The Vampire Narcise (Regency Draculia #3)(15)
Author: Colleen Gleason

Cale’s arms tightened around her a fraction, and she felt the vibration in his chest as he spoke, "But the woman is correct…she was already spent. Therefore, I will deny my right to take her life-as she offered-and instead accept the customary spoils. If you agree, Cezar." He spoke lightly, but there was an edge to his voice that indicated he would accept no argument.

"Oh, indeed," Moldavi replied immediately. Narcise, who could interpret her brother’s slightest inflection, heard the hint of displeasure there, but she wasn’t certain whether it was because he’d wanted her dead, or because she’d lost.

Despite the fact that he forced her into such combative situations, Moldavi had a warped sense of pride about her; thus a flaw or loss in her performance was a reflection on him.

"Very well then," Cale said, and he released Narcise so that she was able to stand on her own. "Drop your weapon, cher. I have the only stake we’ll need." He flashed a quick smile toward the dais, and the other spectators rumbled with soft chuckles.

The servant moved as if to untie them, but Cale stopped him with a raised hand. "No need for that. I will attend to it shortly." He looked at Narcise again. "Drop the stake," he repeated, a bit of steel in his voice. "I don’t wish to have to fend you off."

Narcise realized that her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand. Her stomach felt as if it were going to erupt at any moment, and she was certain her pulse was pounding so hard he could hear it. She could scarcely force herself to uncurl her fingers to allow the stake to drop, but at last it fell to the stone floor with a clatter.

Cale glanced at her, a little frown between his brows, but she would not meet his eyes. Narcise drew in her breath and straightened her shoulders to stand proudly as he drew her toward the chamber door.

Why was she so terrified? She had outgrown the terror and paralyzing fear long ago. She’d learned to submit, to exist…to get through the demands of her own body’s bloodlust, the reflexive response to fresh blood and penetration. There was nothing she hadn’t lived through before. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn’t already been done.

But she knew what the problem was. Not only had Cale betrayed her fantasy of him, but there was still that lingering need. The desire for his blood and the memory of his taste and touch still hummed deep inside her.

Narcise was aware of herself being directed out of the room and down the brief corridor to The Chamber, but she felt as if she were outside of her own body, watching this event.

Cale said nothing to her, nor to Cezar’s servant, who led the way to the room of hell. It wasn’t until they reached the heavy wooden door that her captor turned and offered their tied wrists to the servant. He obliged, using a dagger to cut through the handkerchief, and Narcise was free just as the door opened before them.

With a rebelling stomach and weak knees, she forced herself to walk into The Chamber.

She heard the sound of the door closing behind her, and of the metal bolt being shoved into place with its familiar, ominous snick.

Gathering all of her courage, Narcise turned to face Cale and said, "How do you want me? Shall I fight you and make it rough, or shall I lie there and let it be easy?"

Chapter 4

Giordan stilled at her words, at the revolting offer.

Narcise stood no more than ten paces away from him, straight as a rail, her ivory face paler than usual and without its normal luminescence. The dark, scraped-back hair gave her an even starker appearance, verging on gaunt. Her fencing attire, those close-fitting tunic and breeches, had damp spots from perspiration and one red blossom on the shoulder from where someone had nicked her.

Her blue-violet gaze was cold and dark, without a hint of Draculean glow.

"Is that how you normally do it? Give an option?" he asked, legitimately curious and at the same time, repulsed by the very thought.

"Not at first," she said conversationally, though there was the faintest tremor in her voice. "I fought them all at first. It took me some time to realize that it was less painful, and often over sooner, if I lay there like a dead fish."

His gut tightened as his attention was drawn automatically to the large bed off to one side. The images flashing into his mind were unpleasant and dark; yet he couldn’t deny that the vision of her lying on the bed, naked and spread out, was compelling. More than compelling. Desire flooded him, compounded by the fact that the very room smelled of her-of that heavy, rich ylang-ylang and vetiver-and of coitus and blood.

His veins began to swell as his fangs threatened to show themselves. He forced himself to look away from the bed…which wasn’t an altogether prudent thing, for his gaze then lit upon a variety of other accessories in The Chamber.

Chains with manacles hanging from a plastered and painted, rather than stone, wall-which gave it an absurd appearance of civility. A rack of whips. A small metal box. Carved ivory phalluses, of varied sizes. Even small knives: too dainty to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders, but certainly dangerous enough to cut decorative nicks into one’s flesh.

Giordan’s belly churned, knowing that each of those items had been used many times over. And those were only the items he saw at a glance. Narcise, Narcise…how can you be less than mad after this?

"So which shall it be?" she pressed, her voice a little more tense now. She was as rigidly controlled as he struggled to be. "Surely it cannot be that difficult a decision."

"Where is the peephole?" he asked. For now, he must ignore her question. The very thought was enough to weaken his already stretched control.

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes skittered to the wall across from the manacles and chains. Cezar hadn’t attempted to even hide the small holes through which he must observe. They were hardly larger than the arrow slits in a medieval castle, but there were several of them, at varying heights, in the plastered wall. Not obvious enough to distract one from one’s pleasure, but certainly there.

Without preamble, Giordan walked across a thick rug to the wall and spoke into the dark slots. "I don’t wish to be spied on, Moldavi." He could scent the stew of male need and lust through the holes, and knew that at least several of them from the previous room were there, prepared for even more entertainment. And, indeed, as he looked into the dark spots, Giordan saw the faint glow of several pairs of orange and red eyes, burning, blinking and then turning away.

He suspected that his host might be annoyed, perhaps even furious, at his statement, but Giordan was confident that the man wanted badly enough to buy into the spice ship he was sending to China, and that he would acquiesce gracefully.