The Story of Son

by J. R. Ward

  When she finished the cup, Miss Leeds closed her eyes with something that seemed oddly like relief and Fletcher took away the empty cup.

  “Well, I think I’d better go, Miss Leeds.”

  “My son is going to like you,” the old woman whispered. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Claire blinked and called on all her tact. “I’m afraid I have to head back to the city. Perhaps I can meet him some other time?”

  “He needs to meet you now.”

  Claire blinked again and heard her father’s refrain in her head: The client is always right. “If it’s important to you, I could . . .” Claire swallowed. “I, ah . . . I could . . .”

  Miss Leeds smiled a little. “It will not be so bad for you. He is like his father. A lovely beast.”

  Claire rubbed her eyes. There were two Miss Leeds in the bed. Actually, there were two beds. So did that make four Miss Leeds? Or eight?

  Miss Leeds looked at Claire with disarming clarity and a detachment that was discomforting. “You mustn’t be afraid of him. He can be quite gentle if he’s in the mood. I wouldn’t try to run, though. He shall only catch you, after all.”

  “What—” Claire’s mouth felt dry and fuzzy, and when she heard a noise to the left, it was as if the sound came from a vast distance.

  Fletcher was taking the silver tray off the brass cart and putting it on a bureau. When he came back to the cart, he extended a hidden panel out at the foot of it so the thing became like a stretcher.

  Claire felt her bones loosen, then collapse altogether. As she slid into the side of the chair, Fletcher picked her up and carried her to the cart, just as easily as he had brought over the heavy chair.

  He was laying her flat when her vision started to slip. Desperately, she tried to hold on to consciousness as she was wheeled down the hall into an old-fashioned brass and glass elevator. The last thing she saw before she passed out was the butler pressing the button marked “B” for basement.

  The lift lurched and she sank with it, falling into oblivion.

  2

  Claire rolled over in her bed, feeling velvet under her hands and smooth Egyptian cotton against her cheek. She moved her head up and down on the soft pillow, aware that her temples were pounding and she was vaguely nauseated.

  What a strange dream . . . Miss Leeds and that butler. The tea. The cart. The elevator.

  God, her head hurt, but what was that wonderful smell? Dark spices . . . like a fine men’s cologne, only one that she’d never smelled before. As she breathed in deep, her body warmed in response and she ran her palm over the velvet duvet. It felt like skin—

  Wait a minute. She didn’t have velvet on her bed.

  She opened her eyes . . . and stared into a candle. Which was on a nightstand that was not her own.

  Panic roared in her chest, but lethargy prevailed in her body. She struggled to get her head up, and when she finally lifted it, her vision swam. Not that it really mattered. She couldn’t see beyond the shallow pool of light that fell on the bed.

  Vast, inky darkness surrounded her.

  She heard an eerie shifting sound. Metal on metal. Moving around. Coming toward her.

  She looked to the noise, her mouth opening, a scream rising in her throat only to get tangled on the back of her tongue.

  There was a massive black shape at the foot of the bed. A huge . . . man.

  Terror made her break out in a sweat and the shot of adrenaline cleared her head. She reached around for anything she could use as a weapon. The candle, with its heavy silver holder, was the only thing. She grabbed for it—

  A hand clamped on her wrist.

  Mindlessly, she tried to scramble back, her feet wadding up the velvet duvet, her body thrashing. It made no difference. The hold was iron.

  And yet uninjuring.

  A voice came through the dense darkness. “Please . . . I shall not hurt you.”

  The words were spoken on a long breath of sadness, and for a moment, Claire stopped fighting. Such sorrow. Such pervading loneliness. Such a beautiful male voice.

  Wake up, Claire! What the hell was she doing? Sympathizing with the guy who had a death grip on her?

  Baring her teeth, she went for his thumb, ready to bite her way free and then knee him where he’d feel it most. She didn’t get a chance to. With a gentle surge, she was turned onto her stomach and her arms held carefully at the small of her back. She wrenched her head to the side so she could breathe and tried to buck free.

  The man didn’t hurt her. He didn’t touch her inappropriately. He just held her loosely as she struggled, and when she finally exhausted herself, he let go immediately. While panting, she heard the chains being dragged into the darkness over to the left.

  When her lungs stopped pumping wildly, she grunted, “You can’t keep me here.”

  Silence. Not even breathing.

  “You have to let me go.”

  Where the hell was she? Shit . . . that dream of Fletcher had been real. So she must be somewhere on the Leeds estate.

  “People will be looking for me.”

  This was a lie. It was a holiday weekend and most of her firm’s lawyers were taking work to their summer homes, so there was no one to miss her if she didn’t come into the office as she’d planned to. And if folks tried to reach her and got voice mail, they’d probably assume she’d finally gotten a life and was taking some time off for Labor Day.

  “Where are you?” she demanded, her voice echoing. When there was no response she wondered if she hadn’t been left alone.

  She reached out for the candle and used the weak glow to look around. The wall behind the carved wooden head-board was made of the same pale gray stone as the front of the Leeds mansion, so that confirmed where she was. The bed she was on was draped in deep blue velvet and sat high off the floor. She was wearing a white robe and her underwear.

