by Lauren Smith
The damnable glamour was already at work. He might as well feed while the opportunity presented itself.
“Hello,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and taking a few steps toward him.
Ian tucked the portfolio into his coat and zipped it up to keep the book in place before he started toward the woman.
“Hey there, lassie,” he chuckled, hiding the hint of his fangs as they slid out. A wee bite was all he needed.
* * *
The river ran black, like water over obsidian, rushing away endlessly. Connor O’Shea leaned against the bridge railing watching the water. His fingertips clung to the stone, digging in hard enough that it would have ripped his skin apart if he’d been mortal. But he wasn’t mortal, hadn’t been for almost two centuries. Hunger beat at his insides, hunger for blood. It never ended, the urge to track and feed, to prey on humans, a constant reminder of what he no longer was.
Inside the pocket of his coat, his cell phone buzzed. He let out a low growl. It was probably Ian. The man never seemed to know when to leave him alone. Once, long ago, they’d been inseparable, as close as brothers. But they hadn’t been that way for many years. Something was missing. He knew it. Ever since they’d lost their beloved Lara more than eighty years ago, he’d felt his body, his cursed soul, reverting to its monster state. He was on that slippery slope toward darker urges and he dreaded to contemplate what would happen to him, or worse what he’d do, once he stopped caring about life entirely. The words of Nietzsche regarding staring into the abyss came to mind.
If only I could jump, let the water consume me and swallow me in its depths.
But it wouldn’t end things; he’d only wash up on shore somewhere and be that much hungrier.
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dark thoughts. In the distance, the city lights twinkled, heightened by a hint of merriness he sensed even from the many miles he was from home. Christmas time. A season he used to love. Now it filled him only with regret, with sorrow and longing…so much longing for a life he’d been robbed of. Being immortal was a curse. Time was frozen, like an old broken clock on a mantelpiece. The tiny metal arms never moved, never let time pass another second forward, and always reminded you that you did not work as you should. You did not belong.
I only want to move forward. So simple a wish, yet he knew it would not be a Christmas wish he’d ever be granted.
Santa doesn’t visit vampires. He chuckled, but it was a far from merry sound. If I saw Santa Claus, I’d likely take a bite out of the jolly old man.
His phone vibrated again and he pulled it out. Voicemail. He hated cell phones. The damn things were such a nuisance. All the chiming, the alerts, the notifications. He hit play and put it to his ear. The message was from Ian, garbled and cut out, but the main part of the message was clear. Ian had brought home a woman for Connor to feed on, but for some reason, Ian said the woman liked to be frightened as part of the excitement. Role-play. Bah. It didn’t sit well with Connor, but if the woman needed it to enjoy being fed on, well, he’d oblige her.
He stepped away from the bridge and turned his attention toward the city. Time to feed.
Chapter Two
Zoey was warm. So warm. When was the last time she hadn’t woken up to her own shivers? Weariness bled out of her, leaving only a pleasant sense of quiet, and she wondered if she was dead. There wasn’t any other way to explain the sudden change in her physical surroundings. She wasn’t in a hospital.
Forcing her eyelids open, it took her some time to adjust. She was lying on a massive, and incredibly soft, feather bed with a thick blanket wrapped warm and snug around her body. Like a human burrito. The thought made her giggle. She had to be dead. This had to be heaven. The last thing she remembered was the bright lights of the diner. Christmas bells ringing. The flash of a knife. Snarled words. Pain. Her heart pounded at an unsteady rhythm, and her breath quickened.
Breath? How was she breathing? And then it all came back. The man with the face of an angel and the voice of a sinner, the one who could tempt her to sell her soul for just one caress. Had he saved her? How?
Zoey’s hands started to shake as she remembered blood oozing from the wounds in her chest. Fearful, she tugged the blanket down and lifted her blood-stained shirt up. The skin was clear except for two small pink slashes between her ribs. Zoey pressed her fingertips down on the marks, testing them. They were sore, but they felt like an old injury, not something that would have killed her the night before.
Suddenly remembering she was in a strange place, she looked about the room, half hoping to find the man who’d brought her here. The bed was huge, its frame a dark wood, almost black. Despite the dimness, she could see the walls had lovely black and white photos of Paris and a few other places she thought she recognized. The crisp contrast of the photos was stunning and made her strangely homesick.
Before her life had fallen apart, she’d been studying photography. It had been her dream to live her life behind the lens, capturing moments for people. Weddings, baby showers, children’s sporting matches. She wanted to capture life in vibrant colors and a contrast of grays. Nothing would have made her happier than to take photos of the events that marked the milestones in people’s lives.
But that was gone, all gone. Her camera was likely still in some pawnshop collecting dust. Food and rent had been a priority, not her future. How long ago had that been? Zoey didn’t want to count, but it had to be somewhere around eight months.
She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and the memories out of her head. Had the handsome guy with the Irish accent brought her here? His whispered words came back to her, the promise to keep her safe and take care of her. She vaguely recalled him asking if he could bring her home, and she’d agreed. She didn’t think of herself as a weak person, but after everything she’d been through it was such a relief to think she might have help for the first time in forever.
