Tristan nodded, a swift, jerky movement, and reached for the door. Even if she managed to break out of his room, how would she ever escape the guards or the cave? She must form a plan. She refused to wait around for Tristan to realise he wasted his time.
“I’ll be back soon.”
Ignoring him, she sat on the edge of the bed.
“Nice to meet you,” The one named Julian called while the door shut.
****
“Wow, she’s a snob.”
“Watch yourself!” He raised a fist at his younger brother.
Julian shrugged. “Well, she is. Now how long do we have to do this? I hate standing around all day.”
Tristan’s eyes narrowed into tiny slits. A hollow ache pulsated within his stomach, a constant reminder of his hunger. “As long as I tell you.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid idea! He marched off, through the many passageways, tempted to stop and kick himself. What had he been thinking? Of course she wouldn’t be taken by the scene from the alcove. He entered the end of the long hall that extended to the town square.
The place was buzzing. Couples strolled with their children from stall to stall. Groups of men and women sat at the outdoor tables of the many bars and restaurants, chatting and laughing. He made his way across the cobblestone path, sidestepping a child with a toy truck, and heading toward the small coal-coloured building up ahead.
From inside the large bow window, Cynthia held measuring tape against a woman wearing a half-made dress. Climbing the three steps, he headed inside the small boutique. A bell rang above his head and Cynthia glanced over her shoulder.
“Tristan.” She smiled a greeting. “Give me a moment and I’ll be with you.”
He scanned the many racks of gowns within the small boutique; some completed, others with scraps and pins prodded through them, no doubt the beginning of new designs. Cynthia was very creative and professional. Women, vampire and human spoke of her gowns with admiration. Taking a seat in one of the armchairs alongside the wall, he waited for her to finish.
“Head into the back and get Katarina to help you out of the dress.”
“Thank you, Cynthia,” the client said, gathering the hem of the material and walking away.
He stood when Cynthia sauntered over. She placed her hands on his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his. “How are you?”
“Could be better.” He shrugged, and the disappointment on Brianna’s face entered his thoughts.
Cynthia’s dark brows furrowed. “Are you still having trouble with your moitié?”
Trouble? What an understatement. Brianna had looked about ready to throw him off that ledge…which he could not blame her for. He had no right rubbing the scenery in her face, even though that wasn’t his intention. He wanted to make her smile, do something to brighten her mood. The pain he endured at seeing her upset almost made him scream and claw at his insides. It was not healthy being locked away in a bedroom all day, but she left him no choice. He didn’t trust her. “I’m at a loss. It seems everything I do makes her hate me more.”
He never had this problem with women from his past, but they were vampires. Humans differed. Besides, Brianna wasn’t a date, or a casual affair…she was much more, and because of that he wanted to give her the world wrapped in a pretty pink bow. But a man like himself, a vampire from the darkness, could only give a woman so much.
“Maybe in time she’ll come around.” Cynthia examined her dress, picking at the strands of cotton and letting them fall to the floor.
“Time never meant anything…and now it does.”
“What do you mean?”
“I…” He paused, unsure if he should go on. No, he trusted Cynthia, considered her a sister. “I haven’t consumed since I brought her here.”
Her brown eyes widened. “But, haven’t you told Brianna what happens if you don’t feed?”
He shook his head. “What is the point? She won’t care. She can’t stand me touching her, let alone drinking from her.” This conversation made him thirstier, reminding him of the last time he'd tasted Brianna. The day he brought her to Désuet, she had pinched her hand and he’d managed a mere drop from the cut. The sample did not satisfy, but teased him. Besides, he did not want to simply take her blood. Feeding was a private matter when involving a moitié. Not only did it nourish, but during lovemaking it was a vow of giving and receiving, sharing in blood and body.
“This is terrible. I wish I could do something to help.”
Extending a hand, he cupped her soft cheek. “Don’t fret, Cynthia. There’s nothing you can do.” Feeding off someone different would not work. He joined himself to Brianna after the first time her blood filled his system. His body recognised her as his mate and accepted her essence alone.
