by Liz Meldon
“Or kings,” she added softly. Claude nodded, then situated himself closer, the mat dipping under his movement.
“Or kings,” he said. A vision crossed her mind of him crawling across the mat and kissing her, slowly pushing her down into the plush blue material and lifting her leg to wrap around his hip, their lips parted and breath heated. Delia blinked hard and looked away, then stood, still a little wobbly. It was like standing on a huge pile of pillows.
“So you seriously think that with your guidance, I can beat a vamp in hand-to-hand combat?”
Claude sat back on his elbows, head cocked to the side. “That’s my goal.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Care to place a wager on it?” He wiggled his brow, his smile both impish and charming; it made her stomach flip in a good way.
Flirtation was just too easy with him.
Not good.
“I’m going to warm-up on the treadmill for a couple minutes,” she said, waddling off the exercise mat with some difficulty. How the hell was she supposed to spar on this if she could barely find her footing now?
“I’ll be here,” she heard Claude say in response. Once she climbed onto a treadmill, Delia started pushing buttons to adjust her speed and incline, all the while the occasional quick glance over her shoulder. Claude was still on the mat, but he wasn’t watching her like a creep or pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He lay on his back, hands folded together on his chest, and seemed lost in thought.
Swallowing hard, she faced forward and pressed the treadmill’s start button.
*
“Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, I suppose.”
“Shut up,” Delia muttered as Claude smirked down at her. She snatched the ice-cold bottle of water from his hand, trying to stop her chest from heaving up and down. So much for looking good in front of a guy she’d had sex with; sweat glistened across every visible inch of her skin. Her cheeks were flushed again, not from embarrassment for once, and loose strands of brown hair stuck to her face, escaping from the rest of the brunette waves tucked into a bun on top of her head. Delia pressed the water bottle to her neck.
While she had cursed the stupidly thick exercise mat when they first started almost two hours ago, she was grateful for it now, its extra padding embracing her aching body as she reclined on it. Everything was sore and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears—a good workout by any measure. Now, if only she had actually gotten the better of Claude, just once, she could feel like she actually accomplished something.
“You will notice improvements with every training session,” Claude remarked as he settled down beside her. Instead of a clear plastic water bottle plagued with condensation, he raised a shiny metal thermos to his mouth and took a quick sip. A few small red droplets clung to his lips after, but he licked them away hastily when he caught her staring.
Logically Delia could accept that Claude was drinking blood from a thermos, but it was harder for her brain to wrap around the fact that the two of them were hanging out, casually having a post-workout drink. Biting the inside of her cheek, she looked away and cracked open her plastic cap, then took a gulp of frigid water. When she was through, she’d drained half the bottle.
“Well, I’m supposed to improve during the session too,” she lamented, allowing herself one little gripe session after not complaining for the whole two hours. Claude took another mouthful of his drink.
“You were improving,” he insisted lightly. Delia’s eyes swept across his features—not a drop of sweat anywhere. Just gorgeous eyes and a handsome jawline and tousled hair. Bastard.
“No I wasn’t.”
“Your reaction times were a little faster toward the end.” He patted her thigh good-naturedly, but Delia stiffened, the heat lingering even after he retracted his hand. “It’s all a matter of practice. Soon it will feel like a routine. You’ll get faster, less sloppy with your movements. Then it will be second nature. You won’t even think about it. Your body will just react.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” she said with a dramatic sigh, letting herself flop back on the mat and study the arched ceiling. Air conditioning blasted out from a vent on the wall as the early evening’s setting sun cast golden rays across the gym floor. While they’d been at it for two hours, Delia felt like she’d blinked after her warmup on the treadmill and suddenly she was here, sprawled out on the mat in a sweaty, out-of-shape mess.
“It’s true, you know.”
She closed her eyes at the sound of him capping his thermos, and suddenly the mat shifted as if he had stretched out beside her. A crack of one eye showed her that he had left a little less than a foot of space between their bodies. While he wasn’t sweaty like she was, they were both equally warm. Sighing, Delia tried to fan herself with one hand and pressed her water to her forehead with the other.
“You sound like…” Her eyes wandered the ceiling again. “Well, you sound like every trainer I’ve ever had. If I just push through the shit part at the beginning, it’ll all be a breeze.”
His chuckle made her grin. “That’s the basic premise of learning something you aren’t naturally skilled at.”
She cast a sidelong look his way. “Are you saying I’m not a naturally skilled fighter?”
“Implying, more like—and nobody is when they first start out.”
“Pretty sure I have some natural rhythm.”
“I can personally attest that you have excellent natural rhythm.”
A blush bloomed across her already flushed cheeks, and before she could stop herself, she swatted at his arm. “Stop it.”
“What?” He laughed, and the mat rustled again as he shifted onto his side. “You set yourself up for that one.”
She did her best to not roll into him despite the added dip in the mat beside her. Images of that night, the masks and the champagne and the lazy waltz with his hand pressed to her lower back, danced across her mind, but she beat them back before they took a turn for the scandalous.
“So how are you feeling?”