She did feel safe. Wherever he’d taken her, she knew he wouldn’t let harm come to her. It was stupid to trust a stranger, but her gut had told her to, and she’d never ignored her instincts before.
The man who’d helped her had held her tenderly, gently, as though he’d treasured her. Maybe he was like a Good Samaritan, a handsome man who stopped to save a complete stranger. If not that, he surely pitied her, enough to show her some compassion.
She didn’t want anyone’s pity, but it was better than apathy. She wanted to believe there were still good people out there. After everything that had happened in the last year, she was afraid to hope. But it was almost Christmas. The holidays brought the best out in people. Usually.
If only she could stay in this bed forever, wrapped in the blanket with the peaceful quiet all around her. Too many nights at the underpass had left her nervous and tense while she caught a few hours of sleep. Zoey glanced around the room, checking for a clock, but there wasn’t one. The sky was gray through the blinds of the large window next to the bed. It could be evening or early morning, she couldn’t tell.
Beside her on the bed lay her black portfolio. She snatched it up, wincing when her sore muscles complained. The sketches and photos were all out of order, but neatly placed back inside. She barely remembered dropping it when the man had attacked her. Her rescuer must have gone back and collected all of the pages. More than a few were dried and wrinkled in places where snow had seeped through. Hugging the portfolio to her chest a moment longer, she set it back down on the bed.
She jumped when someone knocked at the bedroom door.
“Excuse me, love. May I come in?” That beautiful, whisky rough voice. Definitely Irish.
“Uh…yes.”
Her hands curled into the blanket and she raised it up to her chin. She felt oddly exposed as the man eased the door open and slid inside. Zoey craned her neck to look up at him. He had to be at least six-three, with black hair long enough to touch the collar of his sh
irt and a thin layer of stubble. He looked like a pirate off the cover of a romance novel. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, and the two top buttons were undone below his throat. She was struck by how large he was. His shoulders alone were massive. She had the sudden urge to touch them, feel the strength of the muscles beneath her palm. Her mouth ran dry as a quickening in her blood made her feel light-headed. He was a stranger; why did she want to suddenly kiss him? It made no sense at all.
“How are you doing?” He came to the bed and raised a hand to her forehead. His skin was cold, shockingly so, and she flinched from the contact. The man’s face paled and he pulled back. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay. Just…cold.” Even though she didn’t want to be cold again, she’d suffer it just to have his hand back on her forehead. The whisper of a secret thrill skated along her skin, and already she missed his touch.
The man turned away and flicked on the lamp on her nightstand. The wash of gold light illuminated her mysterious rescuer. His face was just as beautiful as she’d remembered. Sharp angles and masculine perfection highlighted by dark brows above piercing winter green eyes. Faint lines bracketed his mouth as though he smiled often.
She met his gaze with a shy smile. Men like him never glanced her way, not even out of pity. Ever since she’d lost her home, she’d become almost invisible to the world. Especially men. A blush flooded her cheeks when she realized how she must look to him. Hair unwashed in thick oily strands, blood staining her flannel shirt and mud-stained jeans.
“Oh God, I must have ruined your bed!” She struggled to get free of the blanket and flopped like a fish over the edge. She braced herself for impact, but his arms shot out and caught her. She was pulled up and trapped against his upper body in a gentle embrace.
“Careful, love.” His eyes glittered with mischief. “Now, about your stomach. It’s been grumbling for the last several hours. How about I fix it for you?”
Zoey blinked, unsure of what he meant.
He smiled. “I could go out and get something for you to eat?”
“That’s really not necessary. I…I should go.” But she really wanted him to let her stay. At least for another hour. Long enough for her to preserve some warmth before facing the cold again.
He shook his head. “No. You’re not leaving.” His voice brooked no argument.
Zoey clamped her lips shut, happy not to argue. It was probably unwise to stay with a stranger, even a handsome one. But she needed a day, at least one day away from the cold. But she couldn’t forget his promise—she was safe with him. And as silly as it was, she believed it.
He strode to the door with her still tucked firmly in his arms. “Let me get you settled on the couch. Unless you’d like to wash first?”
Zoey must have made a noise, something to indicate how desperately she wanted a hot shower, because his chest shook with silent laughter.
“A shower it is, then.” He changed directions and headed down another hallway. He released her legs, letting her stand while he opened the bathroom door. A large glass shower stall was in the corner, and an even larger whirlpool tub was next to it.
She started to walk to the tub. “Oh, wow.” Maybe she wanted a bath first—a good long soak would be better.
“What’s your name?” The man’s question distracted her. She spun on her heel, shocked to find him shutting the door, sealing them both in the bathroom.
“Zo…” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Zoey Blake.”
He extended his hand and she placed her palm in his. “A pleasure to meet you, Zoey. I’m Ian Kennedy. I live here with my friend Connor O’Shea and three cats, Titus, Cleo and Lizzy.”
Three cats? And a roommate? Maybe her fallen angel wasn’t into women. That would be just her luck. To be rescued by a god among men and find he was more interested in his roommate.
