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“Time for dinner, little lamb.” Dinner? It’s at least ten at night and they’re just now serving dinner?
Drystan steps into the dimly lit room. I haven’t turned on any lights, so the only glow in the room comes from the sconces outside my door. He watches me through the darkness for a moment before flicking the overhead light on. I blink a few times, my eyes attempting to adjust to the brightness.
“Come,” he tells me in a dark voice. I swallow and wonder why he wants me to join them for dinner. He can just bring food to my room. Or not feed me at all. The last thought has me standing obediently. Despite my fear, I’m hungry, and starving myself won’t help me escape.
Biting my lower lip, I hesitate. He’s standing in my doorway, clad head to toe in a black suit, looking every inch a lion ready to devour his prey. He cocks his head to the side, as if he’s waiting for me to make my move. Drystan stays still, blocking the doorway, waiting to see what I’ll do next. I know that he can simply grab me and pull me out the door, but he doesn’t. Instead, it seems as if he’s waiting for me to make the choice on my own.
To willingly become the sacrifice he’s made me.
Another moment of stillness. The air crackles between us, the heavy fog of uncertainty settling over me like a blanket. I take a deep breath to center myself and take a small step in his direction. Then another. He’s still blocking the door, and I’m not sure why. Doesn’t he want me to leave with him?
Is this a trick?
Then Drystan does something unexpected.
He extends his hand for me to take.
Under any other circumstances, it would be a kind gesture. Thoughtful, even. But now, here with him, it feels as if it’s another game of power. One where he reminds me of who’s in charge. Warily, I eye his calloused hand. It’s tan and scarred. Rough with age and use. People often think vampires are flawless, impenetrable to harm, but they aren’t. Their skin still bleeds, and their bodies still scar, like humans, it’s just harder to cause those wounds. Which is why they’re surprising to see on him.
A shiver of fear rolls through me. Even I know that scars like those are unnatural on his kind. How deep they must have been to cause the damage. How violent. I’m not sure if I want to take his hand, but my options are limited. If I snub his gesture, he could become angry. He’s a man who takes what he wants. Does what he wants.
Drystan showed me his hand in the car when he refused to heed my wordless discomfort when he touched me. I have to play this smart. I need him to trust me.
I reach out my hand and slowly place it in his. Just as my skin touches his, he closes his fingers around mine and pulls me to him. He chucks me under the chin, forcing my gaze to his. That hand moves to the back of my neck, his grip firm but not painful. A warning.
“We are not alone tonight,” he tells me, and I swallow. “You will behave in front of our guests, or there will be consequences. Understood?”
There is a darkness lurking beneath his amber eyes which have slowly begun to darken to the color they were when we were introduced. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice tremble, I simply nod.
“Good girl.” With those words, he releases his hold on me and steps out of the room.
What in the ever-loving fuck was that? Two words. Two words, and the ice in my veins turned to fire. I need so much therapy.
“Let’s go, little lamb.”
Huffing, I step out of my room and slowly follow behind him. Drystan leads me down the stairs and into the main area of the house. My jaw almost drops in awe at the history spread across the walls. In school, history was my greatest subject. I loved delving into the past and what it offered. What it could teach.
I’m not sure how old any of the men in this house are, but some of these artifacts look to be a few hundred years old, and nearly all of them are still in excellent condition, including the sword hanging above the wooden sideboard in the sitting room.
The sideboard itself is from the early fifteenth century, but the sword? Fuck, it’s in nearly pristine condition. Unable to help myself, I stop to admire the craftsmanship.
It’s the sword of a Northman. A Viking. It’s easy to tell from the inscription on the blade. Possibly Scandinavian in origin. The hilt is richly decorated, and the pattern-welded blade means it most likely belonged to someone of a high rank. Possibly a chieftain or a Frankish noble. The braided copper wires on the pommel are surprising, but I’ve read that early Scandinavian culture often tied protective amulets to their swords before battle. The blade was forged of intertwined rods of steel and iron, a technique that, from what I’ve read, produced a tough and resilient blade with a distinctive swirling pattern on its surface.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Chapter 6
Thalia
My breath hitches slightly at the sudden intrusion. Lost in thought, I didn’t hear him approach.
“Pretty isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” I tell Weylen, the intruder.
He tilts his head to the side and studies me for a moment before looking at the sword. “And what word would you use, exactly?”
“Masterpiece,” I say honestly. “Something that belongs in a museum where it can be admired and appreciated. Not hoarded on a mantel.”
Weylen gives a soft, almost carefree laugh, as if he knows something I don’t. It sets me on edge, wondering what it is he thinks is funny.
