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She was beautiful, a slim waif sitting on a railing, a little too relaxed for his peace of mind. But as she’d pointed out earlier, what was worse—physically at least—than what she’d already endured? Falling off a stone wall and breaking a bone that would heal within minutes, with his blood, was trivial in comparison. But he hated her pain, her nightmares.
She was wearing a thin, flowing island dress. From the dampness of her curls as well as the idle drifting in her mind, he knew she’d been swimming. She loved the ocean, running in the damp sand. Playing with the horses. He wanted her here, always. He wanted to take her to the Sahara, to the families he knew who still raised Arabians, let her see the magnificent equine princes of the desert.
Or to Montana, for the wild mustangs on the refuge he sponsored there. The first time he’d looked into a horse’s gaze, he’d been drawn to them, to their complicated mix of strength and fragility, nobility and animal savagery. He saw it here, in the straight back and tilted head of the young woman sitting on the wall. When he’d had her flat on her back in the limo, making it clear he could tear her apart with as much effort as it would take her to rip up a sheet of paper, she’d practically bared her own fangs and snarled back at him.
“Are you staring at my ass?”
She changed the angle of her chin then, glancing over her shoulder directly at him, when she shouldn’t have seen or even registered his presence.
“Here I was composing poetic analogies to your beauty, and you, with your vile American upbringing, assume only the most crass motives.”
“We may be crass, but we do tend to endure. Us and the cockroaches.” But there was a serious set to her sweet mouth as he joined her, leaning his hips against the rail so he was facing toward the house. “They want me executed, don’t they?” she asked after a silent moment.
This, at least, was easy enough to discuss. As he slid an arm in front of her, loosely holding on to her waist, he was absurdly reassured when she curled gentle fingers over his forearm. He shook his head. “No, habiba. They agreed to spare your life. A moot point, considering I never would have allowed them to take it, but it certainly makes the rest easier.” She drew a deep breath, and he raised a brow at her shudder. When he drew her closer to his side, she rested her face on his shoulder, staring out at the ocean so he could see only the top of her head. “Well, that relieved me more than I expected. I guess I thought I’d be hunted forever.”
He brushed a kiss on the crown of her head. “You will not. But there are some conditions.”
“Conditions? With vampires? You don’t say.” But she propped the point of her chin on his broad shoulder so she could look into his face. The proximity of her lips, the tempting line of her brow and nose, was distracting. He cleared his throat, shifted his gaze to the ocean.
“Their primary concern is that your success in killing your Master does not spread insurrection.” At her incredulous look, he lifted a shoulder. “Yes, we both know it was amazing luck. Most human servants couldn’t inflict a scratch on their Masters, let alone a death blow.”
“Well,” she said, a little defensively, “it wasn’t only amazing luck. I am pretty tough, when all is said and done.”
“You are tough as old shoe leather, habiba. You will get no argument from me.” At her narrow look, he continued. “I pointed out that most human servants have no desire to leave their Master. They come willingly to that service. The relationship may not be everything they anticipate, for it is beyond human comprehension until it is truly lived. Still, human servants typically come with a disposition for the role, an instinctual desire for that bond.”
Her fingers tightened on his arm, and he felt the press of every small tip, the light bite of her nails. She’d turned her head, looking toward the ocean again. “Their ruling is that you may live, habiba, as long as you stay under my protection, as my third-marked servant.”
He stayed silent for a few moments, hearing the whirl of thoughts in her head, but before he was tempted to decipher them, he made himself continue. “Unless Lord Brian is successful, that is.”
She raised her head. “Who is Lord Brian?”
“He’s one of us, but he’s a scientist as well. He explores the medical basis for our vulnerabilities. And how to make them easier to overcome.” He hesitated, then resolutely plunged forward as her attention sharpened. “He has seen the aftermath, as you and I both have, of a human forced into servitude. There are vampires who are young, who cannot control themselves. They don’t do it as Raithe did, with genuine twisted malevolence, but out of youthful misunderstanding of the consequences of power and control.