  That was all she could ascertain.

  Slipping off the edge of the mattress, her legs wobbled and she fell as her knees gave out. Wax spilled on her hand, burning her skin, and the stone floor bruised her ankle. She caught her breath and dragged herself up by the bed’s duvet.

  Her head was bad, aching and scrambled. Her stomach felt like it was filled with latex paint and thumbtacks. And panic made both of those happy problems worse.

  She stuck her hand out and shuffled forward, keeping the candle as far in front of her as she could. When she made contact with something, she shrieked and jumped back—until she realized what the irregular, vertical pattern was.

  Books. Leather-bound books.

  She put the candle forward again and moved to the left, patting with her palm. More books. More . . . books. Books everywhere, organized by author. She was in the Dickens section, and going by the gold inlays on the spines, the damn things looked like first editions.

  There was no dust on them, as if they were cleaned regularly. Or read.

  Some countless yards later, she ran across a door. Angling the candle up and down, she tried to find a knob or handle, but there was nothing to mark the old wood except black iron hinges. To the right of it on the ground there was something the size of a bread box, but she couldn’t guess what it was.

  She straightened and pounded on the door.

  “Miss Leeds! Fletcher!” She kept up the hollering for a while and threw in a good long scream, hoping to alarm someone. Nobody came.

  Fear gave way to anger and she welcomed the aggression.

  Scared but pissed off, she kept feeling her way around. Books. Just books. Floor to however high the ceiling was. Books, books, books . . .

  Claire stopped and was suddenly relieved. “This is a dream. All this is just a dream.”

  She took a deep breath—

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.” The deep, resonant male voice sent her wheeling around, her back slapping against the stacks.

  Show no fear, she thought. When you face off with your enemy, you show no fear.

  “Let me out of this fucking room. Rig
ht now.”

  “In three days’ time.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You will be here with me for three days. And then Mother will set you free.”

  “Mother . . . ?” This was Miss Leeds’s son?

  Claire shook her head, pieces of the conversation she’d had with the woman skipping through her mind, landing on nothing rational.

  “This is unlawful restraint—”

  “And after three days, you will remember nothing. Neither where you went nor your time here. Nor me. Nothing will linger of the experience.”

  God . . . his voice was hypnotic. So sad. So smooth and low—

  Chains dragged across the floor, the sound getting louder, reminding her that she needed to fear him. “Don’t come near me.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot wait.”

  She raced back for the door and beat against the wood, her jerky, frantic movements splashing wax everywhere. When the candle’s flame went out, she dropped the silver holder and as it clattered away, she banged both fists against the solid panels.

  The chains grew closer; he zeroed in on her. Terrified to the point of madness, Claire clawed at the door, her fingernails leaving long trails.

  Two hands covered hers, stopping them. Oh, God, he was right on her. Right behind her.

  “Let me go!” she yelled.

  “I will not harm you,” he said quietly, gently. “I will not hurt you. . . .” He kept speaking to her, word after word after word until she fell into a kind of trance.

  Her body tingled as his scent filled her nose. He was the source of that dark, spicy smell, the delicious fragrance everything that was male and powerful and sexual. Her core grew swollen, heavy, wet . . .

  Horrified by her reaction, she tried to jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Be still.” His voice was right in her ear. “I will not take much this first time and worry not. You will leave here with your virtue intact. I cannot lie with you.”

  She should not trust him. She should be terrified. Instead, his gentle hands and his quiet, deep voice and the sensual smell of him soothed her fears. Which was probably the thing that terrified her most.

  He released her and one of his hands went to her hair. He pulled the pins out one by one until it fell down on her shoulders. “How lovely,” he whispered.

  She knew she should bolt. But she didn’t actually want to get away from him. “It’s dark. How do you know what it looks like . . .”

  “I see you perfectly.”

  “I see nothing.”

  “It’s better if you don’t.”

  Was he ugly? Misshapened? Deformed? And if he was, would it really matter? She knew it wouldn’t. She would take him however he was. Although, Jesus Christ . . . why?

  “I am sorry to rush this,” he said roughly. “I need just enough to calm myself.”

  She heard a hissing noise as her hair was moved to one side. Two sharp, blazing points sank into her neck, the pain a sweet rush. As her back arched and she gasped, his arms shot around her and locked her tight against what was an enormous male body.

  He moaned and started sucking.

  Her blood . . . he was . . . drinking her blood. And oh, God, it felt fantastic.

  Claire, for the first time in her life, fainted.

  When she woke up, she was in the bed, between the sheets, still wrapped in the robe. The pervading darkness made her whimper in a way she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of, but there was nothing to ground her, no reality to grasp. She felt as if she were drowning in a dense, oily sea, her lungs stopped up with what she couldn’t see through.

  Anxiety tripped all kinds of wires in her head and she broke out in a cold sweat. She was going to go mad—

  A candle flared next to her, illuminating the bedside table and the silver tray of food that was on it. A moment later another lit up on the other side of the huge bed. And so did another mounted high on the shelves beside the door. And another in what looked like a bathroom. And . . .

