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"Thank you for the dance, Britney, and I'm Henry. Henry Banes. The host of tonight's party."
He shoots me another gorgeous smile, and I stare up at him in horror, my mind racing to catch up to the fact that I just danced with my parents' murderer and enjoyed it.
"Britney?" the concern in his golden brown eyes is the last thing I see as his voice seems to fade away and everything goes black.
* * *
Henry
I catch the little angel in my arms as soon as I see that she's fainting. Fainting isn't something that I see women in this century do very much. It was quite popular a few centuries ago, though that was probably due to the overly tight corsets and the women's lack of oxygen.
But as soon as I gather this precious child into my arms, I can immediately tell that she's not wearing one of the blasted contraptions. She doesn't strike me as the sickly sort either. On the contrary, she seems strong and healthy, vibrant and pulsing with life. I can't stop my gaze from honing in on her neck. I can almost see the vein pulsing there. I can definitely feel the throb of her blood gushing throughout her succulent body. I feel my fangs pushing against my gum lines, wanting to descend, but I bite back the urge. Now's not the time or the place.
She's tiny in my arms as I cradle her against my chest and make my way to the library. People part before us to make way, but no one gives us a curious glance thanks to the haze I've cast over the entire ballroom. I didn't want to bring undue attention to me or my curious little angel, so my little hazing charm cloaked us from prying eyes.
Once I get her settled on the settee in the library, I close and lock the door before I walk back over and squat down next to her.
I reach out a hand and push her silky golden curls back from her face. Her eyelashes are dark and lay prettily—painstakingly perfectly—against her rosy cheeks. Her skin is porcelain, almost as if she's a vampire herself, though I know that's not the case from the delicious scent of living blood emanating from her skin.
My eyes are drawn down to her lips. They're pink and full and lush, like a ripe fruit beckoning me forward. I feel my cock hardening inside my breeches. God, how long has it been since just the sight of a woman's lips was enough to get me hard?
I'm centuries old, so I'm no stranger to carnal pleasures, but it's been many years since a woman has had this kind of effect on me.
I trace my fingertip over her cheek, noting the petal softness of it. The hum from her skin vibrates into mine, making me feel more alive than I've felt in ages.
My eyes are drawn back to hers when I see her lashes slowly flutter open. She blinks and looks around dazedly before those sapphire blue orbs latch onto me and widen. Her breath hitches, and she swallows before she presses deeper into the settee as if she's trying to get away from me.
I frown, less than pleased by her reaction. I'm more than a bit confused by it. Women usually respond to me just the opposite by pressing closer and trying to get nearer to me.
I'm not a cocky bastard. I'm just stating facts. I'm the kind of predator that easily lures my prey in. They can't help but be drawn to me.
So why is this woman—the one woman I want to be drawn to me—recoiling from me as if I'm diseased?
"Where am I?" she asks me warily as she sits up and looks around her.
I sit back on my haunches to give her some space, though every instinct within me is screaming at me to do just the opposite, to crowd her and cover her in my scent, bite her fucking neck and claim her as mine while I thrust my cock deep inside her.
Her breathing quickens as I stare into her luminous blue eyes that are sparkling more vibrantly than the most precious gemstone. My god, she's breathtaking. I'm inexplicably drawn to her. I was from the moment I saw her across the ballroom floor in that red ball gown overlaid with black lace.
But it's like I told her, it's not the damn dress. It's her. It's everything about her. Her essence is calling to me.
Like a moth drawn to the flame, I can't fight the pull to her. I need to touch her, need to know who she is. I need to make her mine.
I've heard the legends of vampires who had fated mates, but I've always chalked that up to mythical superstition. I've never personally known any vampires who had a fated mate, and I've certainly never found one, but I'm starting to wonder if that's what this pull is—if Britney is my fated mate.
But that doesn't really make any sense because every fated mate in history was between two vampires. And Britney is anything but a vampire. I can smell her blood too strongly singing with life. Beautiful, fragrant life.
And while I want nothing more than to make her mine forever, my heart clenches up at the thought of draining her of her life. Would those sapphire blue eyes still sparkle like so in death?
If she is my fated mate, then fate will require me to take her, but how can I keep a human forever? Nature will take its course. She will age and die right before my very eyes, and then my life won't be worth living.
I finally realize she's still staring at me, waiting for me to answer her question.
"You fainted, so I picked you up and brought you here to my library to recover."
She looks about herself again, checking the validity of my statement, her shoulders only relaxing when she sees that she's indeed surrounded by a room full of books.
I watch her hands flutters up to touch the side of her neck. She has an almost relieved expression on her face after she touches the skin there, and my eyes narrow.
