Page 29 of The Vampire Debt

My hand hovers over the doorknob with a slight tremble. He had bared his fangs, but it wasn’t until he dropped his eyes to my neck that I’d felt as though I were in danger. Before that, there was a different kind of hunger in his gaze.

I’m not his prisoner. I’m not his prisoner.He gave me free rein of most of his manor.

I pull open the door and step out into the hallway before my nerves get the better of me. All is quiet as I exit the room.

Though I was never forbidden to leave my room, a trickle of unease slithers down my spine, but I press on.

My feet take me to the library as if by instinct. The doors are carved with beautiful roses and vines, the contrast of the two beautiful and deadly. I have lived all my life with a single book to read over and over again, and just a few steps beyond where I stand, endless worlds await.

I glance over my shoulder, down the hall toward the staircase that leads to the third floor. The shadows beckon to me.

What dark secrets are hidden up there?I make my way to the foot of the stairs and pause with one foot on the first step.

I shouldn’t… itisthe only place he strictly forbade me to go.

One step after another, I climb the stairs until I reach the top. There are only three doors on this floor. I walk up to the first and hear a single voice murmuring. It must be Mr. Devereaux.

Who could he be talking to?

I had not realized anyone had come by so late.

For half a second I fear it must be another vampire. If that’s the case, I need to find a weapon now to defend myself against them both, or kill them with. The next room is closed and pressing my palm up against the door, it’s cold, as though it has not been opened, nor a fire lit within for days.

The third door at the end of the hall is cracked open. I make my way over to it. There’s something about it that seems like this is where I was meant to go all along. But that’s crazy.

Looking through the small opening, there’s a fire going, but no movement or sounds, save for the crackling of flames as they consume the logs of wood.

I squeeze my way through and close it most of the way.

It’s a large office, with two wing back, dark leather chairs, a mahogany desk, and shelves of books and artifacts along the walls. A large area rug covers the majority of the wooden floor.

There are a few things scattered throughout the shelves in a deliberate fashion; a marble bust of a woman, a porcelain vase, and a clock.

On the opposite side of the fireplace are more books, with one shelf devoted to a decanter filled with a dark amber liquid, with three crystal glasses encircling it.

Continuing to make my way around the room, I look out the window. Below is a large field, but up against the house is a massive conservatory made of frosted glass and iron framing crafted into beautiful geometric shapes.

I move on to the large desk. There’s an oil lamp, some stationary, and a gold tipped quill set next to an inkwell. And upon the center of the desk is a letter. Skirting the desk, I stand next to the chair and skim my fingers over the name on an envelope, following the loops and swirls. The lettering is practiced and elegant. It reads:Alaric.

Is that his name?I turn it over in my mind, picturing his face when we were in the carriage and he had fallen asleep. It suits him.

On the left side of the desk is a sheathed, stiletto dagger. Roses and thorny vines twist around the handle with the same motif that graces the library doors. Slowly, I reach for it. My fingertips skim the metal expecting it to be cold, but it’s almost warm to the touch. This is exactly what I need. I quickly stick it in the pocket of my dress, making sure it’s hidden.

I feel a rush of a breeze at my back causing the ends of my hair to flutter. A hand wraps around my upper arms and spins me around so fast I lose my balance. By the time my world rights itself, I’m pinned against the desk, Mr. Devereaux’s arms caging me in.

He leans forward, a lock of unruly hair falling across his forehead. His musky masculine scent fills the air between us. Heat pools in my lower abdomen. I squeeze my legs together, trying to stifle my reaction.

“What are you doing in here? I told you this floor was off limits.”

I can’t think with him this close.

“I-I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean any harm, I was just…”

“Disobeying me? Spying on me? Tell me, Clara, why, out of every room—every section of this manor—do you chose to go into the one place where I asked you not to?”

He leans closer. I can smell his soap on his skin. I lift my chin and tilt my face away, unable to continue to meet that piercing blue gaze.

It’s then I realize my mistake. He leans in further, lowering his mouth toward my neck. His warm breath brushes against my skin and sends a wave of heat through my veins that settles in my core. I squeeze my eyes closed and wait for the sharp pain of his fangs.