From what he understood, anything other tasted like ash, except for a vampire who was an addict, craving not just the blood of a moitié, but any blood. He bit the inside of his cheek, swamped by painful memories. That was in the past and no longer his concern.
“Tristan…” She sounded hesitant saying his name, and he lowered his hand. “Do you love her, even without the whole moitié bond?”
“Yes.” Without a doubt in his mind, he knew he did. “I must admit the bond is a strong part of it. But, ever since I learned Brianna was my moitié, I have studied her every movement, noticing the little things, like the way her nose wrinkles when she doesn’t like something, or how the corner of her mouth twitches before she yells. This is the woman who is meant for me, born and created for me. Each breath fascinates me, and I can’t help but stare and admire her.”
Cynthia puffed out a breath. “Even when she’s giving you a hard time?”
He smiled, gaze shifting to the set of sewing machines on the table. “Even so.”
“Well.” She shrugged. “As you already know, I am no expert on moitié bonds, but I hope Brianna warms to you soon.” Again, she looked away, heat colouring her cheeks.
“Is something else bothering you?”
She stiffened, keeping her stare on the racks of garments rather than face him. “I’m fine…I’ve just been a little stressed these last few days.”
That bugged him. Cynthia had experienced enough heartache in her lifetime. She deserved so much more. “You’re very strong. Most women would have broken down and given up a long time ago. Not you, you’re beyond brave.”
She bit her lower lip, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t feel brave at all. I don’t think I’ve ever felt weaker.”
“What do you mean?”
She at last met his gaze. Those brown eyes so wide, he struggled to guess what bothered her. What did she hide?
“Nothing.” She shook her head. The expressiveness in her eyes now shadowed over like an eclipse. “Like I said, I’m just stressed.”
He understood. He had never been more on edge in his entire life. It made him wonder just how long it would take Brianna to warm up, as Cynthia said. Or were they doomed forever? Maybe he should let Brianna go. What right did he have holding her when she didn’t want him?
“Did you come to see the dresses I chose for Brianna to wear to the moitié ball?”
“No,” he said, forgetting his previous thoughts. “I wanted to ask what you brought Brianna the other night for dinner.”
A small grin curled her lips. “Of course.” She strolled to the front of the shop and pointed out the large, bow window. “The café across the road has a variety of baguettes. I got her the Le Bayonne roll. She enjoyed that.”
“Thanks. And about those dresses, come by in the morning and we’ll take a look.”
“Will do.”
He opened the door, sounding off the brass bell again.
“Tristan?”
He paused and turned. A raw sadness darkened her eyes, like an acute pain that screamed out for mercy.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“I’ll be fine.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “And I’m sorry your situation
isn’t any better, because you deserve to be happy.”
He headed into the main square, over to the café with the baguettes. A couple seated at the outdoor café caught his attention. The human woman with dark, long, hair and dark eyes smiled over at her moitié seated across. The man must have said something amusing because she threw her head back and laughed, then jumped from her seat, wrapped her arms around his neck and settled onto his lap. They kissed with such passion, it made others stare and smile.
He imagined himself like that with Brianna, however, their relationship spread like cancer, getting worse. Biting the inside of his cheek, he attempted to douse the pain swelling inside his heart. He wanted her so much, would do anything to have her. Why couldn’t she see that?
A twinge stabbed his stomach and he doubled over. Sweat covered his forehead, breath panting.
“Monsieur, are you all right?” A man said from behind, helping him to stand.
“Oui, oui. I am fine.”
The man nodded, but concern still stamped his face as he strolled off.
He sighed, recalling his conversation with Cynthia, and how he loved the little things about Brianna. True, he did. But, he could not force her to have mutual feelings. For now, he’d give her time. A slighter twinge speared his insides. Time, however, was against him.
Chapter 8
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The drums echoed in her ears, making her squirm against the sheets and the silk to rub over her bare skin.
Wait! Bare?
