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He pressed his palm to the glass, then looked out at the Golden Gate Bridge sparkling in the distance under the afternoon sun.
The glass had been manufactured to his own specifications. Glass that allowed him to stand in the light.
It pleased him to stand there now, looking down at the humans scurrying like ants thirty-two stories below. Did they have any idea of the horror he could wreak upon them should he choose? Did they know the effort it cost him to stay here, behind glass, fighting the urge to take and to kill? To rend and become?
Every day, the battle within him grew more fierce, and every night he fought to remain inside, to keep himself far from the scent of blood. And not just blood. That was the deepest craving, yes. But it sparked others. Sex. Violence. Passion.
Blood.
They were all one, and he wanted to revel in them. In it. To take. To rend. The dark serpent within him craved chaos, and that need was seeping into his dreams and his thoughts, threatening to burst out. To run wild and free.
He had told no one of his growing hunger, not even Lucius, his closest friend.
Soon, though, he would have to reveal his secrets. Either that, or he would have to kill.
And then, of course, he would have to run.
“Will we go out come nightfall?”
Tasha’s reflection looked back at him from the glass, and he watched as she approached him, gliding across the polished wood floor. Her auburn hair hung in loose curls to her waist. She moved in front of his floor lamp, and for a moment, she was illuminated from behind, a halo of red and gold dancing around her, her hair crackling with unknown power. A vision. A goddess. Something untouched and pure, her face carved by the gods themselves, her fiery red lips seeming to call to him. To lure him in. Begging the beast inside him to discover if the purity was only an illusion.
She wore a gown of white silk with nothing under it, and he clenched his hands tight at his sides, fighting his body’s reaction to her soft curves and moon-white skin. She had walked this earth for over five centuries, and yet she still had a seventeen-year-old’s body. A saint with a seductress’s form and an innocent mind that had no cognizance of her own allure.
He bit back a curse. She was Luke’s ward, as close to him as if she was his own daughter, and she was innocent. He would never touch her. And he damn sure shouldn’t desire her.
“Serge?” she said, the press of her hand turning his blood to molten lava. “Will he be okay?” Her lips curved into a little pout, and tears filled her eyes. He turned and met her eyes, the serpent within him starting to sway. Craving. Wanting.
“He’ll be fine,” Serge said, forcing the darkness back down. “He’s been in tighter scrapes.”
She pulled back and blinked blue eyes so pale they had almost no color at all. “It’s because of me,” she said, in that singsong voice. “Me, me, me. Shouldn’t have told him. Naughty girl, telling secrets.” She pulled away from him and moved to a black leather armchair, curling herself up so small she looked like a child.
Her suffering moved him. She was a victim to a world that had hurt her. An innocent beauty whom Luke had rescued and sworn to protect. Now, he’d entrusted her to Serge. And Serge would not break faith. He would battle the beast within. Force it back. He owed as much to Luke, and so much more.
With a sigh, he turned his attention back to Tasha. She was everything he was not. Everything Luke was not. And yet the horrors of their world had spilled over on her.
Not for the first time, he felt a pang of regret that Luke had turned her at all. Serge had been there, of course, on that snowy night in France. The farmhouse, burned and raided by a band of werens, the inhabitants brutally slain. The girl herself huddled in the barn, crying and injured, her head bashed in by a spooked animal.
He understood why Luke had turned the girl. His friend had looked upon Tasha and seen his beloved Livia. He’d seen the dying girl and believed he could quell his nightmares by snatching her from the arms of death.
He’d been a fool, of course. Her mind had been broken by both trauma and injury, and she barely survived the Holding—the ritual that every vampire must go through in order to control theAzag Mahru—the dark serpent—and bury it deep within.
From that night on, she’d become Luke’s responsibility. His talisman, even. But Serge couldn’t help but wonder if Luke truly saw redemption when he looked upon her sweet face. Or did he instead see guilt?
Perhaps, Serge thought, his friend saw both.
“Watching me,” she sang. “Pretty, pretty me, and you’re a naughty boy for looking.”
He released a breath that was almost a laugh. He despised himself for the many times he’d looked at her with naughty thoughts over the centuries. Now was not one of them. “I was thinking of Luke.”
At the mention of his name, she frowned. “His eyes don’t touch me like that.” She stood, arms out, naked beneath the soft film of her gown. “He doesn’t let me see the way his pulse burns for me.”
“It doesn’t, Tasha. Not like that.”
“No?” She tilted her head, studying him, then stepped closer. “But yours does, yes?” Her whispered words tickled his ear, the lavender scent of her hair wreaking havoc with his self-control. “Does your blood throb with desire? Do you want what you cannot have?” Her eyes dipped down, and he was certain she could tell that his cock had sprung to attention and was now straining against the tight confines of his jeans. “Naughty boys,” she murmured, her voice low and singsong. “Naughty boys want their toys, and pretty girls have them.”
“Tasha.” His voice was hoarse, but firm. “Sit down.” He wouldn’t do this. Not to her. She didn’t understand. Didn’t have a clue, really, what she was playing at. Despite all the years behind her, she didn’t understand.
And above all else, she was under Luke’s protection.