“Thank you for bringing me here, Ian.” She hesitated before finally asking what had been nagging at the back of her mind. “I was attacked by a man in that alley. I know I was hurt pretty badly. What happened? I remember you helping me…but…” She needed him to explain how she’d magically healed from something that should have killed her. The details of that were still fuzzy. The only thing she remembered was her lips on his wrist and feeling safe with him.
“That’s an interesting story,” he began, but her stomach interrupted. “I’ll tell you after you’ve cleaned up and gotten some food in you.” He winked at her.
“But—”
Ian placed a finger over her lips, a quick smile flitting past his face, giving him a boyish charm. It also made her insides hum to life.
“Shower, food, and then we’ll talk. Deal?”
She agreed, albeit reluctantly.
“Good.” Ian reached for the top button of her shirt. Before she could stop them, her hands shot up, fingers curling around his wrists. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. Even though his fingers were cold, whenever they brushed her skin an electric shock jolted her more awake. She wanted that jolt, that kick to her system more than she wanted to shower or eat. The blood in her body pumped through her wild and hard enough to rush against her ear drums.
Ian undid the first button of her shirt. Slow and methodical, he proceeded to undo the others.
“I…” His voice was hoarse. “I’ll get you something to wear. Go ahead and hop in the shower.” He released the edges of her shirt and turned away, exiting the bathroom. He didn’t shut the door behind him.
Zoey stared at the open door for several seconds before she came back to herself. A shower! She wanted to strip off her clothes and rush in, but she took her time, enjoying this as much as possible. There was no telling when she’d have the chance to bathe in hot water again. She toed off her black Converse shoes, peeled off her socks, unzipped her ragged jeans and slipped out of her underwear.
Looking over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror, she flinched. Her body was covered in grime. Weeks of dirt and muck covered her skin. With a shiver of revulsion, she turned back to the shower and reached for the polished chrome knobs. She cranked them hard, hot as they could go and waited until steam curled up from the gray tile floor. She stepped inside, sliding the glass door closed behind her.
The water burned. It felt so good, like heaven. She let the scalding spray wash away the dirt, but she felt something deeper inside being cleaned. The chill in her bones gradually vanished as she rubbed the masculine-scented body wash over her limbs. She couldn’t help but think of Ian, rubbing his hands over her body. Once she was squeaky clean, she turned to her hair, lathering it with the shampoo and then the conditioner.
There was a single razor sitting on a shelf on the back wall of the shower. It was a large masculine thing but Zoey snatched it up anyway. She wanted to look her best for Ian and smooth legs and underarms would help. When she’d finished, she simply stood beneath the spray, soaking further in the heat.
And then she started to cry.
Sobs choked out of her, fat tears leaked out and she rubbed her fists against her closed eyelids, trying to banish them. Exhausted, she leaned forward, resting her head against the marble, eyes closed as she breathed in slow, ragged breaths.
Her body hurt. Her chest expanded as she sucked in air and a twinge of pain came back to her. She touched her smooth unmarred stomach and chest again, trying not to think too hard about how she’d been miraculously healed. The faint pink scars she’d seen a short while ago were only pale pink lines. Relief followed the tears as she regained control of herself. She was safe, warm and clean. It was something to be happy about, even if it didn’t last more than a day.
The shower door behind her slid open, a trickle of cold air teased her, making her turn around. Ian stood just outside the shower, his jaw clenched.
Zoey could barely breathe. His gaze raked over her. Heat flooded her face, and she looke
d away. It had been over a year since she’d been naked in front of a man. She was naturally a little shy, but there was something about the way he looked at her that made her feel vulnerable, a feeling she liked.
Everything about this situation should have freaked her out. Did he want to have sex with her? Did he expect her to sleep with him because he’d saved her and brought her home? If that was what he wanted…she was afraid to tell him no. He held all the power here. He’d given her shelter, a shower, had promised food. Was she going to barter her body for the comforts she’d been deprived of for so many months?
Take a deep breath, she told herself. I’m in a strange man’s house, and he is gazing at my naked body with heated interest. That should scare the hell out of her, and it did… but it was also exciting. She wanted more. She wanted his hungry gaze on her, his gentle hands exploring her. Someone to care about her, even just a little bit, even just for a little while. As long as he was gentle, kind, and made her feel alive and warm and excited then she wouldn’t feel forced.
“Zoey.” He caressed her name, yet she could read the concern in those eyes. “I heard crying. Are you okay?”
She slicked her wet hair back from her face, then dropped her arms to curl around her waist.
“I’m fine. I just… I’m sorry.” She didn’t know why she was apologizing. It didn’t seem to matter. He was gazing at her mouth, a look of starvation on his face, one she knew only too well. With slow, measured actions, he stripped out of his clothes until he wore nothing but black boxers.
“Ian?” she whispered, a little anxious as he stepped inside and slid the door closed again, sealing them together in the intimate, steamy confines of the shower. Even as her mind cautioned her that he was a stranger, her body stirred to life in anticipation in a way she hadn’t in a long time.
“Let me kiss you. Just one kiss. I want to remember… It’s been so long.” Ian dropped his head until his forehead rested against hers. His hands came up to cup her face, his thumbs pressed against her cheeks.