by V M Black
At that, she did smile. “It’s dependent on how often the thrall is renewed. One of Mr. Thorne’s researchers has been studying it in his spare time. We don’t heal as fast as you do, and we’re not as strong, and we have only slightly more resistance than regular humans to things like colds and the flu, but the slowed aging is considered one of the biggest perks of the position.”
“And that’s worth it to you? To let him into your head?” I pressed.
“Mr. Thorne only uses the thrall to ensure that we are perfectly loyal,” she said stiffly. “But of course, I would be, anyway, so mainly his thrall means that other agnates won’t try to corrupt us very often.”
“Like the one who caught you in the Best Buy parking lot did,” I said.
“Right,” she agreed, her face clouding. She’d been forced to betray me under the involuntary thrall of one of Dorian’s enemies, causing an assassin to be sent after me. “That hardly ever happens these days since everyone knows it will be discovered in a few weeks at the most when the original vampire’s thrall is renewed. But if Mr. Thorne didn’t use a thrall, all of us would constantly be in danger of other agnates pressing us into their service as spies.”
“And what happened to you was...different from Dorian’s thrall?” I was afraid that I was pushing a sore point, but she had nearly gotten me killed.
“When it’s something you wouldn’t want to do normally, it’s like a hand around your brain, making you think other things. It feels...wrong,” she explained, casting her eyes down at the breakfast tray.
That was very different from my bond. My bond always felt right—no matter how alien the urge.
I shivered. It was time to think about something else.
“So by choosing Dorian’s thrall, you’re under only a few obligations, you get the whole long-life angle, and you are mostly left alone by other agnates,” I summarized, keeping my tone bright as I cut a piece off a sausage. “Is that about right?”
“That’s it,” she agreed. “For me, it just means that I would never, ever tell anyone who shouldn’t know what he is, for instance—not that I would anyway. And maybe I work a little harder at my job or like it a little more. I don’t know. But the pay is good and the hours, though irregular now that you’re here, aren’t long. And I love it. I love my job. Not many people can say that, but everyone who works for Mr. Thorne can.”
“Hmm,” I said, taking another bite of French toast. It didn’t sound that great to me, to give someone unbridled access to your mind, even if they promised not to use it...except to make you perfectly loyal, of course, and to like working for them more. At the same time, though, I couldn’t deny that the deal must seem attractive to many, especially if all the people you knew best lived much longer than ordinary humans. Not going into service would then seem like contracting a life-shortening disease, like Huntington’s or muscular dystrophy.
“Anyway, it’s important that no one talks to ordinary people about what Mr. Thorne is, even accidentally. They can become very unhappy when they believe there is an agnate in their midst,” Jane added.
“Pitchforks? Torches?” I joked.
“More or less,” Jane said. “And then people get killed for no reason.”
As opposed to being killed to slake the agnate’s thirst. It was a fine distinction, I thought cynically, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have a point.
“What if you want to quit your job and work for someone else? Or do something else?” I asked.
“Oh, I never would, but if I did, he’d let me go,” she assured me. “When people want to retire or take off for a few years or stay home with their kids. He even lets us continue the thrall, if we want, even though we’re not working for him, so we still get the benefits.”
And he still got their loyalty. “How kind of him.”
Jane stood then. “Now, if you don’t need anything more, I need to prepare your clothing for your outing this afternoon,” she said.
“Outing?” I repeated.
“Yes, the yacht party,” she said, as if that were an explanation. “I’ll just be in your dressing room when you’re ready.”
Oh. Dorian’s New Year’s Eve party was on a yacht, was it? I had just assumed that it’d be another gathering somewhere in his cavernous house.
I finished the breakfast and took a shower before surrendering myself to Jane’s mercies again. I thought, very briefly, about insisting that I wear my own clothes, but I knew that would effectively erase any progress we’d made toward reaching an understanding. And anyhow, I had no doubt that anything that I’d brought with me would look ridiculous at one of Dorian’s parties.
A winter daytime yacht party seemed to call for a calf-length, buff-colored wool skirt, a cowl-necked cashmere sweater, subtly beaded, and a matching blue-gray cloche. She explained that the merino pea coat would be waiting for me downstairs. Thigh-high seamed stockings—for warmth, Jane explained—and kitten heels finished the look.
Then Jane applied a thick layer of sunblock to every exposed bit of skin.
“You will be outside part of the time, after all,” she said judiciously.
Fortunately, my manicure was still declared to be adequate, and the time that went into my hair and makeup was less than half as long as the night of my introduction. With my light brown hair in a finger-wave updo, I decided the entire look had a distinctly Great Gatsby-like vibe.
“Beautiful work, Jane. I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, surveying the woman who looked almost like me in the mirror.
Ready to face down Dorian’s vampire guests. Again.
But this time, I wasn’t under his compulsion. I wasn’t shaking in my shoes. Instead, I was standing there of my own free will—or as free as it could ever be as long as the bond remained. And I was preparing to meet his friends as equals, to judge what course my future would take, whether to join them or to break away forever.
