Page 66 of Vampire so Virtuous

This was not natural.

A roar tore from his throat as he seized the bars, wrenching them apart. Iron bent and twisted under his unholy strength, his cries raw with fury, despair—vengeance. The door beyond offered even less resistance. He ripped it from its hinges, unaware and uncaring if it had ever been locked.

The stairs loomed before him. It had been so long since he had descended, since he had locked himself away under her spell. But now, with this newfound strength, he would never again succumb to her witchery.

He climbed with grim purpose, intent on finding her, forcing answers from her.

Why had she imprisoned him? Why him? And, more than anything, what had she done to him?

The house was expansive, but silent. Oil lanterns flickered along the corridors, their glow unnecessary. He saw everything. He searched from room to room.

A servant stepped into the hall, and Antoine was upon him before the luckless man could react. It was instinctive to twist the man’s head to the side and sink his teeth into his vulnerable neck. The thick, heady taste of the man’s blood suffused his senses, and horror did nothing to stop him drinking. Mouthful after mouthful of delicious, nourishing, invigorating blood slid down his throat. He was lost in it, drowning in the sensation. Only when he was sated did Antoine release him, stepping back.

He stared first at the lifeless, crumpled body at his feet, then at his hands.

A cry of horror escaped him as he wiped the blood from his mouth, staining the sleeve of his already-filthy, once-white shirt. Then, in a frenzy, he tore through the house, ripping open doors, searching for her. The hallway blurred past as he moved faster than he ever could have before.

She was waiting for him.

Seated at the edge of her bed, dressed in a negligee that revealed more than it concealed—beautiful, expectant, serene.

“Qu’avez-vous fait de moi?” he screamed at her.What had she done to him?

Her smile was playful, as if his rage amused her, impotent and inconsequential.

He lunged, fingers reaching, certain his unnatural speed and strength made him unstoppable.

But in a blink, she was gone.

A sharp kick struck the back of his knee, his leg collapsing beneath him. Her hand crushed his shoulder, forcing him to the ground as pain shot through him. Her foot pressed against his throat, pinning him effortlessly.

Antoine stared up at her, defeated, despairing. “Tuez-moi alors,” he spat bitterly. He didn’t want to live anyway.

“Non.”

“Pourquoi?” Why? Why had she done this?

“Parce que ça m’amuse.”

*

Boston, Massachusetts, Present day.

“Because it amuses me.”

Antoine stood before the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection. The dinner jacket fit perfectly, the shirt tailored with care. He adjusted one cuff beneath its sleeve, scowling.

Dressing like this was a constant reminder of his origins—of the fripperies and finery vampires draped themselves in, convinced it proved their superiority. Belle had filled his wardrobes with expensive clothing, yet he would often turn up in simple trousers and a shirt. She used to laugh at him, then rip the clothing from his body with her claws, leaving deep furrows in his skin.

When he eventually relented and dressed as she demanded, the result was always the same. She would mock him, claiming he didn’t deserve fine clothes if he preferred to dress like a peasant. It had taken him years to understand the truth—she simply enjoyed tormenting him.

And she preferred him naked.

Marcel reappeared, interrupting his thoughts. “Given the venue, sir, could I persuade you toward the Lamborghini tonight?”

Antoine looked at him fondly. It wasn’t Marcel’s fault that he was inadvertently reminding him of Belle—at least of her love for ostentatious luxury. “Very well.”

Marcel held out the keys as if they were something sacred.