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Yet...he'd been in Dimitri's place, that night in Vienna, and somehow Moldavi had caused the building to burn to the ground and resulted in the death of Dimitri's mistress.
"Very well," he told her, turning slightly away. "I will play the reluctant target. For now. But take note, Narcise...once you are in my bed, my chamber, you'll never leave it. I won't let you go back with him."
He'd delivered these last words in an undertone for her ears only, but she stiffened and curled her fingers into the lapel of his coat. "No," she said. "I cannot stay. I won't stay, Giordan."
He stilled. Her refusal, coupled with her first ever use of his intimate name, told him much. Yet his emotion that overrode it all was that of anger. "Do you think I won't be able to protect you from him, in my own home?"
"It's not me. I don't fear for me any longer. It's...there are children. Hostages."
So that was it. "I'll kill him then. Now." He turned away, already considering where the closest stake or sword would be, but she caught his arm. Her fingers felt frail and he could easily have shaken her grip away.
Her words were low and desperate. "If he doesn't return tonight, the children are to be given to the servants to be fed on. They'll tear them apart. There's one in the carriage, waiting now with Belial. It's a girl-child, a young one-no more than eight. His orders are that if he doesn't return to them by midnight, Belial can do what he wishes." She seemed out of breath, exhausted by this long speech. "There is no way. Not tonight. One more night...it will make little difference."
Giordan was aware of a numbness creeping over him. "There must be a way. There is a way, Narcise. You have no idea what I'm capable of," he said, thinking back to those days on the streets when sticking a blade in someone who crossed him was as common as sleeping in the gutters.
"Please," she said, and she stumbled into him a bit. Her eyes were dark blue pools. "I can't risk it. Not tonight. It must be when he isn't expecting it, when he hasn't planned it all. Tonight is a test. Do you not think he will have considered every possible outcome and planned for it? Whatever you might attempt...he'll be one step ahead."
Then she smiled, but it was tight, and it worried him-along with the fact that she seemed to underestimate him.
Yet, when she pressed her body against his, the warmth from her presence, her heavy, erotic scent, the feel of her curves, all set his skin to tingling and his gums to swelling. She murmured as she looked up at him with hooded eyes, "I am certain we'll both enjoy what's to come. Can we not leave it at that? Just for tonight?"
"Very well," he said, yet unwilling to put the possibility of her freedom from his mind. But if she was willing and able to return with Cezar to save the children, how could he argue with her? Giordan wasn't certain he'd be able to make the same choice, but he must respect hers.
He slid an arm around her slender waist, pulling her close to him so that her br**sts pressed against his chest. Surely she could feel his c**k filling out his breeches. He was already imagining pulling the pins from her heavy hair, peeling the lace from her curves, sinking his teeth into the soft side of her belly while his fingers found her swollen quim. His breathing became rough and unsteady, his fangs long and hard.
"May I succumb to your wiles now, then, Narcise? Have I been reluctant enough?"
"Yes, I believe I've done my duty and convinced you," she said, and for the first time, he saw a spark of heat in her eyes.
"Will you allow me to touch you tonight, cher?" his voice dropped low. "Are you willing? Tell me the truth, Narcise."
"I am more than willing." Yet...something still lurked in her eyes. Some hesitance.
Confused and angry with whatever it was, he nevertheless offered her his arm. "Shall we? I'm certain you'd prefer all of this to happen somewhere a bit more private."
When she hardly moved, he looked down at her again. Her eyes had that dull look, her lips were slightly parted. She was either deathly afraid or in great-hell.
"Where the devil is it?" he demanded, taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. Fury at his stupidity, his blindness rushed over him. "Where's the feather? You're wearing one, aren't you?"
She nodded slightly, relief swimming in her eyes. "Around my neck. But not...here." Her eyes focused on him, and now he recognized the pain behind the emptiness. "He can't see...."
"Yes, here," he said in a low, furious voice. But he turned so that his body blocked the view of anyone watching.
Cezar would die. Slowly. Giordan would ensure that it took days. Perhaps weeks.
He found the slender golden chain at her throat in seconds, and began to pull it from her gown. It was very long, and the single feather that hung from it had been slipped down the back of her gown, between the lace and her skin. Which meant it had been burning into her for at least an hour.
No damned wonder she'd hardly moved. She couldn't.
Giordan snapped the golden chain and pulled the feather away, already seeing the relief in her face and eyes. Color came back into her skin and life in her blue-violet irises.
"Now," he said, "let me have you."
Cezar Moldavi watched as Cale led Narcise from the chamber. It had been a battle between them, he noted with satisfaction. She'd had to beg and plead, to coerce.
That Cale hadn't immediately followed her like a besotted dog from the parlor gave Cezar hope. Perhaps he was wrong.
After all, every test he'd given Cale so far had turned out to be unnecessary. How many men would have declined the offer to "watch over" Narcise during her brother's absence?
And even if Cale was smart enough to see that he was being set up and to refuse the offer of having-what was it they said here? carte blanche?-with Narcise, surely he would at least have attempted to visit her or otherwise see her during Cezar's absence.
But, no. All of his prying eyes in the household had assured him that Giordan Cale hadn't so much as sent a message to the Moldavis, let alone attempted to call, until the day Cezar returned.
Anticipation bubbled deep within and it was all he could do not to smile broadly. He knew nearly everything he needed to about Giordan Cale. The last would become clear tonight, and then he would determine how to proceed.
A burst of laughter from the corner drew Cezar's attention to Lord Eddersley, the dark, gangly fop from London. He subdued the sneer that threatened his upper lip. Men like him, so open and obvious about their preferences, disgusted him.
Cezar turned away, sipping the fine vintage Cale had poured tonight. The man had excellent taste, along with his broad shoulders and thick, curling hair. He could hardly wait to taste the man himself.
