Vampire's Embrace: A Vampire Queen Series Novel

by Joey W. Hill

  Closing the top of the chest, she eased it back in place, but then realized she’d kept the shirt. She didn’t put it back. Instead, she held onto it as she left the room and headed up the stairs. She went to her upper level room. Just as she’d known she would, the first thing she did was close the curtains. She did it with only a quick look at the ocean, so it was as if she glanced at a painting of the sea, not the reality of it.

  It was a senseless aversion, she knew it, but one that had grown progressively worse. She wasn’t afraid of the ocean, but of the emotions it triggered, how it could pull her down into darkness so quickly.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to explore her wardrobe, and even now was only vaguely aware there was an assortment of clothes there. Taking off the ones she was wearing, she hung them up. Then she slipped off her bra and knickers, and stood there naked in the coolness. A shudder went through her, and she jerked into motion, leaving the wardrobe to go to the vanity.

  Letting her hair down, she brushed it vigorously, too vigorously, her naked body quivering, making her all the more aware of how exposed she was. She pinned her hair up again, her heart back to its thudding, her jaw set so hard it might crack. But when she went to the bedroom door she’d closed and put her hand on the doorknob, she could go no further.

  I really can’t do this. I’m not Sher. This doesn’t feel right to me. She thought of Nero’s eyes on her. The staff’s. Alistair would have a vampire from his territory with him. Would her virginity be given to two men at once? Terror gripped her, even as she admonished herself. She was a grown woman. She knew what sex was, and it was no more terrifying than learning to ride a bike. It didn’t mean anything anymore, because she was never going to be married, was she? It wasn’t a gift she was going to be able to give the man she loved.

  Her hand had tightened on the doorknob, her forehead pressed to the panel. Damn it, move your arse.

  She couldn’t. But she could breathe. And she could kneel. Slowly, she sank down to the floor. She couldn’t believe she was seeking InhServ training for strength, but the voice of one of the InhServ training school Masters came to her as if he stood over her now.

  “The submissive posture is an attitude of prayer for a reason. It is the position a servant takes to find calm. If you are feeling nervous or upset, it will bring you back to center, your focus on your Master, and not on your own self.”

  While at that time she’d had the mental kneejerk reaction, “Of course, it’s always about him, isn’t it?” the message wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Though the context was certainly different, she’d learned almost the same thing from a nursing school teacher. Old Knotwood was what the students called her, affectionately. Martha Nottingwood had worked as a nurse in World War I. She’d known firsthand what young women like Nina would face when they started signing up for the AANS duty.

  Perhaps you can only afford a heartbeat’s worth of time, but with practice, you’ll find that’s enough. Take a breath, find a still space inside where you can step back, look at what’s happening, and determine the best way to help, to handle things. Calm is everything. Panic and rush will kill your patient as fast as a bullet.

  Nina raised her chin and looked at the bed. She’d left his shirt there. She thought of The Mistress’s instruction, the introduction protocol, then thought of Alistair and her on a beach. She rose and put the footy shirt on. He had broad shoulders and chest, so she had room in it, and it fell to mid-thigh. In submissive posture, it would still ride up her spine, expose her arse and nether parts. But that was all right. When the fabric enveloped her, she found that still space.

  At least for this moment, it would be enough.

  She stepped out into the hallway. It was cool, and she shivered, but she quelled that and padded to the end of the hall, which was a round-shaped space, being one of the upper level parapets. The ceiling beams were carved like his bed was, and in the spaces in between were paintings of owls. Dipping, gliding. One had a dead mouse in its claws. She didn’t care overly much for that one, but the others were pleasant to gaze upon. She lowered her attention to the bank of windows. Darkness turned most everything to silhouettes, except the lit driveway. As she watched, a black shiny Nash convertible with wide white bands on the tires was pulling up.

  She needed to be at the door, kneeling the way she should. Much as she wanted to ignore The Mistress’s instructions, defy any evidence she was accepting this as her fate, she couldn’t forget the driver’s words. She wanted freedom, not to shame Alistair. And while she had no idea if her hope for his sympathy was misplaced or not, she was certain that appearing like a half-trained incompetent—no matter how horrifyingly true that probably was—would not help her case.

