“Oh, my.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nothing could have prepared Brenna for the dark opulence of Izeling Tower. Made entirely of black stone with flying buttresses that flared out like great dragon wings, the spires pointed tall and long like daggers reaching to pierce the night sky. Horrific demon-like gargoyles crouched at every corner with fanged, gaping mouths and wide, watchful eyes. A round, yellow moon hung over the behemoth of a palace, giving it a ghastly appearance. So much so that she wondered if she weren’t walking into the bowels of hell.
She suppressed a shiver as Friedrich escorted her up the wide front steps, made of shimmering white marble. The effect of the white entry leading into the black castle was striking and unsettling. She’d never laid eyes on King Dominik, only knowing him by rumor, but she feared he would match his fearful lair all too well.
Friedrich lay his hand atop hers on his sleeve and gave it a squeeze. “Brave face on, love.”
She thought of Helena, her sweet daughter. Any chance of saving her depended on Brenna’s success at playing her role well. She sent up a quick prayer that Helena remain safe wherever she was. For just a little longer. Hold on, dear one.
She had no doubt that if anyone could save her, it would be Friedrich and the Bloodguard. But first, she had to become Lady Silverton and find the information they needed.
She raised her chin, steeling her gaze, and cast her countenance into a vain facade. The stairwell and the foyer entry were lit by braziers of fire on long wrought-iron posts. As they made their way through the open double doors, murmuring voices echoed off the domed entry as others arrived, led by servants in red-and-black-livery up one of three giant staircases leading off the massive foyer.
“Your Grace,” greeted a gaunt figure with a reverent bow.
“Good evening, Carrow.” Brenna noted the haughty steel inflected in Friedrich’s deep timbre. He had indeed cloaked himself in full vampire arrogance for the occasion. “Are our rooms ready? Lady Brennalyn will need to rest before tonight’s festivities.”
The butler carried himself as a man with full authority. And though he looked as if someone had removed all muscle from his body and simply draped his skin back on bare bones, there was a fiery strength in his gaze and demeanor that was menacing and powerful.
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said with utmost respect. “You and your guest have been appointed rooms in the royal suites, of course.”
“Of course. My valet and Lady Brennalyn’s maid will be following with our luggage.”
“I’ll make sure they find their way then set them up in the servants’ quarters.” The skeletal man crooked a bony finger to one of a line of footman standing at perfect attention along the hall. “Harlon, show His Grace to the Silver Suite.” The man dipped another deep bow.
Friedrich hardly acknowledged as he swept her away after the pretty-faced footman. Brenna couldn’t help but glance around at all of the footman and maids dressed in the telltale Izeling livery. All of them were young and handsome. Except the dreadful butler at the door who reminded her of someone who’d been buried once, then remembered he still had work to do so he crawled out of the ground to tend to his duties.
When they’d finally made their way to the top of the white marble staircase and followed Harlon down a long crimson-carpeted hall, Brenna whispered, “The butler looks a hundred years old, but yet as strong as an ox.”
Friedrich lowered his mouth to her ear. “Wait till we’re behind closed doors, kitten.” He pointed to the open doorways they passed. Brenna remembered herself. If they were in the royal suites, these would all be occupied by vampires who had exceedingly good hearing.
She swallowed, though there was no saliva left in her mouth, and nodded. Only the swish of her skirts made a sound as they wound to the end of the corridor. Brenna noted the floor-to-ceiling paintings decorating the hall, framed in elaborate silver. One depicted a beautiful maiden, her gown fallen from her shoulder to expose a bare breast as she ran in fear from a demonic satyr. Another revealed a pool of bathers, all lovely, laughing fair-skinned women, voluptuous bodies on display. The scene would’ve been beautiful if it weren’t for a tall, dark figure watching them from the shadow of trees with glowing blue eyes—a vampire. The next was a depiction of a black-haired king on a throne—both frightening and beautiful—with a bevy of voluptuous women draped at his feet. Slaves adoring their master.
