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My heart thudded and my throat went dry. “But your friends call you Ambri?”
His gaze darted to me, then forward again. “They do.”
“I knew that. You told me. In adream.”
“Perhaps you’re psychic.”
“Yeah andperhapsI’m crazy for coming this far.”
I reached for the emergency button on the panel. Ambri’s hand darted out, his fingers closing around my wrist.
“Wait.”
“Let go of me.”
I struggled weakly for a moment, but I was too wrung out. Too drained. Ambri pushed me against the elevator wall, and his body pressed in, his face inches from mine and fucking breathtaking in the light.
“All will be explained,” he said. “I promise you, Cole Matheson, you’ll want to hear my proposal. If you wish to leave afterward, I’ll not stop you.”
I stared, fear in the moment at war with memories of last night. Ambri’s face had been close to mine then too, his voice sending electricity to parts of me that had been lifeless and dead. Like Frankenstein’s monster. For a few stolen moments, I’d been alive.
I nodded mutely, and Ambri’s grip on my wrist loosened, but he was slow to let go. His aquamarine eyes roamed my face, then dropped to my mouth. As if on cue, my lips parted. My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore but a puppet on his strings. My fingers touched his, stroking lightly, wanting to twine together.
What is happening right now?
Ambri’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, then darkened. The elevator chimed our arrival,and he abruptly backed out of my space, taking his cologne, his heat, hispresencewith him. He strode through the sliding doors, and I must’ve left my last bit of common sense on the bridge because I followed him. But the entire night felt surreal—half nightmare, half dream—and I wasn’t ready for it to be over.
Ambri’s flat was the top floor of an old but elegant five-story building. Inside, it was a den of opulent wooden furniture, overstuffed pillows, and antique-looking decor. A canvas painted in rich gemstone colors, crystal and gold. Like stepping back in time. Standing in the middle of that wealth, I felt like a grown Oliver Twist—shabby, too thin, and shivering with cold.
Ambri had taken off his coat, scarf, and jacket, leaving him in a white dress shirt, black pants, and that black vest that made it impossible to tear my eyes off him.
“Looks like a vampire lives here,” I said.
He knelt at the fireplace. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“It wasn’t meant as an insult.”
“You’ve seen too many movies. Vampires live in caves and holes in the ground. They’re vermin, not handsome actors in ruffled collars.”
“You say that with such authority. But I forgot, you’re a demon. In my dreams, anyway.”
Ambri said nothing but poked the logs as the small flames licked the wood, then caught.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you. A demon. Fascinating.” He twisted up off his knees with the grace of a dancer or jungle cat. He reminded me of a black panther—sleek, beautiful, and dangerous.
“Sit, Cole. I’ll make tea.”
He gestured at the stuffed chair nearest the fire and moved into the kitchen, muttering about needing servants for such menial tasks.
“You don’t seem surprised,” I called and sank gratefully into the chair. “Or even curious.”
Ambri returned with a bowl of water and a cloth. He set the bowl at my feet and handed me the cloth. “For your wounds.”
“Thanks.” I held the cloth listlessly in my lap. “You had black eyes, black feather wings… Maybe some sort of fallen angel? Sounds silly to say it out loud. Just my imagination running wild, I guess. Except it earned me some money. I sketched you and you sold out immediately.”
“That bodes well.”
