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She shifts at my weight sinking into the bed, and when I slide my arm under her pillow as I lay facing her, she shuffles close enough that her head is tucked under my chin. I wrap my arm around her and ignore the heat in my groin in favor of the gentle sensation of her breathing against my neck. I tuck the duvet up under her chin, knowing it’s what she prefers.
I can be patient, I think as I close my eyes. Eloise wants me, even if she’s fighting it. She will give in eventually and I’ll get what I want. I always do.
Chapter Twelve
Eloise
The air is warm, the humid heat seeping in through the window panes, but in spite of having the duvet pulled up under my chin, I’m at the perfect temperature as I wake up. I try to roll onto my back and freeze at the sensation of a body against me. The smell tells me what my body already has figured out, as the scent of rich leather and frankincense fills the air around me. Keeping my breath even, and hoping to hell my racing heartbeat doesn’t wake the vampire up, I open my eyes. A bare chest fills my view, wide shoulders rising above mine as we lie facing each other. His arm is on top of the duvet, lying over my waist, his elbow bent so his hand can splay between my shoulder blades.
The shallow movement of Ambrose’s chest is the only hint that he’s still sleeping, but his embrace is firm enough I ease my head back to look at his face.
My breath catches as my heart dissolves into something warm and soft. Asleep, Ambrose doesn’t look like the intimidating tyrant vampire king of a city perpetually in shadow. He doesn’t look soft or gentle. I don’t think Ambrose can ever look soft. Even asleep, he’s all harsh lines—a statue of a beast at rest, rather than on the prowl.
I stare at his soft, partly open lips. The urge to trace them is almost too fierce to resist but the fact that my arms are tucked up against my chest and trapped against him prevents it. My cheeks burn as the audacity I’d had the previous night slams into my thoughts. Dropping my gaze to the hollow at Ambrose’s throat, I try to not think about it. Which, of course, only makes me think about it more.
We kissed. I’d started it; whether I want to blame the role I slipped into, Ambrose’s possessive hands, or my rebellious nature to fuck with men of authority, it happened after that yuppy asshole left with his tail between his legs. Ambrose isn’t a bad boy. No, compared to him, bad boys are just that—boys.
Ambrose is king of the underworld that makes up the Barrows.
Maybe I have daddy issues or something, but the idea of a man with that much power focusing his desire on me does something to me. He doesn’t give me butterflies, that’s not intense enough. It’s like he’s a whirling vortex sucking me underneath the water, and fighting him only makes it so much sweeter when he wins.
My core clenches around nothing as I squeeze my eyes shut. It hasn’t been nearly long enough for me to want Ambrose so badly, and yet I do. The only reason why I said no last night was because of where we were. When his thumb had stroked me over my panties, I’d been so close to coming that I almost screamed. Then I’d remembered that just on the other side of the walls were strangers eating their dinners, and I’d have to walk back through them like a very public walk of shame.
Being left alone in the car for Ashe to drive home was harsh. Even with the heat in Ambrose’s golden eyes and the bulge in his pants, I felt the sting of rejection.
It didn’t stop me from racing up to bed to finish what we’d started. After the second orgasm, I gave up. I wouldn’t have been satisfied until it was Ambrose’s hand and not mine. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I definitely don’t remember him sliding into bed with me.
Opening my eyes again, I push away thoughts of sex, and dark lines catch my attention. I’d been right when I guessed Ambrose had tattoos. They’re old, the black only so stark because of the pale skin underneath. Knot-work that makes me think of Vikings swoops down from his collarbones like a heraldic. The knots are nothing like I’m familiar with from my old school history texts. My eyes cross as the pattern they make is just out of reach. Moving on from his chest for now, I follow the art up to his shoulder where they turn into bands wrapping around his bicep to his elbow. There are different sized spaces between the bands and each one holds runes. Tracing them with my gaze, they fill me with a sense of wariness, as if something ancient and dark is near. I want to hide from it, but I’m trapped in Ambrose’s embrace, and there isn’t anything there. They’re just ink and symbols, I remind myself, and go back to studying his chest.
“They’re from my life as a mortal.”
Ambrose’s sleep-roughened whisper startles me, and he presses his fingertips into my back as if to keep me close. I swallow hard, my pulse already settling as curiosity toys with me.
“You weren’t born a vampire?” I ask, keeping my eyes on his chest. There are the faintest silver lines and marks across his bodies. Scars, I realize.
Ambrose shifts his leg, which is trapped under my thigh. Somehow I failed to notice how our legs had tangled together with an intimacy we definitely don’t have. “No,” he answers, his voice smoothing out as he wakes. “I was a soldier in the city Kievan Rus.”
I’m surprised at Ambrose’s amiability with my question. Maybe he is a morning person, despite being a creature of the night. I decide to push my luck, keeping my voice soft and even in hopes of avoiding irritating him.
“When were you turned?” I have no idea how old he really is.
“Twelve hundred years ago, give or take fifty.”
Holy. Shit. I push back from him, arching at my lower back to gaze up at him in unfettered shock. His grip relents enough to let me move, but he doesn’t move his hand.
“That’s...” I trail off as his golden eyes meet mine. Then I shake my head, unable to wrap my brain around it. “That’s insane. Mind-boggling. And you’ve been a king for that long?”
An arched eyebrow precedes his reply. “Of course not. I have only been considered king of this area since I led my clan here roughly five hundred years ago.”
I squeak, the secret history nerd in me giddy. “You came here before Oldgate was even settled!”
Ambrose’s mouth tilts up with wry amusement. “I am, in fact, aware of that, little lamb.”
My gaze goes unfocused as I try to juggle what he’s just told me. Man, to him, I must seem like an infant. How mature does someone get after twelve hundred years? He’s seen so much of history, of the world growing and changing. Technology evolving, kingdoms falling and turning into countries, disasters and wars. Unease wilts my wonder at his age. How many lovers has he had that allowed him to feed too? In his long lifespan, three months with me must be a blink.
Nothing special. Just another woman to fade into the past, until he can’t recall my face. Until he doesn’t even think about trying.
A curled finger tilts under my chin and he moves me until I’m looking up towards him. I avoid his eyes, not daring to look higher than his cheekbones.