“My uncle,” said Friedrich, nodding to the painting that extended along the wall from one bedchamber all the way to the next. Friedrich’s expression of hatred was unmistaken.
Bile rose in Brenna’s throat. She turned and faced forward, refusing to look at one more sickly sensual scene. This place was drenched in dark sensuality and violence.
The footman stopped and bowed before a door.
“Thank you, Harlon. Be sure my man finds my suite.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said the footman, who could be no more than sixteen.
Brenna breathed a sigh of relief when Friedrich closed the door behind them and she took in the two connecting bedchambers. The parlor joining the two bedchambers was appointed in white and silver from one end to the other. The windows were draped in heavy folds of white velvet, a fabric Brenna had never seen before. Silver damask covered the chaise lounges and white chenille the chair, which set in the middle near the hearth where there was a luxurious white rug, inlaid with silver flowers.
The mantel and sideboards were decorated with dainty figurines—a prancing white pony, a maid dressed in white with a parasol, a cluster of three lambs. She scanned the walls and found only pretty paintings of flowers drenched in warmth and sunlight. The room was the antithesis of the rest of the castle.
“Thank heavens he put us in this room. Did you see those paintings in the hall?” she asked.
Friedrich swept her into his arms. “I’m thanking heaven that you have the chance to get accustomed to your surroundings before you meet my uncle.” His voice was neither mocking or light. “He’s a demon, my love. Though you wear my scent and are well-protected from detection in that regard, he can still smell fear. Readily. And there’s nothing that excites him more.”
She licked her lips and exhaled a deep breath. “I understand.”
“You don’t have to do this, you know. I can leave you here with my men of the Bloodguard to watch over you while I go alone. I can make an excuse for you.”
She read the terror shining in his eyes and girded her resolve. “No. I will see this through. If my Helena can survive in whatever hellish cell she’s in, then I can do this for her.”
He stared at her with an unreadable expression as if weighing a decision. Before he spoke, a knock came at the door. He marched over and swung it open to find Grant carrying Friedrich’s trunk and the footman Harlon carrying Brenna’s with Sylvia trailing behind them.
Harlon nodded toward the far door. “That will be His Grace’s chamber. And this here is Lady Brennalyn’s.” Friedrich followed Grant into the bedchamber on the left, leaving her with Sylvia, who looked as terrified as Brenna felt. She gave her friend a comforting smile.
Harlon marched into what was to be her room then back through and made a quick bow before exiting back into the hallway.
“Shut the door,” she whispered to Sylvia, now terrified that someone might be listening around every corner.
She did. Friedrich and Grant spoke in low tones in the next room. Brenna walked over and took Sylvia’s hand, knowing the ashen girl needed comfort and something to do, then guided her toward the other bedchamber off the parlor.
“Come help me out of this dress.”
“I’ve never been to a place like this,” Sylvia whispered.
They both seemed to feel the need to speak in hushed tones.
“Neither have I.”
“Winter Hill is so much…different.”
“That’s for certain.”
If she had to compare them, she’d say Winter Hill was day and Izeling Tower was night.
One was a smooth, clean monument to architectural beauty, the other was an ornate ode to phantasmagoric illusion. Brenna felt like she was floating in a dream. Not a pleasant one.
Then she paused in breathless wonder.
“Oh,” came Sylvia’s surprised reaction as well.
The entire room had an incandescent glow of white. The bed—constructed of smooth white aspen—was draped in gossamer sheers and dressed in a white silk counterpane. The window was draped in pearlescent silk. Like the parlor, there was a white marble fireplace and mantel, soft silver-white carpets on the side of the bed and at the hearth. As this was a lady’s room, there was a dainty vanity in the same wood as the bed. A crystal chandelier hung at the center, casting prisms of golden candlelight on the wall and ceiling. The effect was nothing short of magical.
“It’s like a wonderland,” said Sylvia.
“Yes. It is.”
The entire room was dreamily beautiful. But the most magnificent object of all stood on the far wall. An oversized mirror nearly double her size in height and triple in width. Brenna was pulled to it like the shaded flower to sunlight.
