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Why do I cave?
Muscle memory takes over, and I spin her the way I’ve done countless times with countless women. My hand gently clasps hers while the other rests lightly on the slight curve of her waist. The same waistline I considered far too thin when I surveyed her in Gild the Lily not even twenty minutes ago but is actually just right for her frame.
Thunder punctuates our steps, and the sky cracks open. Sheets of rain pour over us, drenching us from head to toe in an onslaught. The tender side of me, the side I left behind in my grave when I clawed myself out, would’ve savored this fanciful moment. It might’ve even been romantic if Rory hadn’t been shouting the lyrics to the tavern song, her voice horribly off-key.
“So we drink the mead till the dregs run dry,” she sings, lightning illuminating the curve of her jaw, the tip of her nose, the bow of her lips. “And we kiss the gals so they spend the nigh’—”
Rain-drenched, I spin her round and round until we’re both dizzy.
“What are we doing here?” I murmur, more to myself than her.
She grins up at me, her twinkling gaze wild and free, and brushes my sopping wet hair out of my eyes. “Whatever we want, Quill.”
“I’ll get you something dry to wear,” I say. Witchlights illuminate with every step as the house comes alive around us. We leave a trail of water on the hardwood floors that a mop will sop up on its own when Rory isn’t looking. I point toward the main living space. “Feel free to wait by the fire.”
Rory saunters toward the hearth, quiet as she studies the room, and I can’t help but watch the way she moves. Careful and meticulous, as if she knows the precise way she swings her hips will draw my attention to the curve of her ass. I removed her drenched cloak and left it on the coat hook by the front door, so I have a clear view of how her thin dress clings to her figure. She glances at me over her shoulder. “See something you like?”
I pinch my bottom lip. “I suppose.”
“You suppose?” She arches a dark brow.
Idiot. I am an absolute idiot.
She spins around the center of the room, unbothered. “Your brother’s home is quite magnificent.”
I snort, imagining how Carver will wax poetic for the next ten years knowing Adelphi’s Sacrifice admired his magnificent taste—stained-glass windows hand-blown by a long-dead lover, inviting fur rugs from animals he drank and skinned himself, and souvenirs cherry-picked from all over the world over the last five hundred years.
Carver is a collector of things and memories.
I leave her to the knickknacks and rush into the guest room I frequently stay in whenever I have the displeasure of visiting Adelphi. After rummaging through my luggage, I change into a set of dry clothes—also black—and grab a cotton shirt and a pair of wool socks for Rory on my way back into the living room.
She crouches before the fire, fingers stretching toward the flames as if she wishes she could will the heat into her veins.
“Here,” I say quietly, holding out the change of clothes.
She jumps up, placing one hand flat against her chest. “By the stars eternal. I didn’t even hear you come back.”
“I have been told I’m quite light on my feet.”
She cants her head to the side, considering me before gently taking just the shirt from my outstretched hand. Turning slightly, she moves her hair over one shoulder and gestures to the laces on the back of her wilted gown. “Would you kindly?”
The curve of her neck taunts me.
“Of course,” I say, clearing my throat. I reach for the stretch of ribbon and unravel the bow. Her heart rate picks up, sending the sweet scent of her blood into the breath of space between us. My nostrils flare, and my fangs ache in my gums. Careful not to touch her porcelain skin, I continue to unlace the ribbon until all that holds the dress up are her arms pinning it to her chest. “There you go.”
Without a word, she lets the gown fall. Her back bared to me, I can’t help but admire the soft contours of her body that are barely hidden beneath sheer, delicate underthings. She slips on my shirt. It hangs far too loose on her, almost a shift in and of itself, and as my scent covers hers, something ancient and foreign stirs within me.
“Much better,” she says, taking a deep breath and whirling to face me. She frowns as she smooths her rain-soaked hair out of her face. It startles me how much I don’t quite like it when she frowns. “Why are you making that face?”
“I—” I blink the thought away. “It’s nothing.”
She pokes my chest. “It’s something. Tell me.”
“You… changed before I’d had a chance to turn around.”
She stands up on her tiptoes and places both hands on my shoulders. “If you play your cards right,” she purrs, breath a warm whisper across my cheeks, “you might get to see me naked for a second time tonight.”
Fire burns in my veins at her touch, at her insinuation. I recall the conversation she had with the werewolf.
