He opened a door, and we went into the library. Hysterical laughter choked me. The room was perfect. Clean and beautiful, filled with flowers and antiques, the soft yellow curtains opened to let the light in. Stunning. And also the same room that I’d seen Lady Cassandra kill her servants in.
No trace of it now.
And if I died, if she killed me and I left a stain, if that was all that was left of me was a big puddle of blood on the floor, well, they could clear that up too. And no one would ever know. Lord Marchant stopped at a bookcase, pulling down a random book that turned out to be a lever, which triggered the wall to open without even a squeak of protest.
I gasped in surprise. He motioned me inside and closed the wall behind us. He flicked a switch, and light flooded the dark hallway. We walked down a lengthy corridor, and then he pulled out a key to yet another door and opened it, the lock heavy and perhaps impenetrable even for one of the Infinite. “You can see why it took me so long to get to you,” he said. “I apologize. I don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t visit here again, under any circumstances.” His gaze met mine, trying to convey just how important this was.
There was no way I was going to argue with that! The door opened and we went inside, to a room that was different and more alien than anything I’d ever seen before. There were two flat pictures on desks, but the pictures moved, frantically it seemed, and spoke. Speaking pictures!
I could go on and on about the bizarreness of the things I saw, but now I know it was just a modern office with a few computers and televisions.
“What did you find?” he asked, quietly. He went around the room, turning off screens, making things darker and quieter. I felt like I didn’t know him in that moment. Which is such a stupid and girlish thing to say. Of course, I didn’t know him at all! I knew my fantasies of him, the things I’d made up and pinned all my girlish fantasies on. But I didn’t know him. Seeing him in this alien environment….How could he surround himself with these strange magical creations?
“Is this what it’s like on the mainland?” I managed.
“Partly. There are computers like this,” he said, pointing at a slim, book-shaped device. “And TVs like this,” he said, gesturing towards a big, flat rectangle, “but the biggest difference is people and knowledge. There are billions of people in the world. You can disappear into a crowd and never be seen again, never be found.” I feel like there’s weight to that statement, as if he means more than he’s saying, but all I can think about is Katrina. What if she was dying right now and he didn’t get to say goodbye to her because I was asking him questions? How would I live with myself?
“Katrina is ill. I believe she’s been poisoned. She said you sent chocolates. That you wanted to taste them in her blood.”
He frowned at me. “We can’t taste food in blood. Alcohol mingles in the blood, food does not.”
I didn’t know that. But it was clear he wasn’t saying it to open up a conversation, so I waited while he paced. “What are her symptoms?”
“I think she’s bleeding internally. She threw up blood and her tears were pink.”
“Fatal?” he asked me, in the same way he might ask about the weather.
“I think so, my Lord.” His coolness, his family, this room, it all scared me.
He threw me a look, studying me. “Now you address me by my title?’ Is it finally coming clear to you now? The seriousness of the situation?”
“It’s clear to me you don’t care about a girl that was willing to give you blood…give you her life.”
“I told you she didn’t matter to me. I told you I wouldn’t choose someone I actually cared about. We do not care about people. It’s a weakness.” His hand shook as he wiped it across his mouth. “And I drank from her twice. God damn it.”
He had drunk from Katrina twice at Lord Dalmaine’s urging. “Are you unwell?” Now that I looked, he seemed paler than usual. And I didn’t even know such a thing was possible.
“When was your last shipment of blood at the infirmary?” he demanded, his change of topic catching me off-guard.
“We just replaced everything a few days ago.”
He stood up and paced, hand pressed hard against his forehead as though he had a headache. “It’s not safe, then. Someone wants me weak for tonight. Does that mean they’ll move against us tonight? Is it a trap? Do it in public, with witnesses…maybe,” he murmured, so agitated and unlike himself that all I could do was watch, my mind slowly processing the information.
“Every single one of them might want me dead. They all have something to gain from me. But not you,” he said, and he took a step towards me. I saw his gaze sliding over me, tracing a path to my neck. Heat flashed up my body, some primal understanding that all of my deadliest fantasies might be about to come true.
“What do you need me to do?” I whispered, but I already knew and it was fine, of course the answer was yes. With one hand I moved my hair away from my neck, exposing the column of my neck. I couldn’t look at him as I did it; it would be too revealing, too mortifying if he said no. “I’ve always been willing to help you, my Lord. Just…ask me and—”
In two steps he was before me, his hand urging my chin up so I could see his face. Is this what it means to see the face of a god?
“You’re hot,” I said, surprised, because it was so unusual. He closed his eyes and I touched his lean cheek, joy bursting inside me as I placed my palm flush against his face, my thumb recklessly brushing over his full lower lip. “You’ve saved me so many times. Let me save you this time. Just once,” I said, and then I waited.
A slight nod.
As I pulled the knife from my pocket, pressed the button, and exposed the blade, I could feel every ounce of his attention on me. He was still as death, as stone, the only indication of his emotion the hard set of his jaw and the avidness of his dark gaze.