  In short, while she didn’t want to do any of this, if the vampire world wanted to see Alistair diminished by her behavior, she wasn’t going to oblige. Not until she found out if her savior had become a right bastard.

  But she lingered an additional heartbeat. She wanted to see him, because with her forehead to the floor, she wouldn’t get the first glimpse of him she desired.

  He exited the car from the driver’s side. No surprise there. A male who preferred to pilot his own plane wouldn’t care to be chauffeured. As he straightened, she remembered his height, his shoulders blocking the moonlight as he leaned over her.

  He was quite cleaned up. At this distance, she might not have even recognized him, except she remembered the patrician set of the head, the dip of the chin. He wore slacks and a well-fitted suit coat. Tie and shiny shoes. But he looked like no stodgy businessman she’d ever seen. She thought of Rudolph Valentino, particularly when Alistair turned his head, the standing white collar highlighting the line of his throat, the curve of the ear, the dark hair feathered over his brow.

  He’d cocked his head toward his companion, a handsome, slim man in a jaunty hat getting out the other side. He was talking and gesturing at Alistair with what appeared to be a bottle of brew. Then Alistair lifted his chin, and he was looking directly at her window.

  Standing in darkness, she thought he couldn’t see her, but then she remembered vampires could see in darkness. He started toward the door with those long, ground-eating strides.

  “Bollocks,” she muttered, and dashed for the stairs.

  She should have eaten something, but her stomach hadn’t been up for it after expelling the wine. Crikey, had he smelled that when he got out of the car? Vampires had extra keen senses. She should have drawn a pitcher of water from the kitchen, watered those flowers copiously. He’d parked the car near there. Maybe the housekeeper or Nero had thought of it, or maybe they didn’t care what impressions she made.

  Regardless, she had bigger issues, because halfway down, she tripped over her own feet. Fortunately, she caught herself on the smooth banister, but she stumbled into the balustrades and the carved edges cut her knee. Swearing a streak, she recovered and flew down the remaining steps, skidding to a halt, ten feet inside the door. She’d intended to thump down into the proper posture with all the grace of a dropped elephant, but she was peripherally aware of Mrs. W peeping at her through the kitchen pass-through.

  Be Sher. Be Sher. She slowed her final few steps, lifted her head, gazed straight ahead as if she had all the time in the world, and sank so gracefully to her knees even The Mistress would have been impressed.

  Or maybe not. If Killara had been at God’s side during the creation of the world, she would have said to Him what Nina had heard her demand of every initiate, even her star pupils, at least once a day.

  “Can you do better than that?”

  Back straight, knees spread, forehead to floor. She was glad Winifred wasn’t here. She couldn’t have borne hearing her snicker.

  Sher. Think of Sher.

  The door opened. The men were talking, muffled voices suddenly clear and sharp.

  “If that’s what Ruskin thinks, he’ll be thinking it a long time,” Alistair said. “We’ll open the map in my office and take a look. I’m sure he’s wron
g, but hopefully the borderlines will prove it, so we don’t have to bloody well deal with a tantrum that has to involve the Europeans. Not that the Council would be any help.”

  She remembered his voice as rough, urgent. Low, able to stroke her like a physical touch. Maybe she’d embellished it in her memory, keeping the other remembrances at bay. Because the voice she was hearing now was polished, urbane. A little too much studied interest and a lot of formality, as if he were going through the proper motions, and yet not all that invested in the outcome of the conversation. Most people didn’t really listen to others, except as intel gathering to contextualize their own opinions, but in her job, paying close attention was critical. Hearing that cynical yet detached edge increased her uncertainty. The words she had to say to him felt like lead bullets in her gut.

  It is my honor to serve you, my lord. How may I attend you first, or would you prefer me to familiarize myself with your household until you have direct need of me?

