever since I first laid eyes on sin in human form.
If you're forced to jump, then you might as well do it with arms spread and eyes wide open.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Chapter Nineteen
Snow is beginning to come down in a light flurry, dusting the ground with a silvery, glistening sheen.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat to keep them warm. It's so cold, our breath hangs in the air in frosty puffs. Barely November and it's already snowing. That doesn't bode well for a mild winter. Of course, there's probably a sig
nificant difference in average temperatures here.
In the soft glow of the lantern Loc is carrying, I can see that the house is set on a small knoll surrounded by aspens and spruce. We cross a wide flagstone patio, and I pause to look over my shoulder as we head farther away. It's about what I expected. Stone and cedar, the architecture distinctly Alpine in taste with a gabled roof, wide eaves and an abundance of picture windows. It reminds me of a mountain chalet. Or even a ski lodge, considering the size.
I figure we'll be using the limo to go someplace, but that isn't the case. He's walking with a purpose, but not toward the garage. Instead, he's advancing into the darkness, where the grove of trees is denser and in the absence of light, more ominous. The slender white aspen trunks stand out like ghosts. They look skeletal and barren compared to the lush evergreens that dot the landscape.
It's so still out here. So quiet.
There can't be anything out there among those trees. So where are we going?
I stop in my tracks, stalled by a wave of apprehension. Something isn't right. He's luring me off into the woods? In the middle of the night? Okay, maybe I've seen too many scary movies, but this follows the formula of a horror script. With me cast as Dead Girl #1.
Just ahead, Loc turns to give me a questioning look. The faint moonlight dances off his hair, and once again it strikes me how heartbreakingly handsome he is.
“Where are you taking me?” I demand sharply. Handsome or not, I won't let him lead me like a lamb to the slaughter. Although it doesn't make sense that he would kill me now. If that's what he wanted, he could've done it a dozen times over already.
He smiles mysteriously. “You'll just have to wait and see.”
“Yeah? I don't think so, Hannibal. Not happening.” Forget this. I'm not budging another inch until I know what's what.
“I could pick you up and carry you,” he threatens cheerfully.
“You could try. Good luck catching me.”
“Plan on making a run for it?” Cocking his head to one side, he appraises me curiously. “You're not afraid of the dark, are you?”
