Lothaire (Immortals After Dark #12)(30)

“I was assured you’d be physically safe there.”

“And mentally?”

“I couldn’t care less. I’m only concerned with your body.”

Typical male. “What did I need to be protected from?”

“I’m the Enemy of Old. There are many who would harm Saroya to strike back at me.”

“Harm her. In my body.”

He grasped her jaw, his skin surprisingly warm. “As I’ve told you—you’re protected here, girl. The only one you need fear is me.”

Which meant this was the last place she needed to be. Ellie could pick a lock, but what about busting out of an invisible jail? If there were mystical locks, were there mystical picks? “What about my belongings? Toothbrush, underwear, et cetera?”

“Anything you need is in the bathroom. Any clothing”—he opened a door in the hallway—“is in here.” He’d revealed a closet as big as her old trailer.

Her thoughts blanked when she entered. Dresses, coats, purses, slacks—everywhere. There must be several dozen pairs of shoes, even more sweaters and blouses.

Eyes wide, she spun in place. “These are the finest clothes I’ve ever seen!”

Lothaire leaned his shoulder against the doorway. “They would be. Appalachian couture is reputedly lacking.”

She knew he was pointedly insulting her but chose to act as if he were jesting. She’d fought toe-to-toe with him and lost. Now she’d try another tack.

Mama had always said, “You get more with honey than you do with vinegar. And when you run out of both, you reach for the buckshot.”

Ellie had concluded she might’ve reached for the buckshot pretty early.

Now she said, “Appalachian and couture? Put a quarter in the oxymoron jar.” She meandered toward the back, browsing rack after rack.

At home, she’d had few clothes—a couple pairs of worn jeans, some cutoffs for summer, a few T-shirts, guide gear. Then in prison, four alternating uniforms.

This selection was overwhelming. “Did you get all this for Saroya?”

He seemed more relaxed than he’d been in the dining room, maybe gazing at her with a bit less hostility. “I did.”

Ellie tried to imagine the reaction of a goddess. “She must’ve gone nuts.”

“She desired every last garment and bauble,” he said, his Russian accent thick.

“And you just bought all of it for her?” Ellie snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

“Of course. She’s my woman.”

“She must love you very much.”

He said nothing, just crossed his muscular arms over his chest.

“Does she?”

“I’ve told you, she’s my fated Bride.”

If he’d been telling the truth about never telling lies—which might be a lie?—then Ellie might view his answer as a deflection. “Do you love Saroya?”

“When mortals ask me incessant questions, I customarily snatch out their tongues and watch them bleed to death.”

Instead of being horrified, she thought, Definite deflection! Trouble in paradise?

Making her tone casual, she said, “Good to know about the tongues.” Her red-tipped fingers trailed lovingly over the buttery leather of a coat. “Can I try this on?”

When he shrugged, she slipped into the coat, eyes going heavy-lidded as she hugged it close to her. “Lothaire, I couldn’t have even imagined things like this.”

“Again, I will accept only the best.”

Like a goddess for a Bride, instead of a mortal? A deity, instead of a peasant girl he’d found so lacking that he’d watched her for years, disappointed by fate’s choice for him?

And all the while she’d never known that a vampire had kept her in his sights.

Seeming to make a decision, he strode to a polished dresser against the back wall. After pulling open a shallow drawer, he returned to his spot in the doorway without a word.

“What’s in there?” Jewels. Huge. Shiny. “Oh—my—God.” She gasped. “Can’t catch my breath.”

At once he traced beside her, grasping her upper arm, this time more gently.

“Obliged, Lothaire. The glittering about blinded me.” And she couldn’t help but think that just one of those stones would probably float her entire family for years. Might keep the coal company off their asses. . . .

“You react like this, even though you’ll never own any of it?”

In a defensive tone, she said, “They’re still pretty. I’m still happy to have seen them.” She pulled against his hold, but he turned her to him.

She stared up at him, wondering what it would be like to have a man buy her things like this. To have him want me so badly, he’d kill for me.

His brows drew together. She noticed they were darker than his hair, bold slashes across a chiseled face with skin as smooth and pale as marble.

As if unable to help himself, he threaded his fingers through her

hair.

Normally, she loved to be petted like this, could be made docile as a kitten. But now a murderer was touching her. He let the strands sift through his splayed fingers, his gaze following the movement.

Stroking, stroking . . .

Surprisingly, some of her tension began to ease—