  Then he laughed at something his companion said. Still measured, but in that more uninhibited reaction, she heard Alistair.

  Maybe he’d see her on the floor and help her up, tell her not to worry about all that Master nonsense. He’d assure her that he’d help her get her life back, that this was all vampire bollocks and they’d work around it.

  “Bloody hell, this is the way to live, mate,” the other male said. “Coming home to find choice quim with its arse lifted, waiting to be buggered.”

  Everything in her froze. Humiliation swamped her, and it was all she could do to hold the position and not cringe or bolt. She dug her fingers into the wood floor and tried hard not to think about how she looked through her own eyes, through the eyes of those who’d known her in the world before she’d been thrown into this one.

  If he’s going to help you, you have to control your reactions. It was the only hope she had, and it gave her the strength to hold fast. As did his reaction, thankfully different from his vulgar companion’s.

  “She is a gift from Council, Stanley,” Alistair said mildly. “Try to act like you weren’t sired by a horny female vampire who paid more attention to your tight arse than your brains.”

  “She paid well for this tight arse. Kept me in posh style for a decade before she tired of me. Best mark I ever had.”

  “Mmm.” Alistair grunted. “Shut up a moment, Stan.”

  He’d dropped to his haunches before her, for she felt the passage of cool air over her flaming cheeks. He was looking her over, she expected. A lump was in her throat, and she thought of the photograph in his dressing room.

  His forearm brushed her temple, her hair, and he curled a finger in the hem of the shirt, which had slid down, gathered between her waist and shoulder blades. As he traced her spine, a shiver went through her. Then he stilled.

  “You’re bleeding, Nina.”

  She had to do the greeting first, didn’t she? But he’d said something to her. Was it a question or not? Oh, bugger it. She wasn’t going to let her brain be pummeled to paralysis by nonsense.

  “I tripped on the stairs. My lord.” She’d been reminded of that constantly. Always use his title when speaking to him, unless he instructs you otherwise.

  Stanley laughed, a raucous noise like crows. “Oh, aye, ‘my lord.’ They sent you the cream of the crop.”

  Alistair sighed. “Nina, this foul-mouthed arse is Mr. Stanley Welch, a relatively new vampire in my territory. I don’t expect him to live long, because he’s an idiot. Say hello.”

  Though there were few things she wanted to do less, she obeyed, lifting her head briefly in his guest’s direction, without making eye contact. “G’day, Mr. Welch.”

  “She’s not as glammed up as some I’ve seen,” Stanley observed. “Pretty and fresh, though. Well done.”

  “It’s my honor to serve you, my lord.” The words stuck in her throat, but she got them out, since it seemed the appropriate time, with Alistair’s attention still upon her. Never mind that they sounded as erratic as what had come from her throat when she vomited a bottle of wine in his garden.

  She kept her eyes on the floor during the pregnant pause, rather than see what reaction her less-than-stellar delivery had elicited. But Stan took care of that.

  “An honor,” Stan echoed. “Translates to ‘I’m here to suck you off whenever you want it, you lucky blighter.’ What a waste. To be handed pussy when you prefer cock. The Council likes to fuck with you, mate.”

  “Second warning, Stan.” Alistair’s tone changed only subtly, but Nina heard the sharpness of a hidden knife blade there. “There won’t be a third. Go find a drink in my study. I’ll be along shortly to teach you some manners. You’re being a jealous bitch and a bore.”

  Stan grumbled, but Alistair’s tone seemed to quell his vulgarity. His retreating footsteps told Nina he was leaving them in the foyer together. But his impact lingered.

  She was used to men being crude. Most of the men at the hospital hadn’t used such crudity toward her, though, no matter how much they flirted. If one of their number stepped over the line, it was his fellows with better sense who knocked him back over it. They knew she was a nurse, not a loose woman.

  But how would they act if she was displayed before them like this?

  She’d always been a good girl. Not this. She wasn’t this. Suddenly the pose was exactly as it had been the first time she’d been knocked to her knees and forced into it. Obscene, distasteful. Vulgar. A woman on her knees with legs spread, waiting to be fucked by a man who was in so many ways a total stranger to her. She was going to bolt.

