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Pain knots my stomach as his words hit me. A breath shudders from me and I bring my fingers to my mouth, trying to keep back a moan of grief. I should be grateful that Ambrose speaks so clinically about Deidre’s life, that he isn’t trying to give me false hope or sympathy, but it still hurts.
“Eloise.”
I refocus my gaze, and he’s crouched beside me, a strained look on his face. This close, I can see the gold patterns in his irises, and they remind me of those stars with a dozen points bursting from the pitch black of his pupils. There’s not a single hint of red in those depths. Had the little blood he’d taken from me satisfied his hunger so easily?
“Kasar is the best at what he does,” Ambrose says, his voice stiff and awkward. I realize he’s trying to reassure me and I don’t think he has much experience in it. “He will find your friend, and bring her back alive. If he cannot, he will see to it that every person who laid a hand on her no longer walks this earth.”
His voice is low and full of gravitas as he promises his wrath and something in his tone makes me believe in him. I hold his amber gaze, a part of me reaching out to this vampire, this monster, and finding a connection. Why is that part of me urging me to trust this creature, this man that when I first walked into his office, I saw the evidence of his wrath and darkness in the form of a decapitated head and its bloody corpse being dragged away?
As if on its own, my hand lifts from my lap and reaches towards Ambrose’s face. He stays unnaturally still, his eyes trained on me as I touch his sharp cheekbone, no firmer than the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Emboldened by this, I drag my fingertips out towards his temple and further until I’m brushing the short dark hair along the side of his head and then down around the back of his ear, my eyes stuck on the path my hand travels. When I reach his neck, Ambrose lets out a slow breath and I look at his face only to see his eyes are closed, a furrow between his eyebrows as if my touch is causing him pain.
The moment I pull my hand from him, his eyes open, his pupils dilating and his nostrils flaring as he looks at me with unabashed desire. My own body responds, heat flooding my sex and the place he bit me tingling. His eyes drop to my neck and the air grows thick between us. I tilt my head, feeling as if I’m under a spell, wanting to affect Ambrose as much as he is affecting me.
He responds, a predator responding to the prey; leaning in, his hands land on either side of me on the couch, surrounding me with his presence as he lowers his face to my neck.
I gasp, my eyes fluttering as they try to close, as Ambrose’s nose ghosts over his bite mark. Lightning bolts of pleasure shoot from the spot down my spine, curl around my nipples, and combust in my core. I can feel him breathe me in, the air moving between the infinitesimal distance between us.
Then he’s gone, moved back to stand beside the chair he’d sat in, all signs of desire and hunger replaced by a marble exterior. I sway towards him, that small part of me being pulled towards him, craving him to come back and give me the pleasure his bite promised.
“Let me show you where you will be sleeping,” he says, his voice once more the even keel of an unaffected king sure of his power.
I rapidly blink away the haze in my mind, forcibly reminding myself of who I face and what our bargain entails and what it does not. I grab the duffle bag beside me and stand, my legs not as weak as my racing heart might suggest. Still, I don’t say anything, not trusting my voice to be as steady as his, so I nod instead.
I follow him up the stairs that I’d tentatively ventured up before retreating, this time the sense of being watched is missing. It only confirms that it was Ambrose watching me from somewhere in the shadows. When we turn to climb the next flight of stairs, I’m able to find my voice, even if I’m quiet.
“How many people live here?”
“Several of my inner circle have rooms here,” Ambrose says without looking back as he climbs the risers, his hands in his pockets. “You will meet more of them in time.”
I press my lips into a flat line. “Will I be serving them, as well?”
Ambrose halts, one foot on the third landing, and turns to look down at me, a quiet ferocity in his gaze that stops my heart. “No. And if any of them make the mistake of thinking so, they will be dealt with swiftly.”
Well, I think as Ambrose turns forward again and resumes walking, I won’t have to clean all of the rooms in the house. Thank goodness, seeing as I hate cleaning my own room, let alone others.
“This is my bedroom,” he says, opening a broad door with a large brass handle. I’d noticed it was only one of three doors on this floor surrounding the staircase, and in the middle of the other two. He walks in before me, a reminder that this may be my room, but this house and even myself are his.
I stutter to a stop only a few steps in, my eyes wide as I take everything in. The room is warmly lit by the same wall lights that dominate the rest of the house, no harsh overhead lighting to be found, apparently. Everything is the color of fresh cream, pale lavender, or tea greens. While there aren’t enough plants to turn the bedroom into a conservatory, trailing pothos hang from one corner and a vase filled with calla lilies sits in the center of the antique dresser along the closest wall.
It’s as if I’ve been transported to the French countryside, with the Provencal style dresser, chaise lounge below the two tall windows curtained by transparent ivory, and thicker lavender drapery. The bed dominates the room, easily three times the size of my bed and would never fit in my small bedroom. Both the headboard and footboard are upholstered in the same fresh cream fabric that matches the plush carpet underfoot, and are framed with carved wood that screams wealth and luxury. Piles of pillows in the pale lavender and white promise mornings of sleeping in and sweet dreams, and the white coverlet is thick and fluffy, the top folded back to reveal the narrow strip of tea green sheets underneath.
It doesn’t seem to match the brutality I’ve already experienced from the vampire.
“The en-suite is through there.” Ambrose pulls me from my staring and I look to where he’s pointing to another broad door in the wall opposite the windows. “You will find the wardrobe there as well. Tomorrow morning, my tailor will take your measurements as well as bring a selection of garments I’ve deemed appropriate.”
I snort, unable to help the derisive noise. He raises a brow and I’m glad of the timely reminder of the truth of my situation. I walk forward and drop my bag on the too-fancy bed, reminding myself to keep my feet firmly on the ground and head out of the clouds. I ignore how this room seems to soften the man, how the severity of his poise has lessened as if he’d set the mantle of king at the door before stepping inside.
“Do you usually spend so much money on your servants, or are you just so rich that outfitting me in a custom uniform is something you don’t even count as an expense?”
Ambrose doesn’t reply right away and I busy myself with unzipping my bag and pulling out the contents. His gaze is heavy, but I refuse to stop what I’m doing and wait him out.
“Why would I have you as a servant when I have a paid staff of twenty to maintain my house, Eloise?”
I stiffen when his voice comes from directly behind me, soft and full of decadent promises. I do not move as I feel his fingers brush through my hair, the movement radiating curiosity. It’s as if I’m a possession and he’s learning all that he can before delving deeper to take me apart.
“So,” I swallow hard before continuing, my voice more breathless than I want, “I’m simply a well-kept prized livestock? Since I’m to feed you whenever you wish and sleep in your bed.” I gesture to the bed in front of me, the same bed Ambrose is trapping me against by merely standing behind me.
His touch disappears, yet I can still feel him behind me, close enough I could lean back and we’d be pressed against one another. The air shifts and his head is lowered towards my shoulder, the opposite side of my bite at least, and the deep timbre of his voice caresses my ear.
