by Vivian Arend
Frowning, she studied it as she would a puzzle, so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear or sense the presence of another until a loudly clearing throat made her gasp and twist around.
Rumpel wasn’t standing but rather sitting on a chair that hadn’t previously been there. The flames of the hearth danced behind him, and he looked more devilish to her than ever before.
Startled, she scrunched the open ends of her robe together. “What are you doing here?” she snapped, more from fright than anger.
His calm demeanor and half-curled lip was much less menacing than they’d been earlier in the day after she’d returned from her game. He was wearing a loose-fitting black shirt and scuffed jeans, his blond hair hanging long around his face, and Shayera had the terrible urge to do something wicked to him.
He held a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, his booted legs were splayed out, and he slouched just a little. No longer did he look like a prince, but rather a dangerous, tempting, sinful man.
Her father had sat her down one night and told her about the urgings, the cravings she’d get, because being a siren might make her dangerous to herself and to others. He told her to never trust that inner call, to ignore it because it wasn’t her but the magic within her.
She knew she was leaking pheromones, felt the musky, flowery scent of her desire reaching out to him, and when his amber eyes flashed with fire, she knew she had to get herself under control.
But the desire to crawl across this carpet, stripping one bit of clothing off at a time, and then when she got to him to touch his flesh, to shove his shirt up, to lick her way up the flat part of his stomach to his chest and across his Adam’s apple… It was growing stronger, making her feel weak and faint and humiliated.
Calling forth the image of Briley’s sweet face, she turned her gaze to the side and trembled as her body called her energy back.
“So that’s it, Carrot.” His voice had grown an octave deeper, making her nipples scrape the silk of her gown almost painfully.
Biting down hard on her lower lip, she kept her eyes closed.
“Why you hid yourself in potato sacks, anything to keep the comeliness of your form hidden.” His chuckle was throaty and pulled at her insides. “Look at me, siren.”
Finding her center again, the calm she always felt when she thought of her sweet cousin, she turned toward the devil.
“Kiss me, woman, you know you want to.” He took another swallow of his drink, allowing his lips to linger on the glass for a moment, letting the sheen of brandy glisten for just a second before licking it away.
A sound like the mewling of a kitten spilled from her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut as blood rushed her cheeks. He was so far out of her league, beyond her comprehension. “I’ve never teased you, Rumpel. I will not do it now. You know what I am—you cannot touch me.”
The overwhelming woodsy scent of man and moss-rich forest enveloped her. Somehow his chair was closer to her now, his black boot within her line of sight.
“That is why they feared you in that hamlet, why they gazed on you with scorn.” It wasn’t a question. “I should kill them all.”
Her gaze snapped up. A part of her thought he might be teasing, but the brimstone burning in his fiery gaze and the cold sneer twisting his lips made her think that maybe he wasn’t.
“Why? You do not know me. My honor means nothing to you.”
Setting his cup on a small tea table that suddenly materialized beside him, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he clasped his hands together. “A siren is akin to a goddess in this land, a treasure beyond all things. I collect that which is valuable; I honor it, cherish it…”
“You lock it away.” She shook her head. “Hidden away behind glass cases, never to be handled or loved. There is no honor in hoarding such value so that it can never be seen or enjoyed by others.”
He cocked his head, not seeming angry at her apparent disregard for how he handled his property, but intrigued. Curious even. “And yet, if I lent it out, what is to say it would not be destroyed? A treasure is only as valuable as the person guarding it makes it.”
She shrugged. “So here you sit, in this castle in the sky surrounded by untold wealth and beauty and completely alone. How is that any better?”
He scoffed and then sat back, flicking his hand at her. “What would you know of it anyhow?”
Narrowing her eyes, she said quietly, “Was that real? What happened today?”
Earlier she told herself it couldn’t possibly be. But sitting in front of him now, what if it had been more than a mere game? Was he capable of setting something that sinister into motion, just to test her?
When he said nothing, she shrugged. “Tell me, Rumpel, did that child really die?” Her voice shook at the last part—she could still recall the sightless, innocent gaze.
Brushing a long finger across his cleft jaw, he shrugged. “And if it wasn’t? What then? Would the outcome have been any different? Would you have killed Brenna if you knew it really didn’t matter?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, and though shame crowded her bones, the lie could not pass her lips. “I’m not a killer.”
“Aye.” His look was studious, as if he wasn’t regarding her outer shell but viewing her soul. Weighing it and finding it lacking.
Unable to continue holding his predatory gaze for another second, she glanced down at the carpet under her feet and wanted to growl because she’d just let him establish himself as alpha.
The only way to successfully manage such a volatile and sharp personality was to maintain equality. Glowering, she forced her gaze back to his.
His eyes danced. “But did she not deserve it? Deserve to die for what she’d done?”
Again she sensed he was testing her, judging her, and Dalia’s words rang in her ears. That she should lose. But he’d warned her to never lose. What was right? Who should she listen to? Who stood to gain the most? Because she had no idea what his ultimate endgame was, she had no idea where she stood at any point. It was maddening.
And in the end the only answer she could give was an honest one because the fact was she had no idea whether she’d already lost or won. The test hadn’t made sense when she’d returned and it still didn’t.