“Stop, Rebecca. Give me a moment to think. To come up with another plan. This isn’t going to kill me…”
“There is no other plan. Your enemies are moving against you. You need blood. And drinking from the vein will heal you. Please. You know how much I want this….”
He exhaled sharply, and then his mouth was on mine, his lips pressing hungrily against my own. My mouth opened, stunned by the feeling of his hard body pressed against me. His tongue slid along the seam of my lips, urging me to let him in.
All I could think was yes, over and over again, the rightness of it, the desperate longing I’d felt for him coalescing into an almost feral hunger. I kissed him back, hard and hungry, making our teeth clink, which he seemed to find amusing, as I can felt his smile against my lips.
I pressed the blade into his hand, using my own strength to lift his arm and press the sharp tip to my neck. He pulled back from me, eyes narrowed in desire as he studied the knife pressed against my skin. “Sweet girl,” he murmured, and his free hand gripped my hip, urged me against his body, pressing me tight against the hard ridge of his erection.
I was almost dizzy with expectation and exhilaration. I felt the blade against my jugular. With one mistake he might kill me. I stopped myself from saying the word “no.” The shock of excitement imploded, morphed to a second of fear.
I might die.
He might kill me.
But this was Leander Marchant. Lord Marchant. I owed him everything. I wanted to give him everything. No matter what happened to me, he was my savior, my own personal angel, and I owed him more than this sudden fear that gripped me. I turned my head, letting him see the column of my neck, an expression of my desire.
The blade was so sharp that I didn’t even realize it was done until his mouth descended, and the wet warmth of his tongue on my skin made the wound sting. His hands moved up and down my arms restlessly, as though he were trying to calm me. As if I were afraid. “I’m not afraid.”
And then one hand cupped my breast, seeking out the nipple through my gown, making me arch into him. He moved forward, pushing his thigh between my legs. His hand
s slipped down my dress, grabbing fistfuls of it and pulling it up and up until I could feel the muscles of his thigh. I shifted to let him in, burning from the inside out, my arms convulsing around his neck, begging him to take more from me.
Anything he wanted, he could have. A strong pull at my neck as he continued to drink my blood, and his hand slipped between us, to the thin scrap of fabric that separated our bodies. His fingers pressed against my core, and the pleasure was so sharp and sweet that I cried out, collapsing against him.
He moved us both, and I felt a desk behind me. He lifted me, perched me on the edge, and continued to drink from me and touch me, not even pausing or hesitating, the urgency of his desire heightening my own.
I spread my legs wider and he groaned, the sound torn from deep inside him.
His hands kneaded my thighs, cupped my ass, and moved me tight against his hard sex. He raised his head from my throat, his lips red with my blood, his skin flushed and glowing with health. He’s drunk with me, I thought, and instead of letting me go, of stepping back and becoming the distant Lord Marchant I’ve always known, he laid me back flat on his desk. He urged my legs up and open, displaying me wantonly. I was so embarrassed, so mortified to be exposed like this that I closed my eyes and turned my face into his desk.
He ripped my undergarments, shredding them off of me, cool air brushing against my hot, wet skin. His fingers glided up my leg, delved between my legs, touching me and stroking me so intimately and pleasurably that I didn’t know if I wanted to beg him to continue or to stop.
And suddenly the pleasure changed, engulfed me, became the only thing I could think about. I couldn’t help but sigh in want, cry out in need. I moaned to urge him onwards and when I opened my eyes to see him, he was watching me, devouring me with his gaze, consuming my reactions, my own desire mirrored on his face.
“I want this,” he said to me, and two fingers tested the narrow channel between my legs, his fingers claiming me, opening me up to him.
“You don’t have to ask me,” I said, and even though it’s a shameful thing to do, I arched up to meet him, biting my lip to keep from crying out as his fingers buried to the hilt inside me.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and I knew he was going to stop, not going to cross this final taboo between us. “Your neck is still bleeding,” he said, and the strain in his voice made my body spasm against his fingers.
“Drink me then. Drink me and claim me. Please, please,” I whispered and I sat up, taking his face in my two hands, kissing him to taste my blood on his lips. I turned my head and urged him back to my neck. My hands slid down his chest to his waist. His hand captured mine, pressed it hard against his erection, and a shudder of desire rolled through him. With both hands I undid his clothing, wanting him inside me. I belonged to him. He was mine. I wouldn’t let him leave me here without claiming me. He hissed as his cock sprang free and with a growl he gripped himself, shifting forward so that I felt the head of him pressed against me.
It was a burn, it was pain and fullness. Tears coursed down my cheeks. My hands were on his shoulders, in his hair. I opened my legs, opened myself to him because he needed me, he was taking me and it didn’t matter if it hurt, if it was so painful I wanted to cry, because it was all I had ever really wanted and the only way to get there was through this.
I was lightheaded, feeling faint from blood loss and pain, when his fingers went back to stroking me, working me, distracting me from the burn of him opening me up. My body clenched tight, spasms wracking me, making me clench tight against him. He jerked against me, and I felt the pulse of his release. His mouth returned to mine, my blood on his lips.