“Tired,” was her first response, thrown out quickly to divert the conversation away from where it had been headed. “I’m sure I’ll be pretty sore tomorrow.”
Hell, it would be a miracle if she could even get out of bed tomorrow. Strictly speaking, Delia wasn’t in bad shape—she jogged regularly, did the occasional weight lifting routine with Devin, and could hold her own on HQ’s tougher obstacle courses—but apparently a workout with Claude Grimm was more than she could handle.
“I don’t doubt that,” Claude said, “but it’s a good feeling, I’m sure. Sore, but like you’ve done something.”
She let her head fall to the side to look at him. “Do vamps feel that? Sore, I mean.”
“A little.” He shrugged. “Not for very long.”
It would definitely have made her feel better tomorrow if she knew Claude felt as poorly as she did. They had spent the two hours going over proper fighting stances, with Claude constantly moving her arms and legs and shoulders and hips to the right position, constantly reminding her to correct her posture or tuck in her pelvis. She’d been putting too much pressure on her lower back, apparently.
Once she had her stances relatively down pat, they moved on to actual hand-to-hand combat, wherein Claude gave her pointers about her movements, about her intent. Still, with all his tips, he somehow always got her pinned to the mat, his body heavy and overwhelming and firm—and almost a little too welcome.
At least he didn’t seem upset with her. Most instructors were when they finished a session. When hour number two was up, Claude insisted, in a somewhat worn but pleasant tone, that they stop for the evening, telling her they would work on a few routines another time that he found effective against vamp opponents. Weak spots. How she could use her opponent’s body weight and strength against them.
Everything he was “teaching” her had already been drilled into her by the League, but somehow Claude’s instruction stuck better, as muc
h as she refused to admit it.
“I hate to ask,” Claude said, suddenly reaching out and lifting some of the damp hair from her face. She stiffened as he tucked it behind her ear. “But is there any particular reason you decided to take me up on my offer?”
Her gaze swept across his face, wavering between telling the truth and telling a lie. “Because the informants were strung up at the… library.”
Truth it was. Claude’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Oh.”
“I figured things are getting dangerous out there,” she continued, facing the ceiling again and letting out a heavy sigh. “The Donovans are really ruffling feathers. First on the trades, then with our rats—”
“You call them rats?” He didn’t sound particularly impressed with the phrase. Delia shrugged.
“Well, they are.” She blinked. “Were. Mine was.” Hugh’s face appeared in the ceiling brickwork momentarily. “I worried that if they went after rats, what’s to stop them from going up the next rung of the League ladder, you know? I’m about two steps up from the bottom. I’m not interested in being found by some kid with the Donovan insignia carved in my skin.”
The thought sent a shiver down her spine, even with the heat.
“Shane Donovan…” Claude paused, and in her peripherals she noted that his features had hardened. “The Donovan clan is the largest and the most… present. They’ve always ruffled feathers.”
“But not like this.”
“This strikes me as very out-of-character for the man that I have known for two centuries,” he remarked stiffly. His words prompted Delia to sit up. She crossed her legs and fiddled with her water bottle, wondering if this was the moment to press for information.
“So what do you think is going on?”
“Whatever it is, it will blow over,” Claude said. He too sat up, then rose to his feet with more grace than Delia knew she could muster. “It always does. If not… I suppose I will need to act like a king again one of these days.”
“But—”
“Delia,” he said sharply. She looked up and found his expression unreadable, then inhaled shakily when his fingertips pressed to the underside of her chin. It wasn’t a ghost of a caress, a mere whisper of skin against skin. No, he tilted her head back further so that their eyes could meet properly, his touch firm. Her heartbeat quickened with her breathing, but she did her best to keep him from seeing.
“When we are together, I’ll never ask you about the comings and goings of your League,” he told her, an edge to his tone that made her skin prickle. “I don’t care. You are my only interest there. I ask that you give me the same courtesy. Don’t pry into clan business.”
She held herself there, still and unblinking, his fingers pressed under her chin. “Is that a threat?”
“A request.” He pulled away and stepped off the mat, his absence leaving her frustratingly hotter than ever. Delia swiped a hand over her face as if that would erase the memory of him on her skin. “A request from me to you.”
She finished the rest of her water in silence. Claude stood a few feet from the mat, his back to her and hands clasped behind him. Something had shifted between them. The playful vibe was dead and buried—and Delia found that she missed it. Stretching her neck from one side to the other, she decided that it was time to go. Two hours in a vamp’s house was more than she should spend on any given day.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked as she tried to get up. Her legs were basically jelly at this point, the muscles in her thighs quivering with every movement. Once she was upright, Delia found him studying her again, the hard lines she’d seen across his face gone. “I can have something delivered.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to go.”
“I’ll call you a car.”
As much as she wanted to protest, to tell him that she was perfectly capable of calling for a taxi herself, Delia just nodded and stumbled off the mat. A heaviness was slowly settling across her body now that she was up again, the endorphins and adrenaline and whatever-the-hell-else that had kept her going for two straight hours finally abandoning her. All she wanted now was a hot shower and a back massage, both of which she was sure Claude would happily oblige her with if she asked.