The frame was painted in shimmering pearl, carved into tiny winged cherubs around the perimeter. Their mouths were open in little Os, and Brenna couldn’t quite tell if they were singing or screaming. Its beauty was both lovely and haunting.
“Look, Brenna. They’ve brought you some tea and refreshments.”
On the sideboard was a gleaming silver teapot with an overturned teacup and a tray of delectable sweetmeats, candied almonds, and orange slices. She’d perhaps eat a little after she dressed for the ball. Were they feeding Helena wherever she was being held? She scoffed at being surrounded by such luxury when her daughter was cold and alone somewhere.
With a deep breath in, trying not to lose her composure, she called to Sylvia. “Come and help me change, please.”
She must be resolute in finding her. That meant playing the game, playing the part of a noble lady.
She moved toward her chest and opened it up to find the gown Friedrich had made for her to wear to the ball. She pulled out the scarlet seduction in silk and laid it on the bed while Sylvia tugged at her bodice strings, finally freeing her so she could shimmy out of the heavy skirts. Sylvia whisked it up and folded it over in the trunk.
“The black satin slippers should be in there somewhere.”
“I found them.”
“Do you see a black corset in there?” Brenna started loosening her own laces. “The ball gown actually dips quite low and reveals some of the edging of the corset.”
Sylvia pulled the black corset from the trunk with a look of shock and tossed it on the bed next to the red gown, eyeing the offending clothes on the bed.
“That there gown shows your undergarments?”
“It’s a new style. They say.” Her corset fell to the floor, leaving her in her translucent chemise. “Though I’m beginning to miss my gray frocks.”
“Well, I’m not.” Friedrich stood in the doorway. His eyes locked with hers. “Sylvia, Grant is waiting in the hall for you. I’ll help Lady Brennalyn dress.”
Sylvia curtsied and made a hasty exit, while Brenna remained enthralled at the way Friedrich gazed at her. He’d already donned his formal wear with a black silk cravat and long-tailed coat. Nevertheless, he prowled toward her with feline grace, the prisms of light catching his otherworldly eyes.
Even as bare as she was, watching him draw closer, she tilted her head and said lightly, “Sylvia knows I’m no lady. No need to use the title for pretense in front of her.”
He paused midstep, his gaze darkening to such intensity the heat of it caressed her. She dropped her attention to the floor, tiny points of light sparkling from the chandelier. He made his way slowly to her, gripped her upper forearms, and walked gently backward with her. She gripped his biceps to steady herself, his firm muscles bunching beneath the finely tailored coat.
“Friedrich?”
A palpable electric charge snapped around his body. He didn’t respond until he stopped and turned her to face the massive mirror. Her breath caught.
“Look at you,” he ground out.
And she did. Rather, she looked at them both and the picture they made together. Her petite form—pale skin as white as the sheer chemise, her rosy nipples and thatch of dark hair at the apex of her legs showing beneath. Her thigh-high stockings blending against her skin. Then the dark contrast of the man towering behind her. His dark, beautiful frame engulfed her own. His large hands and long, tapered fingers spread around her waist to splay across her belly and between her breasts.
“Look at you,” he whispered, seeming to be lost as his gaze devoured every inch of her.
The effect was immediate. His lusty gaze and velvet voice demanded her body react to him. And it did, heat pooling below.
When she squirmed and shifted, he clenched her tight. “You are so fucking beautiful. The most beautiful lady I know.” His large hands moved in opposite directions. Brenna could do nothing but watch in breathless anticipation as one rounded over a breast, squeezing, and the other slid down her belly, his middle finger delving down the center of her cleft.
She gasped. Even with the thin chemise between, his touch was electrifying. She clutched his forearms, needing something to hang on to. His tendons rolled beneath his skin as he stroked slowly.
“Spread your legs wider, kitten,” he commanded, the rolling dark of his voice rumbling against her back as he pressed flush against her. His erection was evident just above her bottom. She did as she was told.
