The Story of Son(7)

“You do that.”

Claire broke free of him and lurched forward, too shell-shocked and weak and freaked out to care about privacy. And because if he’d wanted to take advantage of her he could have any number of times up until now. And because honor was in every timbre of his voice. If he said he wouldn’t look, he wouldn’t.

Except, Christ, she was an idiot. Why the hell should she have faith in someone she didn’t know? And was imprisoned with?

Although maybe that was part of it. He was stuck in here, too, evidently.

Unless he was lying.

The bathroom was tiled in cream marble from floor to ceiling and there was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub and a pedestal sink. It wasn’t until she flushed and went over to wash up that she realized there was no mirror.

She rinsed her face off and dried it with one of a stack of white towels. Then she cupped her hands under the rush of water and drank. Her stomach settled a little and she was willing to bet food would help even more, but she wasn’t ingesting a thing she was offered. She’d done that once with a cup of tea and look where the hell she’d ended up.

Back out in the bedroom, she stared at the darkened corner. “I want to see your face. Now.”

There was no additional risk in that. She already knew she was on the Leeds estate and she knew who he was—Miss Leeds’s son. She had enough on them so that if they were going to kill her to keep her from making identification, they had plenty to go on already.

“You will show me your face. Now.”

There was a long silence. Then she heard the chains and he stepped into the light.

Claire gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth. He was as beautiful as his voice, as beautiful as his scent, as beautiful as an angel . . . and he looked no older than thirty.

His six-foot-five frame was dressed in a red silk robe that fell to the floor and was tied with an embroidered sash. His hair was as black as night and pulled off his face, falling down in vast waves to . . . God, probably the small of his back. And his face . . . The perfection of it was stunning, with his square jaw, thick lips, and straight nose the pinnacle of male magnificence.

She couldn’t see his eyes, however. They were downcast, to the floor.

“My . . . God,” she whispered. “You are unreal.”

He shrank back into the shadows. “Please, eat. I will have to . . . come to you again. Soon.”

Claire imagined him biting her . . . sucking at her neck . . . swallowing what was in her veins. And had to remind herself that it was a violation. And she was a prisoner against her will being used by . . . a monster.

She glanced down. Part of the chain that moved with him was still in the light. The thing was as thick as her wrist and she guessed that it was locked onto his ankle.

He was definitely a prisoner, too. “Why are you chained down here?”

“I am a danger to others. Now, eat. I beg of you.”

“Who keeps you like this?”

There was only silence. Then, “The food. You must eat the food.”

“Sorry. Not going to touch the stuff.”

“It has not been tampered with.”

“That’s what I thought about your mother’s Earl Grey.”

The chains rattled as he came back out into the light.

Yes, they were locked on his ankle. The left one.

He walked across the room, staying as far away from her as possible and not looking at her. His stride was lithe and graceful as an animal’s, his shoulders rolling as his legs carried him over the stone floor. The power in him was . . . frightening. And erotic. And sad.

He was like a gorgeous beast in a zoo.

He sat down where she had lain and reached out to the silver tray of food. Lifting the lid off the plate, he set it aside on the table and she smelled a wonderful blend of rosemary and lemon. He unrolled a linen napkin, took out a heavy silver fork, and sampled the lamb, the rice, and the green beans. Then he wiped his mouth with the damask folds, cleaned the fork off, and put the lid back on.

He rested his hands on his knees, keeping his head down. His hair was gorgeous, so thick and shiny, spilling over his shoulders, the curling ends brushing against the velvet duvet and his thighs. Actually, the locks were of two colors, a wine red and a black so dense it was close to blue.

She’d never seen that color combination before. At least not as it naturally grew out of someone’s head. And she was damn sure his mother from hell wasn’t sending a beautician down here every month to give him a foil job.

“We will wait,” he said. “And you shall see the food is not tampered with.”

She stared at him. Even though he was huge, he was so still and contained and modest, she wasn’t scared of him. Of course, the logical part of her brain reminded her that she should be terrified. But then she thought of the way he’d subdued her without hurting her the first time she’d woken up. And the fact that he seemed frightened of her.

Except then she glanced at the chain and told herself to back up the brain train. That thing was on there for a reason.

“What is your name?” she asked.

His brows flicked down.

God, the light falling on his face turned it into something positively ethereal. And yet the thrusts of bone were all male, hard and uncompromising.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t have one,” he said.

“What do you mean you don’t have a name? What do people call you?”