  Then Alistair spoke. The words were still formal, a bit distant, but there was a tag to the syllables, a hint of the warmth she remembered.

  “He was a boy whore when he was turned, which wasn’t so very long ago, in vampire terms. Ten years under his sire’s care, and his wild, rough ways amused her, so she taught him no better. Now he’s loose on the world and it’s a wonder someone hasn’t staked him. Pay no attention to him, Nina. Stand for me.”

  Alistair put a hand beneath her elbow. They hadn’t prepared her for assistance, so the way she was supposed to rise wasn’t as smooth as her descent. The firm touch of his fingers on her elbow was another shockingly strong memory brought back to life. She wanted to look at him, but she didn’t, too, so she kept her gaze down. Since he remained on one knee, his hand at her hip, she found herself gazing at him anyway.

  He was studying her knee. He passed his thumb over the cut. She quelled the urge to put a hand on his hair, stroke her fingers through it. It had been dirty, bloody, wet. Now it was thick and lustrous, well-groomed at his nape.

  She could see that because he leaned forward and put his mouth on the wound. Nina started, and he tightened his grip on her hip. He teased the blood away with his tongue, making a noise that said the taste met his approval. Then he tilted his head enough to nuzzle her thigh just below the hem of the shirt.

  Her body readied itself instantly. The Mistress’s training was good for that, and yet she didn’t want it to react so non-specifically. She was like the music box in her room, playing for anyone who knew how to operate it. He’d barely said hello and had his mouth within inches of her sex. Well, his mate Stan had said that was what she was here for, right?

  She’d stiffened before she could stop herself, and Alistair stilled. Drew back. Now she had her gaze purposefully glued to the floor, even though the slightest shift would have brought their eyes into a lock.

  After a long moment, he spoke in a dry tone. “As to your assertion that serving me is an honor, I’m sure that’s less than true, but I am honored by Lady Lyssa’s efforts on my behalf. I should have used her name in Stan’s presence, because that’s usually enough to stifle his vulgar ebullience. Too busy trying not to piss himself to be a smart aleck. Be more careful on the stairs, Nina.”

  Nothing else. No “How have you been,” no recollections of their shared past. Brief it had been, but not insignificant. At least to her. She swallowed, an ache in h
er chest. “Yes, my lord.”

  He rose, stood before her. His shirt was white and crisp. He’d loosened his tie, opened the button at the throat, so she was staring at the corded strength of that column, the set of his jaw. She lowered her eyes again and spoke the rest of the leaden words she was required to say.

  “How may I attend you, my lord, or would you prefer me to familiarize myself with your household until you have direct need of me?”

  “If you can tell Nero that we are prepared to have tea, that’s all for now.”

  When he moved, she lifted her gaze, watching him stride away from her. Briskly, as if the intimate moment of his mouth on her knee had never happened. He still moved with purpose, a fluid and powerful grace. When he reached the entrance to the study, he turned back. She hadn’t expected it, so their eyes met.

  Once in that lock, she couldn’t find it in herself to look down. A million emotions rushed back into her chest, a thousand useless pleas to her lips. She felt strangled by everything she was holding back.

  He seemed oblivious to it, for a slight smile touched his mouth, and heat slid into his gaze, only adding to her body’s lingering reaction to his touch.

  “It’s good to see you again, sweet nurse. You look far better in that shirt than I ever did.”

  Chapter Ten

  For practical purposes she changed back into a blouse and skirt. For the next hour or so, she spent time with Nero, learning more about the household schedule and duties. The day staff would come on at seven, and Nero and the rest would return late afternoon. Alistair’s staff worked twelve-hour shifts. Nero’s group were considered the senior staff, holding authority over the day shift. He and Mrs. W worked later hours when needed, more involved in the nighttime demands the master of the house’s waking hours created. But Alistair was a generous boss, allowing rotations, such that his people only worked a four-day week, with three days off for family.