Page 28 of Sigma
It’s unfair. Cruel, even.
He’s my height, maybe a touch taller. His shoulders are broad, his arms thick with muscle—that’s the first thing I notice. Silly of me, I know, but a good set of shoulders and nice arms? Mmm. My mind is haywire, clearly.
But his face? Good god. Crafted by heavenly artisans, chiseled by the hands of angels from a block of the finest marble.
Each angle is perfect. His cheekbones, his jaw, his temples. His lips. His eyes. Lord, his eyes. Black as night, wide and deep. Radiating cunning and calculated intelligence. Not kind, oh no. But not evil, either. Something…else. Those wild dark eyes rake over me, sear and search, pierce.
His skin is golden, sun-kissed. His hair is glossy jet, swept back behind his ears to drape and curl around his shoulders. His jaw is stubbled, a shadow on the dusky sun-browned skin.
My god.
I can’t breathe.
He exudes confidence and power and arrogance. God, the arrogance just breathes off him in a palpable aura. But…it’s the arrogance of a man who knows exactly who he is. Not the hubris of an un-self-aware asshole who can’t back up that arrogance, oh no. He’s utterly aware of his powers, of his place in this world.
He needs nothing and no one. Answers to no one.
It’s almost a crushing pressure, his presence. Physical, palpable.
There’s violence in him. I’ve grown up around violent men, men who can and have used their hands to kill in a thousand different ways. Good men, kind and gentle and loving and affectionate with me and those whom they care for, but…violent men nonetheless.
This is one such man. Perhaps without the same leavening of kindness, however.
He withstands my scrutiny with easy patience.
He’s wearing black slacks over expensive leather boots, a maroon polo shirt French tucked behind a black leather belt with a simple silver buckle. One hand in his hip pocket, the other casually toying with a short, thin, black fixed-blade knife, wicked-looking with a S-shaped blade. He’s spinning it between his fingers with astonishing dexterity, without looking away from me. He vanishes the blade behind his back—a sheath at the small of his back, likely, but it’s a neat trick nonetheless.
He steps closer to me, an inch between us, no more. His presence bears on me like a weight, and I find myself impatiently waiting for him to speak. I swallow hard.
“You’re mine, now, Corinna Roth.”
“My name is Rin.” I’m proud of how steady and firm my voice is. “And I belong to no man.”
He smiles, a vulpine curl of his lips. “I admire your spirit, Rin.” The smile shifts, somehow. Becomes…threatening. Full of the weight of promise. “You’ll see.”
He breezes past me, and I can suddenly breathe again, now that he’s farther away. He heads for a door across the room, a heavy thing of dark oak and black metal straps and heavy black hardware. Pauses at it. “Unless you’d like to spend your stay with me here in the vestibule, follow me.”
I follow.
He doesn’t look back at me to make sure I’m following, or that I’m not going to attack him. I have no doubt he’d have that knife at my throat before I got within three feet of him, so I merely follow along. The door leads to a high-ceilinged hallway, the same heavy beams of dark, aged wood crisscrossing the ceiling here. The walls are neutral, pale. More wood dark with age underfoot. This place is not only expensive, it’sold; and not merely made tolookold, but is actually ancient. You can just…sense it. Feel it in the spirit of the walls and the floors and the wood.
There’s an opening on the left—a library, the ceiling soaring up to two or even three stories, with ladders and a fireplace and reading nooks. I stop, involuntarily, drawn to it.
“Wow,” I breathe. “That’s…amazing.”
He stops with me. Hands in his pockets, turns to the library, and his gaze is admiring. “It’s really something, isn’t it? Took me forever to accumulate all those books, and it cost a fortune to boot. Most of them are classics, rare editions, first editions, the like.” His eyes find mine. “Do you read, Corinna?”
“Rin,” I correct automatically. “And yes. Most definitely. We’ve never had a TV at home.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Well, we have a theater and a service that lets us privately screen movies when they come out. I have a tablet, and I could stream on it if I want. But…no, mostly, we read or do other stuff. Our library at home is incredible, but this puts even that to shame.”
“Good to know,” he says. Then he turns away and strides forward, his pace smooth and unhurried. “Come.”
I follow him reluctantly, jittery with anticipation, not knowing what he wants from me or what’s going to happen to me. The halls wind and meander, branch off here and there with doors sporadically spaced here and there—each doorway features a Gothic arch, and the ceilings are all vaulted and ribbed with the same aged beams.
Despite the heat I’d felt when we arrived wherever we are, the air in this castle—or so I’m assuming it is—is cool and comfortable.