Page 56

Story: Master of Pain

I grunt and nip at his chin as I let go of his jaw.

“I gotta go,” I mumble.

“But…” He clings to me.

I pull my hands from him reluctantly. “I want you to go up to my room, third door on the left, purple ‘D’ on the doorknob, and you’re gonna lie down, okay?”

Ethan blinks at me. “What?”

“You heard me. Go up there and lie down in my bed. I don’t want anyone but me takin’ you home. It’s late; you can stay here tonight.”

He looks toward the sliding glass door anxiously, but nods.

I kiss him on the lips one more time before I leave him standing outside, flustered and hard.

11

ETHAN

After Dante disappears inside, I make my way in as well. I ignore the chatter that’s begun to flood into the large parlor room now that the ritual is over.

The ritual.

As I head upstairs to the very room I was told to, I think about those two women kneeling on the bench.

One Dante’s cousin, and the other her fiancée. I can hardly remember the words that were spoken by Dante’s father and repeated by them because I’d been so focused on the blood aspect of it all.

It seems so uncomfortable to me—the idea of watching someone I’m related to cut themselves and lick the blood off their partner, or perhaps themselves if they’re doing it alone. Quite frankly, it gives me the ick, yet at the same time…I can’t deny that some part of it was arousing.

Both physically and mentally.

I still feel shaken, maybe even more so after Dante’s kiss. So when I open the door to his bedroom, my plan is to immediately get in his bed.

However, as I close the large mahogany door behind me, flip on the light, and take in the dark atmosphere of the room, I can’t help but wander around. His bed is a four-poster with a deep blue duvet and matching pillows. In a corner of his room is a desk with several cubbies and golden handles on the drawers. Next to it is a small bookcase. I’m insanely curious what books are in there, so I crouch down and run my fingers along the spines.

Historical mysteries make up a good portion of the books, with a few I don’t quite recognize, but they appear to be from a similar time period of the late 1800s to the mid-1900s.

“I’ve never even seen him read,” I mumble to myself.

I stand back up.

The bedroom smells like Dante—warm, musky, and a little bit like tobacco. It’s clean, though. Everything is tucked neatly away, the bed is made, and no clothing sticks out of the closed closet door. Most likely a maid keeps it this way, as I can’t imagine Dante cleaning his room.

There are a few things out of place on the nightstand, I notice as I step closer to the bed, like a small pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. I brush my finger along the bridge. I’ve never seen him in these.

I blush as I think about him in glasses, reading in bed…and wearing nothing else.

I swallow hard and bring my attention back to what I’m in here for—lying down.

I pull the covers aside to reveal cream-colored silk sheets. All of it looks immensely more comfortable than my own bed, so I take my shoes off and slowly unbutton my jeans. Nervously, I look toward the door.

I’m a stranger in this house, and though I’m surrounded by Dante’s belongings and scent, it still feels odd to be here.

I debate not taking my pants off, but I can’t possibly sleep in my jeans.

I unzip my jeans, the sound seeming much louder than it actually is, and then crawl into bed.

“Damn,” I whisper with a sigh. The bed is so soft. I instantly sink down into it in relaxation, like all the weight of the last few days is just fading away.