“In that moment I believed she did. But taking a life won’t bring another back. It would only make me as evil as she was.”
A smile curled the edges of his lips and she wet her own as an image flashed through her head of him taking her. Slamming her against him and forcing her lips to part for his hot, questing tongue.
Groaning, she clenched her fists and his chuckle set her rattling nerves on edge.
“I could ease your aches and you mine, Carrot, you need only ask.”
“Shut up,” she mumbled, perhaps not the most witty of comebacks, but he wasn’t good for her equilibrium. Wit flew out the window like a drunken bird when he was around.
“As you wish.” He grabbed his tumbler again.
“What is this about? Why am I here? What are these tests? I’ve failed one; likely I’ll fail the others… So why keep me?”
The movement of his throat as he swallowed enthralled her, made her skin feel flush and electric. “Who said you failed?”
“Didn’t I?”
“Did you?”
She huffed. “It’s a simple answer, yes or no. Did I pass the test?”
“It remains to be seen.” He shrugged.
“Then what is my purpose here?” Lifting her palm, she glanced around. “It’s beautiful, lovely, and I’ve never been more confused.”
He snorted. “You sound disappointed with my hospitality.”
“You’re nothing like what I expected, and honestly, it unnerves me.”
“That makes two of us.” Shadow danced across the side of his jaw, obscuring one eye, and his softly spoken words confused her.
Was this a game for him? A way to entertain himself? “At some point I keep expecting you to turn into the mo
nster I know you can be.”
He grinned. “At some point I may. I’m not a nice bloke; most of my tales are quite true.”
“So what do I do now? You say there is a month between each test, what now? Can I visit home?”
He laughed, tossed back the last of the liquid in his tumbler, and then flung it over his shoulder. It shattered in the flame, causing the orange fire to temporarily dance with veins of blue. “No. I’ll treat you kind and with the deference you deserve as my guest, but make no mistake, you’re my prisoner till the games end.”
She shivered at the ominous undertone behind the words. “Will every game be as horrible as today’s?”
If at the very least he could answer that, help ease her fears that she wouldn’t have to relive the nightmare of death over and over, she’d remain strong.
“I do not know. It all depends on my mood.” He widened his legs just then and the pose was so blatantly sexual and carnal that she sucked in a sharp breath, scooting back on her butt to place whatever distance between them she could.
His eyes narrowed into sharp slits. “Do not fear me, siren. If you say no, then the answer is no. I do not force myself where I am not wanted.”
Fingers shaking, she tucked them into the folds of her dressing gown. “And yet you would have my father kill himself to get at me. Don’t think I haven’t realized it was never about him, that you wanted me, and that was before you even knew what I really was.”
At least he had the decency to not deny it. Shrugging, he said, “I would do much to find the one, make no mistake about my intentions. Now go to bed and leave me to my solitude.”
She’d been here first and clearly he knew it. Again he was trying to get under her skin, trying to make her angry and trick her into letting down her guard. But the best defense, her mother always said, was an even greater offense. Smiling, she made her way slowly to her feet and turned to go. “As you wish, imp.”
His jaw set. “Wait,” he said with a hint of impatience.
Lips twitching, she turned back around, schooling her features into a calm mask. “Yes?”
“I believe I told you to do something a moment ago. I taste your desire; it rolls on my tongue like liquid fire. You want me. So come take me.”
The man was testing her; she’d failed before when she dropped her eyes. She wouldn’t fail again. He’d heard her warning—if he wished to play with her fire, then so be it.
Maybe with him she could let herself experience touch. She was able to with Dalia. Maybe there was something about this place that neutralized the witch’s curse. Or maybe she was reckless enough not to care. Maybe she wanted touch. Needed it. Wanted to feel the electric glide of fingers dance upon her skin. From the moment she’d learned to control her impulses she’d never once wondered or wavered in her belief that she should never allow another to touch her, to light her up, but something about Rumpel made her throw all caution to the wind.
Releasing all her magic, all her heat and passions until they radiated out from her like an invisible net of longing and desire, she took the two steps back to him. Rumpel was right, she did want a taste. A nip of his flesh, her tongue running along his. She wanted to dance in the flame of his dark hunger—the man was unlike any she’d ever known. He was wicked, attractive, smart… In short, he was her fantasy made flesh.
She was a virgin and did not know the seductive arts of a practiced woman, but she was also a siren and that was a power innate. Dropping to her knees, she latched her nails into the tops of his hands, which were still on his knees.
He hissed, eyes widening and then narrowing as she gouged him deep.
He sucked in a sharp breath and she wanted to laugh as the curse of the witch’s power tugged at his own. It filled her with heat and longing and fire so fierce that she did not think anymore. His power was immense. Magnetic, it sparked inside her, like she was a battery draining him dry. Sucking it all into herself.
She gasped as the potency of it pulsed through her cells, cried out as wave after wave filled her, making her ache and want more and more. All of him.
