Колин Глисон - The Vampire Narcise

Somehow, the rumble of his voice, the low dip of the syllables, was so intimate that a little pang twisted inside her. There was compassion there, compassion and admiration…and anger.

He made no move to stop her when she tugged free of his grip, noticing for the first time that they were in a dim corridor. A door behind her was ajar, and beyond she could see into the chamber they’d just vacated.

Heart in her throat, she peered into the hazy, golden room, her fingers on the edge of the door. Even through the filtering smoke, she could see the chair in which Cezar sat, its back facing her, his head barely rising above it. He couldn’t see her from that position, thank Fates, and Narcise noticed the other two figures settled in front of him.

He did indeed seem to be well-occupied.

Her pounding heart slowed a bit, but before she stepped back into the chamber, those strong fingers were back, gently curling around her wrist.

“Do you see?” Cale said, drawing her back toward him, away from the door. “He has no notice of you.”

“But—” she began, and then she stopped, her breath catching.

He’d moved sharply, jerking his arm, and all at once the scent of fresh blood permeated the air. “ Merde ,” he muttered. “What have I done?”

What have you done indeed. Narcise felt almost dizzy from the rich aroma as it seemed to embrace her, sliding into her consciousness. “Monsieur,” she managed, her fangs suddenly filling her mouth, thrusting sharp and hard as her veins pulsed with the rush of need. She was under no illusion that his sudden wound had been an accident.

“You would do me a great service,” murmured Cale, eyeing her steadily. “If you would attend to this.” He lifted his arm.

He’d hardly needed to move, for despite her resistance, Narcise’s attention had already slipped down to his bare wrist. His cutaway coat was gone, his shirtsleeve pulled away to expose a golden forearm, muscular and smooth but for the ooze of dark red blood.

“Please, mademoiselle,” he said, and she felt the wall crushing the full bustle at the back of her gown. “You need to feed, and here I am in need of assistance.”

Narcise should have been angry at him for such a trick, but she didn’t even bear that strength of mind at the moment. The blood…his blood, his scent…that of the man whose presence had set her off-kilter, who hadn’t made a single reference to her beauty or to wanting her…who’d been willing to intervene in a sword fight…. his blood tempted her, and in her weakened state, she had no real chance to deny it.

As if knowing she were light of head and uneasy, Cale slid an arm around her waist, positioning it between the hollow of her back and the wall behind. She had the sensations of heat and solidness enveloping her, the alluring scent of his presence, the warm cotton of his shirt.

She licked first…just a delicate slide of her tongue over the pool of blood collecting in the hollows of his wrist. He gave a little start, the tiniest of jolts, and she felt his arm tense beneath her mouth. Heavy and rich, his lifeblood settled over her tongue and lips and a great surge of desire rushed through her.

But somehow she held her instinct in check and swirled her tongue over and around the small wound, inhaling his scent, tasting his life. Pure, hot, lush…strong. He was powerful. She could no longer wait, and sunk her fangs into the surging veins on the inside of his wrist.

Now he flowed into her mouth with the delicate rhythm of his heartbeat, the veins filling and surging against her mouth. She drank, breathed, her knees buckling so that she sagged against the wall and into his arms. Lust and need swelled her body, in her veins and beneath her skin, pulsing and dampening her far beneath layers of clothing.

The wall was solid behind her, and Cale to the side, his arm still curved around her waist. She was faintly aware of his body trembling against hers, of the rough movement of his chest. As she held him with both hands, bending his hand back to open palm and wrist, their fingers curled together. She was aware of the heavy ring on his finger, biting into her smaller digits as he gripped tightly.

Narcise drank, sucking gently, her swallows quiet and rhythmic as the ambrosia filled her mouth, funneling through her body. She found herself caressing his warm, smooth skin with her lips as she pinned him with her fangs, using tongue and lips to sip up every bit.

There was a moment when she’d regained some of her strength and she glanced up to see Cale’s eyes fastened on her. Blazing red, they glowed like a banked fire beneath heavy lids. His lips had parted, his fangs thrust long and tempting. His expression shot a sharp pang into her belly, and down. Hard and strong, exploding into heat and dampness.

Narcise looked back down, away from that gaze burning into hers, steeling herself for him to pull away and tear his fangs into her throat. But instead of revulsion, she felt another rush of desire at the thought. Her belly trembled, her breasts and tight nipples thrusting against their silk chemise, her lungs constricted.

She pulled her fangs free, reality and fear sweeping into her glazed mind. Cezar . She swallowed, tasting the last bit of his essence, and felt him release her. Narcise bumped lightly against the wall, suddenly standing on her own balance, and looked up at him. His eyes still glowed in an orange-red ring around the hazel iris, his lips still parted, showing the tips of fangs. Cale’s chest moved as if he’d been running, and for a moment, that fear…that thrill…that he might reach for her and crush her against the wall rose to clog her thoughts.

But he didn’t. “ Merci ,” he said in that delicious, low voice that said much more than the simple syllables. “But perhaps you might finish?” He’d slipped back into French again.

Narcise knew what he meant, and for a moment she was terrified to risk tasting him again. But at the very least, it was courtesy. And at the most, it was one more moment of pleasure before she must return to a world of fear and desperation.

With delicate fingers this time, she lifted his arm and, casting him one quick glance, she kissed the wound. She used her tongue to slip away the last vestiges of blood, knowing that her saliva would cause the blood to stop flowing and the wound to heal quickly. And then Narcise released him and stepped back, waiting for him to lunge at her. And wondered how soon it would be before Cezar came out to find them.

“Perhaps,” Cale said, still in French, still in that low voice, “if David had been witness to such a display, his painting might have had more authenticity. A bit more…heat.”

Narcise could do nothing but nod dumbly. Her head was clearer than it had been for a while, but her body still hummed with desire.

And when Cale turned to pull on the coat he’d slung over a nearby table, she managed to say, “Cezar will know.” A knot formed quickly in her belly as the reality set in. He would know and he would exact a punishment from her.

Cale looked at her, his eyes no longer burning, but now inscrutable. “But of course he will know. In fact, perhaps he likely even planned this. But I will ensure you’ll have no repercussions, mademoiselle. You may trust me.”

Trust me.

The last time she’d believed those words from a man, they’d come from Cezar. More than a hundred years ago, on the night she was visited by Lucifer. Narcise choked back a bitter laugh. And look what trusting a man had given her: an infinite life of captivity.

Cale offered her his unwounded arm, and she slipped her fingers around it. Lifting her chin high, she allowed him to return her to the chamber, ready to face what would come.