Because that could still be my choice—my fatal, final choice that once made could never be undone, for if he drank my blood again after the bond was broken, it would cost us both our lives.
Chapter Three
I emerged from the dressing room carrying my purse and hat to discover Dorian lounging in one of the armchairs near the window, a laptop on his knee. His broad forehead was creased in a slight frown as he tapped at the keyboard, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the screen and his mouth pressed in a line of concentration.
Working. Working on part of his life that was outside of his relationship with me.
If I chose him, could I have the same?
He flipped the screen shut when he saw me and stood, setting the laptop aside. “Good afternoon, Cora.”
Damn, but he looked good—today in camel-colored pants, a lighter jacket, and a dress shirt with a textured brown silk tie. As always, not a single black hair on his head was out of place, and he exuded aristocratic wealth and elegance. I wondered how many years it would take for me to look like I belonged at his side.
Probably never, I decided. Hopefully never, because if I looked like I belonged with him, I wouldn’t look like myself.
His eyes raked across me, hungry as always and shadowed with the memories of what we had done the night before. His body on mine, in mine, his mouth everywhere at once....
I cleared my throat.
“Is it past noon already?” I asked. I was usually an early riser.
“Jane came up with the tray at ten,” he said. “So yes, it is.”
“Oh.”
“Are you ready to go?” he asked. Leaving the laptop, he crossed to the door that led onto the mezzanine.
“Why not?” I said. No was definitely not the answer he was looking for.
And, I realized, it wasn’t the one I wanted to give.
Why did I suddenly feel so invincible? Dorian could obliterate my mind with little more than a thought, stripping away absolutely everything that was me. I knew this. I’d felt his will upon me before—I always felt it as an undercurrent, behind
vast walls of restraint. Walls that could be broken.
But he hadn’t destroyed me yet, and though one day he might, either in a moment of wrath or a slow erosion of my very self, he wouldn’t do it today. And today I could choose my tomorrow.
Dorian waved me through the doorway and offered his arm, one of his peculiarly outdated mannerisms that seemed perfectly natural coming from him. I took it with my free hand, the thrill of touching him going through me. And I wasn’t invincible anymore. I was small and frail—not frightened, not exactly, but at the very edge of fear, knowing what strength was beside me.
There was so much I wanted to say as we walked down the mezzanine corridor, so much that crowded in my brain and my throat. Just two days before, I’d learned that I could break the bond between us if I slept with a human man, and I’d almost done it, almost claimed my freedom and my old life.
I was half-certain he already knew, but I wanted to tell him myself what I’d almost done with Geoff. I wanted to explain how badly I’d wanted to be free of the demands he put on my body and my mind. How badly I still wanted it.
And how I still couldn’t let him go. Not then. But maybe, maybe later....
But I couldn’t say any of it. And yet the energy of those words, of the elaborate dance I had placed us in, seemed to sizzle between us.
“Do you ever get tired of dressing up all the time?” I asked instead.
“Dressing up?” He raised an eyebrow, his expression so bland that I knew that he was teasing me right back. His steps, always so measured, had a restless kind of energy in them. If he were anyone else, I would call it a nervous excitement.
I looked askance at him. “Your three-piece suits. And your oxford cloth shirts. And your smoking jacket, for goodness’ sake.”
“I was at the office when I came to get you yesterday,” he pointed out as we reached the head of the stairs. “And today, we’re going to a party.”
“You wear a three-piece suit to work.”
“One must look one’s best. It’s a good way to put others off their ease.”
Another joke. He was in an unusual mood today, and the sense of restrained impatience seemed to zing off him. I could feel it spilling over, onto me. My breath came faster, my step hitching a little as I matched his quicker one, the echoes of our footsteps too loud and the texture of the sweater against my skin suddenly almost intolerable irritation.
“I don’t think you need fancy clothes to help you do that,” I said as we started down the arching marble flight. “Do you dress up for dinner, too?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Every night?” I pressed. “Even when you’re alone?”
“Unless my routine has been disrupted, yes,” he said, looking bemused.
“I hope you don’t expect me to do that,” I said. “I’ve got better things to do than change clothes for a meal.”
“I consider that to be a negotiable point,” he said, the corners of his eyes crinkling with humor even as he kept his tone flat. “If we have guests?”
“I’ll dress then,” I granted him.
“And if we go out?”
“Okay, depending on where we’re going, I’ll change clothes for that, too,” I said.
“Then I’m satisfied.”
“I’m not,” I said as we reached the landing. “Do you have clothes that aren’t suits? Or dress shirts and blazers?”
“At the moment, not many,” he admitted, stopping as he pivoted around the corner, the hub to my wheel.
“Then go buy some. Or have your maid or whoever do it for you. It actually is okay to relax sometimes.”
“So you want to change me.” The words were light, so light that it was almost possible to miss the barb in them.
Almost.
Suddenly, I had the sensation of having two conversations at once: one a frothy banter, the other deadly serious.
I narrowed my eyes at him. Dorian was looking ahead, down the stairs as we took them together, but I could feel the tension in his body—and the darkness in his mind.