Frantic now, she leaned in and took his lips. His growl was fearsome, skating the edge of violence as he yanked one hand out from under her and palmed the back of her head. His tongue did not gently seek entry, it demanded and she obeyed, parting for him and moaning long and loud in the back of her throat when they touched. Rumpel kissed as he lived his life—without rules or conscience. What he wanted he took, and he took her.
Her head swam and her blood hummed as his power stretched her senses. She felt invincible, powerful. As though all the world were hers for the taking. Laughing throatily, she sipped at his soul, feasting on the endless yawning ocean of it. She could taste him on her tongue. His masculine, visceral potency consumed her.
Heat spiraled between her legs and a whimper purred from the back of her throat. She was just on the verge of climbing onto his lap when he shoved her away.
“Go!” he spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and glaring at her as if furious that she’d dared to touch him.
Confused, angry, horrified by her reactions to him, Shayera turned on her heel and ran. When she got to her room, her body still crackled, still buzzed with energy like she’d never known—energy she didn’t know what to do with.
Her skin ached, her bones felt as if they would splinter apart at the slightest touch. Crying, she clawed at herself as power she did not know what to do with continued to snap and pop through her all the night long.
Tears soaked her pillow and where before there’d been ecstasy, this was the longest night of agony, and as she moaned, wracked with the runoff as the power she’d consumed slowly leaked from her, she prayed that the gods would take her.
CHAPTER NINE
Rumpel had felt it and he hadn’t expected to. He’d thought himself immune to her charms, but the moment her flesh had touched his, it’d set off a fire spark of desire so violent, so needy, that he’d very nearly lost his composure. Very nearly tossed her to the ground just so that he could bank the heat, quench the thirst. His fangs had lengthened; he’d felt the fire in his blood turn his eyes red, felt the wavering of the flesh he’d clothed himself in begin to give way to the true form of his body.
And before he lost himself, he’d tossed her from him. For her own good, if not for his. Trembling, knowing she’d not only tapped into his dark essence but stolen a part of it, he shook with the bone-deep cold.
Breathing hard, he stared into the flames and knew that no matter how much he ached now, he’d do this again.
He was the moth, she was the flame. She called to him. Her simple touch. Her unpracticed charms. She was a siren and a potent one. He shook as the memory of her lips assaulted him, the way he’d felt his soul slip from his chest. Only his demone form could handle her touch. Licking his lips, heart hammering violently in his chest, he gripped the armrests of his seat and knew he had a serious problem on his hands.
Only once before had he known this kind of madness. Narrowing his eyes, he snarled. He would woo her, he would quench his desire, and then… if she was the one, he would end her.
Rumpel would not be swayed; he could not afford to be. Three months of this torture—what in the hell was he to do now?
Growling, he shoved to his feet and remembered Euralis, calling to mind his every feature. Slowly the chaotic beating of his heart settled into a semblance of control. Tomorrow he’d begin the wooing in earnest. Only by having her could he hope to get her out of his system. And once she was, then… then he could think again.
Shayera had zero desire to meet Rumpel for breakfast. After the catastrophe of the night before, the last thing she wanted was to see him sneer and be reminded of her lapse in common sense. She’d been wracked, as though by a high fever, for hours and had barely managed any sleep.
Dalia had tried her best to make her somewhat presentable. And while she looked pretty enough in the copper-colored Grecian gown, her skin was paler than normal and the
re were blue shadows beneath her eyes. Even her lion’s mane refused to be tamed. Dalia had finally stomped her foot in frustration and let it hang long and loose down her back.
Rubbing her aching skull, she took a deep breath before screwing up her courage and finally pushed open the massive mahogany double doors that led to the breakfast hall.
Anxiety soon gave way to disappointment. She hated to admit it, but that’s exactly the sentiment she felt when she noticed Rumpel’s spot was vacant.
A male servant she’d not seen before stood by the buffet with arms crossed. Feeling a little as though she were suddenly in the sights of a huntsman’s bow, she stood very still and studied the man who was studying her right back.
As with Dalia, he was ebony skinned, with the slightest curls of smoke tracing out from beneath his polished black shoes. He wore a long black coat and pants and a bow tie. His hair was brushed back, but with a small curl in the front that prevented him from looking completely aloof. His face was angular, jaw very square and nose regal, and he had the same red eyes as her maid. He was quite handsome in an elven sort of way.
Bowing deeply, he said in a booming voice, “Good morning, mistress. Master cannot be here this morning, so he’s sent me in his stead. I am Giles, and you may call me such.”
She blinked, unnerved by him a little. Apart from Rumpel, he was the first male she’d encountered here. Rubbing her upper arm, she dipped her head. “Giles. You may call me Shayera.”
His smile was short and neat. “I think I should stick to mistress for now. Are you ready to eat, ma’am?”
It was dizzying how smoothly he’d shifted conversations. Grabbing hold of her stomach, she grimaced. “I suppose I could eat a little.”
“If you don’t mind my saying”—he quirked a brow—“you appear a little peaked this morning. I could perhaps forgo the rich meats and cheeses and offer you a soothing tonic instead?”
Giles didn’t at all act like he was going above and beyond what he normally would for anyone else, which helped settle her frazzled nerves. Giving him a flicker of her lips, she nodded. “That would be nice. I didn’t have the best night.”