Quite simply, they don’t realize there are any, when they see an attractive human they decide they want.” When she lifted her body from his, fixing her gaze on him as if realizing the import of what he was about to say, he looked toward the ocean himself. “Lord Brian has developed a treatment that can erase all of a vampire’s marks. It would free you completely, Jess,” he added quietly. “Once he has tested it and deemed it safe, then you could be transported wherever you wish, to start the life you want to lead. The treatment would be administered there. No vampire will ever cross your path again. I’ll make sure of it.” Jessica shook her head. “How could the Council agree to this? What’s to stop me from using my knowledge to help vampire hunters, or expose your existence?”
Tracing her cheek, he wound a curl around his finger. Brushed a thumb over her lips and thought how her eyes could soften with desire or laughter when she looked at him. So simple and magnificent at once. Those gray eyes darkened, but he couldn’t bear her to speak until he said it.
“Brian came up with a way to erase memories. When the serum is administered, a form of hypnosis will be performed, and you will remember none of it, habiba. Every horrible thing Raithe did . . . it will be gone. It shouldn’t even linger in your nightmares.” She slid off the rail, standing on her own feet, her face pale. “Everything?” she whispered. “I’d remember . . . nothing? Not even Jack?” Her voice trembled over the name.
Of course that would matter. Mason cursed the claws of jealousy that made him resent a man who’d loved her as she deserved to be loved, and died trying to help her. Pushing it away, he clasped her cold hand. “If I could leave you his memory, I would, but it’s too closely linked.”
She swallowed. “And Farida?”
Mason held her gaze. “She is even more closely connected to our world than Jack.” Jessica stepped back, withdrawing her hand. Her throat worked, her eyes darting around her as if she expected someone to leap out and administer the serum against her will. “But she was why I survived. You and her . . . the way she loved you.”
“There will be nothing to have survived, habiba,” he reminded her, remaining on the rail despite the fact he wanted to soothe her fears. “You’ll remember nothing Raithe did to you. We will plant a suggestion to explain your scars, the tiger tattoo on your back.
My third mark erased any other damage.”
The tiger on her thigh would be gone, because all evidence of his marks would be gone. That tightness in her chest increased. “My .. . mortality would return to normal?”
“It appears so. His tests on the aging of cells showed an appropriate rate for a normal mortal.” He cocked his head. “You will live to be an old woman of eighty or ninety, instead of three or four hundred.” Jess paced in a circle. “I can’t get my mind around it.” She lifted her hands, a helpless gesture. “Not having a memory of Raithe, but also Farida, and Jack? To live a lie?”
“To live the life you were meant to have lived. Not a lie.”
“Who’s to say what life I was meant to live?” Stress punched her voice up several octaves.
“Jessica.” He came to her then, settling hands on her tense shoulders. “I know you are a fighter. Your first reaction is to resist having your mind manipulated. But remember what I told you about the bracelets and collar, versus Raithe’s manacles. One was for your benefit. I have seen you chased by your nightmares into your waking hours, seen you want to hurt yourself rather than feel those memories. You will not lose Farida. You are her.”
At Jess’s startled look, he shook his head. “I don’t mean that you are Farida come back to life. But there is something about you that reminds me a great deal of her, and I think you felt it when you first read of her. Perhaps there is a bond between all women of such strong character.”
A faint smile touched his lips, but again it didn’t reach his eyes. If anything, Jessica felt as though he was drawing more deeply into himself, the more he was telling her. Now she was the one who pressed forward against his grip, laying her hands on his chest.
“I can’t think about it right now, okay? Let’s just . . . leave that for the moment. Tell me the other thing, Mason.” Looking up into his face, she saw the pain flash through it again and softened her tone. “Why haven’t you let her go, Mason? I understand about loving her and all, but this is more than honoring a woman’s memory. What did you do to her that was so unforgivable you can’t stop trying to make it up to her? Why do you keep using her memory to push me away?” He shook his head, but Jessica curled her fingers into his white shirt. It was soft, but custom-tailored to his broad shoulders. While he’d looked edible at the fetish club, this attire was more the man she knew him to be. Though nothing fit him quite like desert robes. “Please.”
“A vampire typically doesn’t bare the darkest shadows of his soul to his human servant,” Mason said at last. “I’m not sure of the wisdom of doing so now, no matter what I said earlier.”
“Mason—”
“I don’t want to bring you more pain, habiba.” He couldn’t keep the anguish out of his voice, his harsh expression startling her.
“And I am afraid you will see me differently.”
