by Kallysten
If he truly didn’t give a damn about me, he wouldn’t have gone to grab my things—gone himself, I might add, rather than sending a lackey. He wouldn’t have arranged for my shoe-shopping afternoon, either. And when Miss Delilah had called him, he wouldn’t have rushed to my room to check on me.
All of those things made me think of the sweet, lonely man I’d met in my fantasy. It would all have been very different if I’d been in the same bed as that man. And in fact… maybe I could be.
I turned my head on the pillow and watched him for a moment, working up the courage to speak. Why was it so much easier to talk to him when we were getting in each other’s faces?
“Closing your eyes might help with the whole falling asleep thing, you know.”
As quiet as he was, he startled me enough that I shuddered.
“You know what else might help?” I said, stumbling a little on the words in my haste to get them out. “You… you could do that mind thing again. Make me believe that I’ve fallen asleep, like you made me believe I… I hadn’t been rude to you.”
He looked at me, then. His expression was inscrutable.
“It’s not that easy. To fool the compulsion, it must be something that feels true to you. Something your mind will have trouble distinguishing from reality.”
I knew exactly what he meant by that, because I’d had to remind myself all day that nothing had happened between us.
“So?” My voice was shaking a little. “You can make it feel true, can’t you? You did last night.”
He let out a quiet huff and looked away again.
“You have no idea what you’re asking from me.”
“Is it any worse than being forced to sleep in a vampire’s bed?”
He sat up abruptly, and I thought he’d get out of bed. Instead, he shifted toward me and cupped my face in his hand. His fingers were soft but strong, like I’d known they would be.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he said very low.
Our gazes met. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t even blink.
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Just remember you asked for it.”
He leaned forward like he would kiss me. His eyes were as dark as the night and wider than the sky. I fell in.
*
I raised my hand, took a deep breath, and knocked on Mr. Ward’s door.
Mere seconds passed before he appeared, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy with sleep. Add to that the pajama bottoms he was wearing—and they were all he was wearing, a part of me noticed with very keen interest—and I realized my mistake. Of course. If he was a vampire, as I was slowly coming to terms with, then he’d sleep during the daytime, wouldn’t he?
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I blurted out, covering my mouth with my hand. “I didn’t realize you’d be sleeping. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry. Really. I’ll go now.”
He stopped me with a word. One low, rumbling word that felt like a caress down my spine. My name.
“Angelina.”
I froze and met his eyes. They were fully awake now and as deep as ever.
“I was just resting for a while,” he said. “With what happened last night, I didn’t get a chance to lie down.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“You have no reason to be. Truly.” His smile made it easier to believe his words, and I relaxed. “Was there something you wanted?”
A couple of seconds passed before I remembered why I had come to his door.
“Oh. Yes. I mean, I wanted to thank you. For the shoes.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled when his smile deepened.
“Did you have fun shopping?”
I smiled back.
“It was… unexpected. You didn’t have to do that for me, but yes, I had a lot of fun.”
“Well, that’s all that matters. And it was my own fault for not thinking about shoes when I packed for you.” He shook his head ruefully. “I assure you, I am familiar with the concept of footwear. I even wear some on occasion.”
I chuckled with him.
“I know you do. Your shoes last night were very… dapper. As was the rest of you.”
I swear I was only talking about his clothes, but heat crept up in my cheeks anyway. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, and his lips took on a knowing curve.
“Dapper, huh? I can live with that. And if I haven’t mentioned it yet, let me say that you, Angelina, were a vision.”
I ducked my head, but I was pleased. He’d complimented me several times on the balcony, but it was nice to hear him say it again.
Actually, the whole conversation was nice. I’d been afraid things would be difficult after everything that had happened. Our two quick exchanges earlier, in my suite and down on the second floor, had been awkward. This was a lot better.
When I peeked up at him again, he was looking down at my shoes and smiling yet again. I was beginning to enjoy his smile a lot. It made him seem much younger. Carefree. Quite simply happy.
“So… should I start calling you Dorothy?”
I couldn’t stifle the burst of laughter that came to my lips.
“That’s exactly what I thought when I first put them on!” I said. “They’re gorgeous, aren’t they?”
His gaze came back up to my face.
“I don’t think I’ve ever called any kind of footwear gorgeous,” he said in a teasing tone. “But you do look gorgeous wearing them, yes.”
If he continued to make me blush, I might end up permanently beet red…
“I trust you got more than these?” he asked.
I nodded, and now my blushing was veering toward embarrassment.
“I did, yes. A few more. Actually…” I took a breath and plunged in. I might as well admit it now. “These make thirty-two pairs.”
He didn’t even bat an eyelash.
“Good. I’m glad you found something you liked. Maybe you can show me some of the others. How about at dinner time?”
My heart suddenly started doing a very good rendition of a drum roll.
“Dinner?” I repeated weakly.
Granted, I had tried not to give that much thought to what exactly my host ate. But hearing him say that simple word—dinner—brought back to mind Miss Delilah’s suggestion that he feed from me if he wanted. Was I going to be dinner?