“Good girl, good girl,” he said, and the pride I took in that one statement, said with gravel and lust in his voice, was enough to make me want to do all of it again. I think I blacked out a little, because when I opened my eyes we were on the path to the infirmary, and he was carrying me in his arms. I could feel the bandage around my neck to stop the bleeding, and my body ached and throbbed.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Finner,” he said, quietly. And I wanted to tell him that I didn’t mind, but I heard voices. He froze and paused, waiting, unable to decide if he should go back. To be caught like this would create a scandal.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“A thoroughly appropriate response,” Lord Dalmaine said as he came into focus. With him were Lord Hapin and Lady Margaret from House Bethany. And on our other side, coming down the other path, were Inspector Hammond, Lady Cassandra, and Mr. Latimer. All of them here at once could not be a coincidence.
“Katrina is dead, Lord Marchant,” said Inspector Hammond. “Miss Finner was the last person seen with her. This visit was to be a formality, a routine questioning, because what reason would she have had to poison your intended Prime…I don’t think it’s that simple now.”
“Now I see why you wanted me to beg off,” Mr. Latimer said to the small crowd, and their responses—excessive surprise and little clucks of disapproval—indicated that asking Latimer to let me out of being his Prime was bad manners.
“Good heavens, did you kill her?” Lord Hapin asked.
“It’s a Marchant trait. We love too deeply,” Lady Cassandra said softly.
“Blood on her dress, a wound on her neck…straight from the vein…and sex too? You know it’s always the strait-laced ones you have to watch out for. When they snap, they really don’t go for half-measures,” Lord Dalmaine said.
“I’m taking her home. I’ll meet you at the house in an hour,” Lord Marchant said.
“No. You’d better go straight to the Council,” Lord Hapin said.
“I’ll take her,” Lord Dalmaine said, and he reached for me. Lord Marchant’s arms clenched and relaxed, as if he didn’t want to let me go. “I’ll keep her safe, March. I swear,” he said softly, and Lord Marchant nodded and passed me over to Lord Dalmaine.
“I can walk,” I muttered, but even I knew it wasn’t true. I was too weak from blood loss, had no choice but to let him carry me up the path and away from Lord Marchant and his band of witnesses.
“Witnesses,” I said, and Lord Dalmaine chuckled.
“Smart girl.”
“Did you give Katrina the chocolates too?” I asked, as he pushed open the door of the infirmary. It was dark inside, and I wondered where Hetty was.
He set me down on a steel table, but didn’t let go of my arms. “Dangerous to be so smart. Look at me,” he said, and I closed my eyes, turned my head away. He slapped me across the face, and I instantly looked him in the eyes, some primal reaction I couldn’t stop. “Keep my gaze,” he commanded, and I did. “You are a damned bother. Forget what you’ve seen…” he hesitated, “Oh, what’s a good length of time? Before the chocolates at least…but why stop there? I’m so clever. Forget it all, girl. Forget your own name, everything you’ve ever done, every dream you’ve ever had, every memory,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. The pleasure he took from wiping me away from myself. It was the oddest feeling, like a strange rewinding or a light shutting off, little candles snuffed inside of me as my entire self slid away.
He was a stranger then, and he smiled at me. “Are you still valuable? Lee clearly likes you. But compulsion isn’t foolproof, and Lee’s quite strong now. Hell, he drained you dry, girl.” He sighed, looks around the room, as if the answer were written on a wall somewhere. “Oh, wait. I’m a genius. This is a perfect solution. Why don’t you go up to the second floor and jump out the window.”
I slipped off the table and stumbled. He caught me, righted me, and then my feet were moving, taking me up the stairs. I ordered myself to stop moving, to sit down, hell I’d even fall flat on my face if I could, but I couldn’t do anything but obey him, so I just kept walking like a puppet on strings.
I was crying, trying to control my body, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop, and then my hands were on the windowsill, and I opened the window and moved my dress out of the way to climb onto the sill.
“Wait!” Lord Dalmaine commanded, and I hesitated on the small ledge, the paint peeling and crackling under my fingers. “He didn’t rape you, did he? It seems consensual, but if he did actually rape you, then—damn, you don’t remember. It would have been helpful if he raped you, but it doesn’t really matter I suppose. I can still say you were raped. That it was a horrible mistake. Of course you’d jump out a window rather than face him again.” He actually chuckled with glee because he was so pleased with himself. “Carry on, I’ve worked it out,” he said, shooing me onwards.
I leaned forward, scooted a smidge so I could fall to my death like he’s commanded. My hands let go, and I leaned a little farther out. I could see the black ocean in the distance, the brightness of the moon and the stars winking at me. If it was the last thing I’d ever see, then at least it was beautiful. At least I had those moments with Lord Marchant. At least—
It was abrupt. A weightless rushing fraction of time.
And I didn’t even scream.
Remembered Page 16