Page 11

Ten

HARLOW

The shower is purely otherworldly, a gift from the Goddess herself. At least, I’m pretending it is rather than a forced chore from the asshole vampire on the other side of the bathroom door.

A shower because I stink .

Yeah, well, no shit. Live in a cell and you would too.

I could very happily stay in here forever, but I’m getting the sense he’ll stick to his word and will come for me. So, too soon for my liking, I leave the hot water and dry off with a towel hanging on the nearby rack before heading for the garment bag on the back of the door.

I debated checking it out before my shower, curious to see what kind of horrendous outfit’s been chosen for me. No doubt something extremely revealing so all his “customers”—vampiric assholes, to use another nickname—will be able to see parts of me I’d rather they didn’t. All of me. Too much of me for what’s comfortable.

Comfortable. That’s a ridiculous notion in general, because none of this is comfortable. Rather, it’s the exact opposite. Like knives beneath my fingernails uncomfortable.

Hecate, help me get through this, I pray, crossing the space to the garment bag. At this point, who knows if She’s able to still hear me. I unzip the bag, expecting…not this.

My grip on my towel slips, and it falls to the floor, leaving me naked and gaping at the dress.

It’s floor-length, modest. Oddly modest. I reach up and pull it from the hanger, fingering the chiffon material and bodice decorated with the tiniest beads. It’s extremely extravagant, much more than anything I’ve ever worn, and not very modern. Which makes sense, given my captor is a vampire, but it also has me wondering whom he stole this from.

The time is ticking away, so I step into the dress, slipping my arms through the off-shoulder sleeves and pulling up the small zipper on the side.

How it fits so perfectly is a damn mystery. Unless he had this made for me… Nah, that’s too ridiculous to even consider.

Glancing towards the mirror, I’m taken aback by the reflection, but don’t remain for long, instead heading for the door, preparing for yet another round with the vampire.

He looks up as I return, and if I didn’t know better, I’d believe his eyes flashed red before returning to their flat black. He gazes at me for what feels like forever, his expression unreadable, chin on his hand. I fist the sides of the dress, ready for the torture to begin so I can return to my cell and plot escape plan number two.

“Who’d you kill for the dress?”

If I wasn’t paying so much attention, I would have missed his flinch. That’s interesting.

“Does it matter?” He lifts his head from his hand, his rumble oddly gentle for his words.

I shrug, because at the moment, other people’s lives aren’t my focus. “Guess not. Also, why this one? It’s modest.” The heart-shaped neckline doesn’t dip too low, the skirt tickling my feet.

“They’re buying your blood, not your body.”

Thank fuck for that confirmation. Still, my questions keep pouring out of me, like a fountain I just can’t put a cover on. “Yeah, but everything I’ve been taught about vampires claims you guys are extremely sexual. Like, when you eat. Wouldn’t you want to appeal to that side of the others for a sale?” Heat warms my cheeks. I rambled and didn’t mean to admit that or place the idea in his head.

Between Mom, Dad, and Gram’s old books, I’ve read up on our enemies: vampires, as well as the shifters. Vampires are notorious for linking sex and feeding together.

Suddenly, he’s right in front of me, looming in that way he seems to enjoy. He backs me into the wall with a smile too malicious, all fang. In the safety of my stupid thoughts, I admit he’s sexy like this. One arm lifts, bracketing my right side, and although I’m still free to run, his influence certainly doesn’t make it possible.

“Tell me…what exactly do you know about my kind?”

Gulping, I tear my gaze away from his enticing eyes, staring at the patch of skin where his collar meets his neck. “That you like to have sex while feeding.”

He makes a humming noise, his smile growing even more devilish. “That we do. For vampires, so much of our lives are felt in numbness, passing us by. So we seek delight in indulgences and risks. Blood satisfies our food requirements, and fucking satisfies us . Maslow’s hierarchy of needs—I assume your human education taught you that? For vampires, both are high on our hierarchy, so combined…” He flicks a tongue against his fang, but I feel it as though he were between my legs, flicking something else. “Combined, there’s nothing greater. Nothing more fulfilling.” He pauses, his head tipping to the side. “Has a vampire ever bitten you?”