My fear must have shown on my face, because he reached out his fingers to delicately cup my chin and tilt my head up.
“Angelina,” he breathed, and that wasn’t fair. How was I supposed to think with his voice like a caress and his fingers touching me so innocently, yet so intimately?
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he murmured. “I’d never hurt you. I promise.”
Relief washed over me. I believed him. The truth was as plain in his expression as it was in his voice. I nodded and opened my mouth to say—I don’t know what, really. But then his fingertips trailed down my jaw to my neck. They rested there, pressing against my pulse point as he added, “Not unless you asked for it.”
Right away, I knew with the utmost clarity what he meant: he wouldn’t bite me unless I invited him to. A frisson coursed through me, and I couldn’t have said if it was from fear or something else. Something I was afraid to name even in own mind.
“So… Dinner?” I said again, my voice shaking as much as my knees.
“At seven?” he offered. When he dropped his hand to his side, it was all I could do not to protest the loss of contact. “In the small dining room?”
The ‘small’ one? As in, there were more than one? I supposed it shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, I had toured his home.
“I have no idea where that is,” I admitted with a small shrug.
“No matter. I’ll pick you up.”
The thought, strangely enough, made me happy. He’d pick me up, like this was a real date. Like I wasn’t trapped in his home. Like this was all a normal developing relationship rather than… What was this, really?
I w
as about to ask, but when I started with a quiet, “Mr. Ward?” he shook his head and said, “Please, call me Morgan.”
“Morgan,” I repeated, trying the name.
It felt as heady as a sip of strong wine. Suddenly, I didn’t want to question what was happening between us anymore. I’d know soon enough. Actually, I looked forward to figuring it out—with him.
“Seven. I’ll be ready.”
Before I could leave, he took my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, causing my heart to race yet again.
As I started down the hallway, I could feel his gaze on me, and it was a struggle not to turn back.
I returned to my suite, and only when I reached it did I start to panic. Dinner with Mr. Ward—with Morgan…
What on Earth was I going to wear?
I had unpacked the whole suitcase, and I knew exactly what my options were. Mostly, he’d packed comfortable things for me, and I couldn’t imagine going to dinner—a date?—in jeans. There was one thing, though…
I pulled out my little black dress. That was it. Even better: I already knew he liked it. It had been at the back of my closet. It was very much a ‘wow him on the first date’ dress, and I hadn’t had a first date in a long while. Clearly if he had packed the dress for me, it had to mean something.
It wasn’t even six, but I didn’t have anything else to do, so I started to get ready. I freshened up, got dressed, put on some make up, then tried a few pairs of shoes to decide which one looked best with the dress.
It’s useless for me to pretend I’m a fashion expert. But working with Miss Delilah and a handful of designers she trusted exclusively to dress her, I’ve picked up a few things over the years. I’d bought this one dress from a sample sale from one of those designers.
Narrow straps opened on a modest V neckline. I’d had the dress fitted so that it fell just right on my hips, giving me a perfect hourglass shape. It stayed snug down to my thighs then flared in gentle folds that danced around me with each step I took. The black chiffon wasn’t merely flattering: it looked great on me. I know, it sounds immodest, but that wasn’t my opinion: it was what I’d been told every time I’d worn it.
I tried the ruby slippers with it and looked at myself in the floor-length mirror attached to the closet door. These shoes would look gorgeous with anything. Morgan had seen them, however, and he’d said he wanted to see another pair I’d chosen. The black kitten heels were next, and they looked fine, but they didn’t have the same ‘wow’ factor as the dress. The third pair was the charm: white shoes with a black, rounded toe and a matching black back and high heel.
The hardest part was waiting for him. Ten minutes before seven o’clock, I was in the sitting room, pacing, then sitting, then pacing again, getting more nervous than before any first date I’d ever been on. Which, on one hand, was weird, because we’d already slept together. On the other hand, I had since learned that he was a vampire, so maybe being jittery was a more appropriate response.
Of course, I wasn’t nervous because he was a vampire. I was nervous because he was handsome. Because I liked him. Because I wanted to get to know him better. Because I wanted to get close to him again. Intimately so. Even if I knew it was all going too fast.
Well… too fast was relative. That antique clock on the wall certainly seemed to be going at a snail’s pace.
At long last, the knock I’d been waiting for came. I stepped forward, smoothed my hands down my dress, and pulled the door open.
Morgan stood there, wearing black slacks and a light gray shirt. He blinked once, then let his gaze trail over me. It felt like it was his hand running over my shoulders, hips, and legs.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured in a rumbling voice.
Are you getting tired of hearing me say he made me blush?
“Well, you picked the dress,” I said, ducking my head and looking at him through my eyelashes. “I mean, you packed it for me.”
A hint of darkness crossed his face. All right, maybe reminding him—and myself—of the circumstances that had thrown us together might not have been the best thing to do.
“Shall we?” he said, offering me his arm.