Her eyes shot open. She sat upright and glanced down at her naked body.
Boom. Boom. Boom. The drumbeat grew louder.
Where the hell did that noise come from, a parade? And why am I naked? Her breath, shallow and rapid, fogged in front of her. From the corner of her eyes, a figure caught her attention. Tristan lay on his side, one hand to support his head, observing her. He wore an odd, black, V-neck cape along with a satin red shirt. His hair resembled Dracula with the widow’s peak hairline and—she gulped—his fangs were elongated. “Tristan? What’s that drum sound?”
“Tis the sound of your heart, ma douceur.”
Really? She rubbed away the sleep and stared. Did he just speak in archaic English?
He sat up, bending over her, his cape gliding over one shoulder. His wide, frantic eyes locked with hers, similar to a thief who spotted a chest of glimmering jewels. Brianna shrank back, almost slipping beneath the silk sheet. Solid fists pressed into the firm mattress on either side of her waist. “Tis your heart pumping blood for I.”
He observed her the same way her customers stared at a slice of double chocolate cake.
“Tr-Tristan?” His name stammered with caution.
His lips drew back. He’d always had a pair of fangs, but she never remembered them being so long, so…lethal. A growl rumbled up his throat; the sound ferocious. Those bright, piercing green eyes that equated pure evil reminded her of a wild animal; ready for the kill, but happy to enjoy the hunt. Brianna stopped breathing. To run was impossible; to hide, just as bad.
I’m as good as dead.
He advanced. Sharp, violent teeth sank in the crook of her neck…
She jerked awake, a fiery burn scratching her throat. Warm tears ran down her face as she screamed. Like an asthmatic, she took in mouthfuls of air to drown out her hysteria. Her heart thumped out of control, as if someone punched her in the chest and the organ struggled to retain a normal beat.
“What on earth?” Across the room, Tristan shot off the couch he slept on, searching the room for any threats. “What is wrong?” he demanded.
A dream, just a bad dream. The beating sound did not belong to her heartbeat, but the knock coming from the door. “Nothing,” she croaked.
A breath of frustration puffed from his mouth. He stalked to the door and swung it back. Cynthia sauntered in the room with a bright smile and several long garment bags stacked in her arms. Her raven hair in a big, round ballerina bun atop her head, and she wore a simple black floor length gown with long sleeves.
Brianna wiped away the tears with the back of her hand before either of them figured out she had been crying.
Stupid, stupid nightmare.
“Sorry to wake you both. I thought you’d be up by now.”
“What time is it?” Tristan asked, shutting the door.
“Noon.”
He gasped. “Dieu, I overslept.”
“Well, we mustn’t waste a minute. I’m eager to show you what I have. I chose the finest from my collection.”
What a way to start the day. First, she awoke from a bad dream. Now she could not understand what the pretty vampire was so joyous about. Cynthia dropped a bag on the baroque bureau, and withdrew a ball gown made of black taffeta and lace. The gorgeous frock added to her confusion.
“Stand for me, Brianna,” she said, unzipping more garment bags and laying out several dresses over the sofa.
She thrust back the sheet, and treaded toward the vampire who hummed some unknown tune. How Cynthia was so exultant in this dark, gloomy place, she didn’t know.
Her stare met with Tristan. He stood near the closed door, gaze fixed on her with intent; his eyes like windows, revealing how much he craved her. A shiver of excitement ran through her. Not. Excitement. Discomfort. Without doubt, discomfort after that terrible dream.
Something about him seemed different. Grey circles shaded the skin beneath his eyes that were not there yesterday. His cheeks were sunken, and though naturally pale, his skin seemed dull. Even his breathing grew a little heavier. Brianna frowned. Concern shadowed her mind. Could he be ill? As if he obtained any proper rest on that old, stiff sofa.
“Oh, I like this one, too.” Cynthia held another dress against Brianna’s body, scrutinizing her up and down and turning to Tristan. “Which one do you want for tonight?”