  One by one they came on, lit by nobody. Which should have scared her, but she was too desperate to see to give a crap how the light came about.

  The room was much larger than she’d expected, and the floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of that gray stone. The only major piece of furniture aside from the bed was a desk the size of a banquet table. Its smooth, glossy surface was covered with white papers and stacked high with black leather volumes. A thronelike chair was behind it, angled to the side as if someone had been sitting in it and had gotten up quickly.

  Where was the man?

  Her eyes went over to the one dark corner. And she knew he was there. Watching her. Waiting.

  Claire remembered the feel of him pressing into her back and she put her hand to her neck. She felt . . . nothing. Well, not quite. There were two nearly imperceptible bumps. As if the biting had happened weeks and weeks ago.

  “What did you do to me?” she demanded. Even though she knew. And oh, God . . . the implications were horrific.

  “Forgive me.” His lovely voice was strained. “I regret what I must take from an innocent. But I need to feed or I shall die and I have no choice. I am not permitted to leave my quarters.”

  Claire’s vision took a little break and then came back with a checkerboard overlay—the kind of thing you got before you passed out. Holy . . . shit.

  It was a long time before she could think straight and the cognitive vacuum was filled with visions from Hollywood: undead, white-skinned, evil . . . vampire.

  Her body trembled badly enough to rattle her teeth and she curled up into herself, knees to chest. As she started rocking, she had the disassociative thought that she’d never been so terrified in her life.

  This was a nightmare. Whether she was dreaming or not, this was a total nightmare.

  “Am I infected?” she asked.

  “Are you—do you mean, have I turned you into what I am? No. Not at all. No.”

  Fueled by the urge to flee, she shot off the bed and bee-lined in the direction of the door. She didn’t make it far. The room swam in circles around her and she tripped over her own feet. Throwing her hand out, she caught herself against the books.

  He caught her as well, so fast it was as if he’d dematerialized from where he’d been. His careful hands held her only as tightly as they had to. “You must eat.”

  She hung on to the shelf and noticed for no good reason that she was in front of a complete collection of George Eliot. Maybe that was why he talked like a Victorian. He’d been reading nineteenth-century books for however long he’d been in here.

  “Please,” that beautiful voice implored. “You must eat—”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” She looked across the room at a marble enclave. “Tell me there is a toilet in there.”

  “Yes. You shall find there is no door, but I shall avert my eyes.”

  “You do that.”

  Claire broke free of him and lurched forward, too shell-shocked and weak and freaked out to care about privacy. And because if he’d wanted to take advantage of her he could have any number of times up until now. And because honor was in every timbre of his voice. If he said he wouldn’t look, he wouldn’t.

  Except, Christ, she was an idiot. Why the hell should she have faith in someone she didn’t know? And was imprisoned with?

  Although maybe that was part of it. He was stuck in here, too, evidently.

  Unless he was lying.

  The bathroom was tiled in cream marble from floor to ceiling and there was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub and a pedestal sink. It wasn’t until she flushed and went over to wash up that she realized there was no mirror.

  She rinsed her face off and dried it with one of a stack of white towels. Then she cupped her hands under the rush of water and drank. Her stomach settled a little and she was willing to bet food would help even more, but she wasn’t ingesting a thing she was offered. She’d done that once with a cup of tea and look where the hell she’d ended up.
r />   Back out in the bedroom, she stared at the darkened corner. “I want to see your face. Now.”

  There was no additional risk in that. She already knew she was on the Leeds estate and she knew who he was—Miss Leeds’s son. She had enough on them so that if they were going to kill her to keep her from making identification, they had plenty to go on already.

  “You will show me your face. Now.”

  There was a long silence. Then she heard the chains and he stepped into the light.

  Claire gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth. He was as beautiful as his voice, as beautiful as his scent, as beautiful as an angel . . . and he looked no older than thirty.

  His six-foot-five frame was dressed in a red silk robe that fell to the floor and was tied with an embroidered sash. His hair was as black as night and pulled off his face, falling down in vast waves to . . . God, probably the small of his back. And his face . . . The perfection of it was stunning, with his square jaw, thick lips, and straight nose the pinnacle of male magnificence.

  She couldn’t see his eyes, however. They were downcast, to the floor.

  “My . . . God,” she whispered. “You are unreal.”

  He shrank back into the shadows. “Please, eat. I will have to . . . come to you again. Soon.”

  Claire imagined him biting her . . . sucking at her neck . . . swallowing what was in her veins. And had to remind herself that it was a violation. And she was a prisoner against her will being used by . . . a monster.

  She glanced down. Part of the chain that moved with him was still in the light. The thing was as thick as her wrist and she guessed that it was locked onto his ankle.

  He was definitely a prisoner, too. “Why are you chained down here?”

  “I am a danger to others. Now, eat. I beg of you.”

  “Who keeps you like this?”

  There was only silence. Then, “The food. You must eat the food.”

  “Sorry. Not going to touch the stuff.”

  “It has not been tampered with.”

  “That’s what I thought about your mother’s Earl Grey.”

  The chains rattled as he came back out into the light.

  Yes, they were locked on his ankle. The left one.