“You’ve already changed me,” I said, carefully matching his tone. “There should be some kind of balance. So that means that you need to do some changing, too.”
“And my wardrobe is of the greatest concern to you?” he asked, again the sharpness of daggers hidden in the words.
“It’s a start,” I said.
“That sounds ominous.” A joke again—and a question, because he was tossing back at me much of what I had said to him.
“It should,” I agreed.
He wasn’t going to talk about what I had almost done with Geoff, I realized then, however much he knew or guessed. That was too dangerous for either of us. Instead, we were having this not-conversation, this almost-conversation, shying away, glancing near, and never quite touching home.
I was grateful, because if anything could break the walls around his will....
His answer broke into my thoughts. “I’ll notify my valet of the changes he should make.”
And that was his concession and also his acknowledgement of my need for control, for an influence over him, however voluntary it was on his part.
And however involuntary the changes he made in me.
His step had neither faltered nor slowed, as if we were talking about nothing at all, and we soon reached the front door, where we were met by the butler and two uniformed maids who held our outerwear.
I shrugged into my jacket, accepting the help of the butler, then set my hat on my head and took the sunglasses and scarf from the maid with a murmured, “Thanks.”
The first time Dorian’s staff had helped me at the door, I’d felt exquisitely self-conscious. Now it almost seemed, if not normal, at least appropriate. The thought was a little chilling that I could ever get used to something so foreign from my old life—my real life.
I looked up at Dorian. He had put on a dark brown pea coat over his blazer. With his hat and aviators, attention was drawn away from his piercing eyes, and my gaze was drawn irresistibly down to his sensuous mouth and long jaw.
That mouth. Oh, God.
I still didn’t feel at ease with him. Not really. But when I looked at him now, there was a piece of my soul that seemed to light up in recognition. With belonging.
The butler opened the front door, and I winced involuntarily against the burst of light even with the protection of the sunglasses. The courtyard was frosted in two inches of fresh snow that must have fallen the night before, but the paths were already swept clear. At the curb, the Bentley waited, warm and purring, with the chauffeur standing ready to open the rear passenger door.
“Not driving yourself?” I asked as I swung into my seat, still feeling the effects of the strange energy that seemed to push him on.
“Not today,” Dorian said before the door shut.
I wriggled out of my coat, pulled off my sunglasses, and sank into the leather’s warm embrace. Even Dorian’s cars were seductive. As I buckled up, Dorian settled into the seat next to mine, and the chauffeur got behind the wheel.
“So, an afternoon yacht party,” I said as the Bentley pulled away from the curb. “I assumed that a New Year’s Eve party would start at nine or ten at night and run into the next morning.”
Dorian glanced over at me. “I have other plans for tonight.”
His expression left no doubt in my mind exactly what those plans entailed. My pulse quickened, my lips parting involuntarily.
His eyes narrowed at my reaction, a dark amusement in them that made my heart beat even faster. I shook my head at him, hoping that I looked disapproving. Everything still felt like too much, like the world was too real—the strange kind of spillover from Dorian’s mood. This was something new, this direct, physical reaction to his moods, and it should have scared me, but instead, the force of it wound up my own brain until I felt like I had bottled lightning in my skull.
Definitely not a time for him to play teasing games in the back of his Bentley.
But also,
I realized, definitely not a time that he could resist...even if I wanted him to.
Dorian’s hand found my thigh, and a small spike of desire went through me, edged with the intensity that buzzed from him to me. He held my gaze as he slowly inched the hem of my skirt upward until his hand rested on the lace edge of the thigh-high. I shook my head again more vigorously, but my hand over his didn’t try to push him away. Even my stockings itched now, setting my teeth on edge. He slid a finger under the top edge of the stocking, tracing a line across my bare flesh and leaving an irritated, tingling awareness in its wake.
I bit my lip and I cast a look at the chauffeur, but he didn’t seem to notice what was going on in the backseat—or was at least well-trained enough to feign ignorance.
Dorian did nothing more for a long time, his tracing fingers working back and forth across my thigh until I thought I would scream. My legs were slick with my need, the hot smell of sex filling the small cabin. But I could neither urge him on nor make him stop. I seemed trapped in the moment, the frustration of it, as it wound tighter and tighter inside me.
I could watch him, though, watch his beautiful, predatory face. The face of a killer. Of my angel. I could watch the smile curve those sensuous lips, those icy blue eyes locking with mine under the black wings of his brows as he watched what he was doing to me and drank it up.
My hand tightened over his as he slid it higher until it met the elastic edge of my panties. He hooked one finger under it, traced up and down the crease of my inner thigh, chafing against the damp skin. My heart was beating wildly now, skittering out of control, and I felt the heat build between my legs, weeping with my need for him. My center, my legs, my clit—they all ached for him. I hated and loved it at the same time, forcing myself to hold still, to not tilt into his hand in invitation. I couldn’t wait for the torture to end—but I wouldn’t take one step to end it.
His fingers slid farther under the damp fabric, and I caught my breath as he teased along my folds, my hand tightening around his wrist until my knuckles went white. Oh, please, I thought. Please, please, now, please, don’t—