Tonight? What event were they to attend for her to wear a dress this extravagant? The Opera?
“That one, I think it suits her complexion.” He chose the one she liked most. Not that she’d admit it. She couldn’t even if she wanted to, because with one last serious stare, he turned and headed into the bathroom.
“Yes, I think he’s right. As for the rest of them,” Cynthia said, placing the black and cream dress over the others, “I’ll leave these for you to wear on other occasions.” She winked, collecting the garment bags.
“What on earth is going on? Why do I need to wear a dress?”
Cynthia’s full lips puckered, and she straightened with the empty bags over her arm. “You mean, he hasn’t told you about tonight?”
Tension knotted her stomach. “Told me what about tonight?”
Cynthia zipped the bags, as though it was a more urgent task then answering the question. “I think you should discuss this with him. I’ll be back later to help you dress.”
She would have told her to wait, but Cynthia rushed out the door and shut it, the scent of her roses and wine perfume lingering behind. Obtaining answers from these vampires was like pulling teeth…or in her case, fangs. Her lips tightened into a thin line.
Now what? Turning to the dress on the sofa, she ran her fingers over the soft corset made of taffeta with delicate tiny black buttons running down the spine. Layer over layer of the full black and cream tulle skirt poured to the floor.
Maybe someone important arrived, or perhaps they had to celebrate some vampire holiday or event.
Like what? Happy Thanks Drinking? Merry Bloodmas? No, she doubted it. Besides, if someone significant arrived, she didn’t think her attendance would be required.
A low creak made her look up to see Tristan exit the bathroom and march toward her. He didn’t smile, nor did his features reveal any emotion. He should wear a mood-ring if he intended on being so hard to read.
His reservation started after he took her to the alcove. Did he finally realise playing nice wasted their time, because she would never change her mind about him? Nonetheless, there hadn’t been any more daft flowers or sweet gestures.
A good thing, of course. But then why did an empty hollow loom inside her?
“I ran you a warm bath so you can get ready for tonight’s ball.”
She tampered down the last thought as his words sank in. “A ball?” Why would she need to go to a ball when he’d kept her in this hellish pit since her arrival?
“Not just any ball, but a celebration in honour of our finding one another.”
Anger, red-hot and searing, coursed through her. The heat in her eyes burned like a fever, and the look she gave must have appeared lethal because he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, all of a sudden nervous.
“I’m not going.” She meant for the response to be calm, but the venom in her undertones was clear as crystal.
Green eyes flashed as though she struck him with a cane. Gone was his apprehension, and in its place stood an incensed male. “Like hell you’re not! Step into that bathroom and get ready.”
She was sick to death of his demanding tone. If he thought she would be some old-fashioned, obedient little woman to boss around, he could think again. “Make me,” she spat.
Big mistake. With swift speed, he closed the space between them, tipped her back and scooped her into his arms.
“Tristan! Put me down!” Her continuous kicks and thrusts didn’t faze him. With a steady hold, he carried her to the bathroom. Steam rose from the copper claw-foot slipper tub. Beside the bathtub stood a tall table with a basket of soaps, oils and conditioners. Steps quick, he dumped her in the bath. Her cream, floral dress soaked. Water splashed up her neck, spilling over the rim and across the floor. Some water managed to splash over his black pants, but he didn’t seem to care. He stepped back, his murderous scowl making the scar across his cheek indent further.
“I think it’s about time you get over this little attitude you have, chérie. Yes, I’m a vampire. Yes, you come from a family of witches. And yes, the witches and vampires may hate one another again, but the feud doesn’t involve us.”
The air crackled around her. Little zombies ran through her brain, clawing beneath her scalp. She trembled.
Didn't involve them? Didn't involve them! “You bastard.” She quivered, unable to hide the emotions stirring through her. “It has everything to do with us!” Fear, hatred, disgust; swam through her system. Her throat clogged with the four words that made her want to run and hide, yet at the same time encouraged her to confront him, fight him. “You killed my sister!”
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