The Story of Son(6)

Her body tingled as his scent filled her nose. He was the source of that dark, spicy smell, the delicious fragrance everything that was male and powerful and sexual. Her core grew swollen, heavy, wet . . .

Horrified by her reaction, she tried to jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Be still.” His voice was right in her ear. “I will not take much this first time and worry not. You will leave here with your virtue intact. I cannot lie with you.”

She should not trust him. She should be terrified. Instead, his gentle hands and his quiet, deep voice and the sensual smell of him soothed her fears. Which was probably the thing that terrified her most.

He released her and one of his hands went to her hair. He pulled the pins out one by one until it fell down on her shoulders. “How lovely,” he whispered.

She knew she should bolt. But she didn’t actually want to get away from him. “It’s dark. How do you know what it looks like . . .”

“I see you perfectly.”

“I see nothing.”

“It’s better if you don’t.”

Was he ugly? Misshapened? Deformed? And if he was, would it really matter? She knew it wouldn’t. She would take him however he was. Although, Jesus Christ . . . why?

“I am sorry to rush this,” he said roughly. “I need just enough to calm myself.”

She heard a hissing noise as her hair was moved to one side. Two sharp, blazing points sank into her neck, the pain a sweet rush. As her back arched and she gasped, his arms shot around her and locked her tight against what was an enormous male body.

He moaned and started sucking.

Her blood . . . he was . . . drinking her blood. And oh, God, it felt fantastic.

Claire, for the first time in her life, fainted.



When she woke up, she was in the bed, between the sheets, still wrapped in the robe. The pervading darkness made her whimper in a way she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of, but there was nothing to ground her, no reality to grasp. She felt as if she were drowning in a dense, oily sea, her lungs stopped up with what she couldn’t see through.

Anxiety tripped all kinds of wires in her head and she broke out in a cold sweat. She was going to go mad—

A candle flared next to her, illuminating the bedside table and the silver tray of food that was on it. A moment later another lit up on the other side of the huge bed. And so did another mounted high on the shelves beside the door. And another in what looked like a bathroom. And . . .

One by one they came on, lit by nobody. Which should have scared her, but she was too desperate to see to give a crap how the light came about.

The room was much larger than she’d expected, and the floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of that gray stone. The only major piece of furniture aside from the bed was a desk the size of a banquet table. Its smooth, glossy surface was covered with white papers and stacked high with black leather volumes. A thronelike chair was behind it, angled to the side as if someone had been sitting in it and had gotten up quickly.

Where was the man?

Her eyes went over to the one dark corner. And she knew he was there. Watching her. Waiting.

Claire remembered the feel of him pressing into her back and she put her hand to her neck. She felt . . . nothing. Well, not quite. There were two nearly imperceptible bumps. As if the biting had happened weeks and weeks ago.

“What did you do to me?” she demanded. Even though she knew. And oh, God . . . the implications were horrific.

“Forgive me.” His lovely voice was strained. “I regret what I must take from an innocent. But I need to feed or I shall die and I have no choice. I am not permitted to leave my quarters.”

Claire’s vision took a little break and then came back with a checkerboard overlay—the kind of thing you got before you passed out. Holy . . . shit.

It was a long time before she could think straight and the cognitive vacuum was filled with visions from Hollywood: undead, white-skinned, evil . . . vampire.

Her body trembled badly enough to rattle her teeth and she curled up into herself, knees to chest. As she started rocking, she had the disassociative thought that she’d never been so terrified in her life.

This was a nightmare. Whether she was dreaming or not, this was a total nightmare.

“Am I infected?” she asked.

“Are you—do you mean, have I turned you into what I am? No. Not at all. No.”

Fueled by the urge to flee, she shot off the bed and bee-lined in the direction of the door. She didn’t make it far. The room swam in circles around her and she tripped over her own feet. Throwing her hand out, she caught herself against the books.

He caught her as well, so fast it was as if he’d dematerialized from where he’d been. His careful hands held her only as tightly as they had to. “You must eat.”

She hung on to the shelf and noticed for no good reason that she was in front of a complete collection of George Eliot. Maybe that was why he talked like a Victorian. He’d been reading nineteenth-century books for however long he’d been in here.

“Please,” that beautiful voice implored. “You must eat—”

“I have to go to the bathroom.” She looked across the room at a marble enclave. “Tell me there is a toilet in there.”

“Yes. You shall find there is no door, but I shall avert my eyes.”