It felt oddly formal, but I took it. I thought we’d go down to the second floor to one of the gorgeous rooms there, but instead he led me to a room on this floor. If this was the ‘small dining room,’ I was rather curious to know what the large one looked like.
An intricate and enormous rug on the floor, two French windows opening onto a view of Central Park, paintings on all four walls: the room was as finely furnished as the rest of the mansion, which, granted, wasn’t much of a surprise anymore. The massive wood table could have seated ten guests with plenty of elbow room. The chairs were carved, the seats upholstered in crimson velvet.
Two white, linen placemats had been set opposite each other near the end of the table. On each, a gold-lined plate, silverware, and two sparkling glasses were arranged just so. A single, tall candle burned on one side of the table next to a red rose in a thin vase. Opposite them, a bottle of red wine and a pitcher of water were each set on round coasters. It all looked lovely. I’d dined in fine restaurants where the decor wasn’t half as nice.
Morgan led me to my chair and held it for me while I sat. Only when he sat across from me did I notice Stephen. He was standing by a side door, gloved hands clasped in front of him; once we were both seated, he said simply, “Sir?”
With a glance toward him, Morgan nodded.
“Please.”
Stephen inclined his head and left the room through a swinging door. I watched him go, slightly bemused.
“What is it?” Morgan asked as he poured wine for both of us, then filled my water glass as well. “You seem surprised.”
I looked back at him. The table was wide enough that he felt very far from me, and as nice as everything was, I couldn’t help but wish we were closer.
“Not surprised,” I said. “Just… I don’t know. It looks like you’ve done this before. Had someone for dinner, I mean.”
“And what made you think I hadn’t?” he asked with a faint smile.
The door swung open again and Stephen entered with a wide tray balanced on one hand and his shoulder, and one of those folding supports like in a restaurant. He came to my side first, set the tray down on the support, then uncovered a bowl which had been under a metal dome and placed it on the plate in front of me.
“Tomato and lobster bisque,” he announced in a discreet voice before picking up his tray and moving to the other side of the table. Instead of a bowl, he placed an unmarked porcelain mug, black and shiny, in front of Morgan. He didn’t say what was in it, but I had a sneaking suspicion.
From where I sat, I couldn’t see inside the mug, but what else could it be? After all, Morgan had told me he was a vampire.
“Is that blood?” I couldn’t help from blurting out.
Behind Morgan, Stephen flashed me a startled look before schooling his features and exiting the room. Morgan’s expression was as inscrutable as his voice when he said, “It is. If it bothers you, I’ll abstain.”
Did it bother me?
No, let me turn that around. Would it bother you?
A lot of people are scared when they see blood, whether their own or someone else’s. And at the same time, we watch movies in which buckets of fake blood are used on innocent victims, villains and heroes alike. People from our blood are our family. As children, we swear blood oaths with our friends or siblings. Girls start their road to womanhood with a few drops of blood. We used to refer to people as ‘common blood’ or ‘high blood’ to indicate their station in life. We’re asked to donate blood to save lives. When doctors want to know if something’s wrong with us, they often take a close look at our blood. Blood is life, but it’s a lot more than that, too.
The thought that there was blood in that mug was a little off-putting. Or maybe even more than a little. But at the same time, if that was what he ate, how could I deny that to him? It wasn’t li
ke it was my blood—like he was hurting me. Plenty of humans eat things that someone else would think is gross. As long as he didn’t ask me to try it…
“It’s all right,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it.
I took a spoonful of my soup to give myself time to put my thoughts in order. I almost moaned at how good it was—thick, flavorful and just a little spicy.
“I just… When you suggested dinner, I thought we’d share the same food. Do you ever eat real food? I mean, human food?” I gave him a rueful smile. “You know what I mean.”
He smiled back and raised the mug to his lips, taking a small sip. It felt like a test that it truly didn’t bother me that he was drinking blood. I told myself it was coffee in there and focused on my own delicious soup.
“We can eat small quantities of human food,” he said. “It’s one of the things that allow us to blend in. But we don’t gain anything from it. What we need is blood.”
His sip, this time, was a little longer. When he lowered his mug again, a corner of his lips was stained dark red. He picked up the napkin from his lap and dabbed at his mouth. I was getting used to the idea, I realized.
I was also quickly reaching the end of my delicious bowl of soup.
Setting the spoon down, I dabbed at my mouth like he had and wondered how much he was ready to share with me about what he was. So far, he hadn’t said much, even with my repeated pleas for explanations. He seemed more open tonight. Was it because we were sharing a meal? Because I’d said his diet didn’t bother me? I tried another question.
“Is it…” I meant to ask if it was human blood, but suddenly I couldn’t form the words. I tried again. “What kind of blood is it?”
“Human,” he replied without hesitation.
He must have noticed my small flinch because he added, “Not all blood donated during blood drives is suitable for medical purposes. We have ways of acquiring what would otherwise end up as medical waste. We can drink animal blood, too, but it’s… less pleasant. Like the difference between a gourmet meal and fast food.”