His head lowered to her ear, his hair brushing her neck as he nipped her lobe none too gently. She jumped yet again, feeling the swirling heat between her legs.
“Fuck.” He stroked his wicked fingers farther. “So wet for me, kitten. I can smell you. So strong its driving me out of my bloody mind.”
She dropped her head to his shoulder, succumbing to the sensation of him dominating her body as he was meant to do. If she’d ever had a willful mind to walk away from him, all he need do is touch her and her resolve would break, shatter like a glass on stone. He was too big, too dark, too strong, too seductive…simply too much for her to resist. Even now as they were supposed to be preparing for a perilous mission among the most treacherous of their enemies, all she wanted was his hands and his mouth on her body. All she wanted was him inside her.
Perhaps it was because of the danger, because of the risk, because of the despair that they might not find Helena…alive. She needed him. Desperately. She curled her nails deeper into his arms and exhaled a shuddering breath.
He clenched his hold on her. “Open your eyes, Brennalyn. Look.” She’d never heard his voice rake against her very soul with such despairing need. Command.
When she lifted her head from resting against his chest, she hardly recognized the face of the woman before her. Dark eyes swimming with passion, moist lips apart, a flush of scarlet splotching her chest and cheeks. All a picture of eroticism with his fingers working wicked magic.
He nudged her forward with his stiff erection and pelvis. “Put your hands on the mirror. And don’t you dare look away or close your eyes.”
She planted her palms against the cold glass. His gaze darkened, his mouth slackened, a flash of fangs protruding as he gathered the hem of her chemise with deft fingers till he tossed the material above her waist. She watched him as he looked down where he gripped the globes of her bottom, caressing in a circle before he squeezed and spread them.
“Fuck,” he muttered, undoing the fall of his pants and freeing his thick cock.
She watched. As he’d told her to do. He curled one large hand on her hip, the other gripping his rigid length. He caught her gaze in the mirror, holding her with him as he pushed inside her on a long glide. Her mouth opened wider on a gasp. His answering growl cocooned her in his dominance, abrading her nipples to tight peaks, which pressed against the frail fabric of her chemise.
He panted hard, staring down
where their bodies met. Holding himself deep, her tender sex stretching for him, he gripped her hips so tight she knew she’d have bruises. The thought pulled a throaty cry from her parted lips. His fierce gaze shot to the mirror again, a carnal possession rife in every line of his taut expression, his wide shoulders, his heaving chest.
Then he started to move.
“My lady.” The rough declaration rolled up her spine. She bowed in response to his gravelly voice, pulling him deeper. He pounded with hard, determined strokes, as if he needed to convince her who she belonged to.
She knew. She’d known for quite some time, long before he’d ever taken her to bed. And yet, she still couldn’t admit to herself that it was more than her body he owned. A pang of knowing pricked the offending organ beneath her ribcage, the one now hammering hard for the man stroking her so deep she knew she’d feel him for days.
“My woman.”
He pistoned faster, their flesh slapping with each fervent thrust. For the first time, she heard her own keening cries. She’d never truly heard herself, always so overwhelmed by him—above, over, behind her, engulfing her with his unmistakable dominion of whatever space she tried to keep to herself.
As she stared into the mirror, a fine sheen of steam framed her hands braced on the mirrored glass, her breasts swayed against her chemise, and the sight of the large, ferocious, beautiful vampire pounding into her body reached far deeper than the warm slick cave of her sex. The stinging pang in her heart stretched and expanded, opening a chasm for him to fill.
He released her hips and fell forward, splaying one hand on the mirror outside of hers. His hard wall of chest, shoulders, and abdomen pressed down against her back. Flattening his palm to her throat, he gripped her jaw firmly but gently, keeping her head forward, watching, his mouth near her ear. He continued to spear her with deeper, darker thrusts. The fire in his sapphire eyes so bright, he could’ve set her ablaze.
“My Brennalyn.”
Without warning, her walls convulsed in a violent wave. Her mouth fell open in a scream of ecstasy.
The White Lily (Vampire Blood series) Page 23