But somehow that felt wrong, like she was taking advantage of him. Instead, Delia followed him from the west wing of the sprawling estate to the entrance foyer, only half-listening as he gave the name and location of the pick-up to the driver on his phone.
“Take a seat,” he offered, directing her to a wooden bench by the front door. She hadn’t noticed it previously—too distracted by the brutal tapestries hanging on the walls to pay attention to much else. “The driver will be here in ten minutes.”
“Okay.” She drifted to the bench and winced after carelessly plopping down on it—hard as a rock, it sent pain shooting right up her back. Just as she was about to make a somewhat sleepy complaint about the quality of his foyer benches, Delia realized she was alone in the hall. Had she passed out too? He’d been here just a second ago… Frowning, she searched the area for any signs of her handsome vamp instructor, then leaned back against the bench when she found nothing.
“Huh.” She frowned and started massaging her temples to ward off the dull ache between them. “Bye then.”
A few minutes later Claude was back—and he wasn’t alone.
Well, he wasn’t with anyone else either, but the giant bundle of flowers in his hand made her sit upright in a flash.
“What are those?” She pointed to the bouquet, her headache becoming more apparent at the sight. Claude peered around the purplish-red petals, an eyebrow up.
“Flowers,” he said, and Delia let out a long sigh. “Mums, technically. Really hardy. Should stay blooming as long as you follow the care instructions on the little card inside the bundle.”
“Why?” Delia asked, standing and begrudgingly accepting the bouquet.
“Well, I went with mums over something like lilies or roses because you don’t strike me as the sort to have the greenest of thumbs—”
“Why,” Delia reiterated, “are you giving me flowers? This isn’t a date.”
His hands slid into his pockets, and he rocked back and forth on his heels, head tilted slightly to one side. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” she argued. “It isn’t. And you knew that going in.”
“Delia—”
“Don’t make me regret agreeing to this,” she said with a slight groan, cheeks flaming with flustered affection at the feel of his gift in her hands. “I didn’t take you up on the whole dating thing because it’s a bad idea.”
“Not because you don’t like me?”
“For many reasons.” Her hands tightened around the flowers, which had an agreeable smell and a gorgeous colour. The paper crinkled under her grip. “Claude, if you pull this crap, then I don’t want to see you. I think what you taught me today will definitely help, and I’d like to learn more, but only if I’m coming over here to learn. If you keep thinking it’s something more than it is, then I have to—”
“Fine, fine.” He held up his hands as if to soothe her, smile gone. “Fine. I’m sorry. Give them back.”
“No,” she said quickly, turning away when he reached for the flowers. “They’re pretty.”
He retracted his hands slowly, lips spreading into a small smile again, and then cleared his throat. “Fine. Keep them. Consider them a gift from a mentor to a mentee.”
She scoffed. “No thanks.”
“Then what will you consider them as?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” All she knew was that she didn’t want to think of Claude as a mentor. Instead, Delia planned to pretend the flowers miraculously just appeared in her apartment tomorrow morning, and she would admire and take care of them because they were beautiful, not because Claude gave them to her.
They stood facing one another in a battle of wills over who would be forced to break the silence first, the air between them fi
lled with everything left unsaid. In the end, it was Claude’s phone that broke the standstill, and after checking it quickly, he told her that her car was here.
While Claude went straight for the door, Delia suddenly had a hard time persuading her feet to move. The drive home seemed so long and tiring—she almost wanted to ask for a room in the guest houses and take a six-hour nap.
But she moved eventually, forcing one foot in front of the other. Flowers in hand, she passed Claude at the door and spotted a sleek town car waiting for her in the driveway.
“I’m not paying their fees. These guys are crooks. Way overpriced,” she insisted, then turned back only to find herself a few inches from his body. A gasp slipped out before she could stop it, but she refused to stumble back, refused to retreat. He’d done it on purpose, standing so close to her—she could see it in that rare glint of mischievousness in his eye.
“The car service is charged to the clan account, of course,” he told her, head dipped down so that she could see his eyes on her lips, the slight movement of his thick eyelashes. All she had to do was close the distance and her stomach would stop its somersaulting. Delia considered his words, then smirked.
“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll have to save the number.”
“Please do.” The seductive rumble of his voice was getting the better of her. Abort. Abort.
“I’ll let you know when I’m free over the next few days,” she managed, her voice a little too breathy for her liking.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Claude straightened up when she took a step back. “Next time I won’t go so easy on you.”
Delia stopped at the edge of the stone porch, her smile growing. “Even if I ask nicely?”
And with that, she was off, pleased to have the last word. The driver didn’t get the door for her, nor was he wearing the ridiculous cap and suit getup that she expected. Once she was in and settled, the car eased away from the manor, effortlessly navigating the uneven road. Just as they were about to head into the trees, Delia looked out the back window, her breath catching when she spied Claude standing at the door and watching her go. As the canopy shadows stretched across the car, he waved to her before stepping inside.