I shake my head, unsure if words are able to be formed. It’s messed up I’m having any reaction to this vampire whose name I don’t know and who’s kidnapped me.

“Probably for the best.” He pushes away, dropping his arm and granting me the much-needed space to breathe. “As for your question, the vampires who pay will not be drinking straight from you, so there is no need to show off your body more than what is necessary. The purpose of all this is because not every vampire believes there are any Sinclairs still alive, and we must prove you are.”

At least that’s something.

He moves towards the door, gesturing for me to follow. “We have to get you situated before my guests arrive.”

“No shoes?” My feet are bare, and the castle’s stone hallways won’t provide much comfort. My flip-flops are in the bathroom, and I skipped putting them on, assuming he’d have something to match the dress. My mistake, obviously.

“No.”

Biting down on my retort because it won’t change his mind, I follow him out of the bedroom, leaving it after a longing look and wondering how I might be able to work it into a deal. The bed, the room’s temperature, and the bathroom are all infinitely better than the dankness of the cell downstairs.

He leads me through the hallways and to the staircase we came up earlier. The more of this place I take in, the more I realize this is an actual castle—stone walls, tapestries, random statues and knight costumes.

Makes me wonder again exactly how old this guy is, or whom he stole the castle from.

Downstairs, he walks me down the hallway away from the front doors. Another look, this time for any cameras positioned towards them or staff lingering that’d stop me, but the area appears empty.

“If this place is as old as it looks, how did you get modern plumbing?”

“I’ve updated it.”

He takes another turn before stopping abruptly at an arched doorway. I come up beside him, taking in the room with a low, appreciative gasp. As large as two theatres with high, painted ceilings, I’m awed by the beauty of the mural depicting a sky within a lightning storm. In the centre of the ceiling, a very intricate glass chandelier hangs, almost obnoxious with its size. Teardrop glass hangs rather low, like it could be reachable if attempted. The ceiling-high windows across the room are draped in dark curtains that cover any indication of the outdoors and where we are. On the opposite wall, a series of paintings hang, ones the size of my entire apartment. They depict various landscapes: mountains, vineyards, fields, and oceans. The room is vast and wide open, a huge ballroom, empty except a dais at the opposite end with a throne erected on it.

An actual throne. I cast a look towards the vampire. Again, who is this guy?

The vampire crooks a finger, and reluctantly, I cross the room behind him. My feet make slapping sounds on the ground, the chill from the hallways having numbed my feet to the point this floor feels warmer.

We reach the dais, and the throne looks so much larger up close. It has a dark cushion, lined with a black filigree, the back arching high in a series of twisty vines. It’s pretty.

The vampire steps up beside it and reaches for something behind the seat, dragging forward a set of cuffs attached to a chain, the other end connected to the throne. He comes towards me, his intent obvious.

“No.”

“This isn’t a debate. Give me your wrists, or I’ll get them myself. I won’t be gentle, so make the correct choice.”

Gritting my teeth, I lift up my arms for him to clasp the metal around. He opens the cuffs and lowers them beneath my wrists, but stops suddenly, his gaze intent on the white scars.

He snatches my right arm, lifting it for closer inspection. “I noticed them in your room. Where did these come from?”

“Not sure.” I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. I assumed they were some witchy birthmark or something, but Mom and Dad denied that, and said they didn’t fully know either. That they appeared one day. Not the first unusual thing to happen to a witch and won’t be the last.

“Lying won’t help your case, Sinclair.” His finger drags over the largest one on my underside. His pad is smooth, and nearly as distracting as his touch. “Did you do this to yourself?”

“No.” I yank against his impossible hold. “I’m serious. I’ve always had them.”

He looks up, black storms clashing with my face. “The bit I recall from my human life, people aren’t born with scars like these. Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know! I don’t care, and neither should you.”

My words seem to register because, after a long pause, he drops my arms. “You’re right, I don’t care.” He clasps the cuffs around my wrists before gesturing to the dais. “Sit.”

I do, my body feeling as though it’s no longer present. Careful not to trip over the dress as I walk up the platform, I situate myself on the top step, only a foot or so from the base of the throne. The vampire steps by me, but I’m no longer paying him attention.

Too busy studying the cuffs on my arms.

And the way the scars match up almost perfectly to the edge of the metal.