I’m not a cat batting at string. I’m a vampire, one of truly high standing.
My brows set together with determination.I don’t have time for games.
As soon as I reach the third floor, I cut right and follow a similar path to my suite. Amber is right below my feet. I sense her movement as any vampire would sense their own kind. It’s simply how we’re wired.
Hypervigilance is how common psychologists put it. We’re sensitive creatures, plugged into the world around us whether we like it or not. That occasionally puts me in the position of reading someone’s thoughts. Being bonded helps too.
Such impressionable energy humans harbor. With my charm and my centuries of knowledge, I can lure just about anybody into my good graces. Though I often don’t need to do such a thing being that I’m a gentleman.
I pause in my bedroom. An ancient bed hung with black-out silk curtains, dark satin bedding, cream carpet, antique furniture spottily placed around the massive space—it’s our typical style.
Though I suppose I’ve added my personal touches over the years to make this space more...me.
A sword taken by force from a Templar hangs above my bed. Commissioned paintings of street scenes from each city I’ve ever lived in hang in every available wall space. Tasteful portraits of various nude bodies decorate the spaces between the windows. I’m sure museums have better organization, but I can’t help myself. I don’t like empty space.
The bed lures me in. A mixture of apathy and desire resonates in me. What for? It’s not like I didn’t just feed to my heart’s content. Even with Amber, my usual stopping points are blown apart, thwarted by the taste of her blood.
She’s an Alard. A bolt of realization zaps me.Her sister did the same thing to my brother.
That’s ridiculous. It’s not possible for vampires to fall for their bloodbags.
Yet that’s exactly what happened to Quinn.
Just because my brother fell under the hand of an Alard doesn’t mean I have to follow in his footsteps. We’re two opposing forces, Amber and I. We don’t belong together as anything more than what we are now.
Tell that to my wandering hands, I think as I methodically strip away my soiled clothing.Tell that to my greedy cock.
At the mere thought of it, my dick livens up, thickening beneath my briefs. I wander to the closet, pluck a striped suit from the bunch, and take my time applying each piece with reverence. My day begins as such with a prompt feeding and then a change—though the hours are usually reversed. What I wore to Amber’s chambers was merely for comfort, not so much style and presentation.
Still, the stain that lingers on the thigh of my slacks beckons me. I’m bent over the bed with my nose shoved into the fabric before I can even protest.
My spine stiffens as soon as I stand up.
I cough twice.
Women like Amber are beautiful, sure, but they’re not influential. Just because she humped me a little bit doesn’t mean I’m going to drop my guard. I’ll protect her. I’ll make sure she has what she needs—and I suppose granting her an orgasm every so often counts as a need.
Far be it from me to deny my bloodbags the pleasures they so deserve.
With a curt nod at my reflection, I wander into the living area, studying the portraits of every ancestor I’ve met. A few spots remain empty. There are Rodins in existence unfit to step into our home—yet I set up homage to them just the same. For what are we without our ancestral influences?
Even if they are insane.
Not me. I’m the son of Maggard Rodin. I’m an excellent swordsman and archer, a man of renown and worldly experience. I haven’t lost my mind. I’llneverlose my mind.
Vampires like me don’t lose control. We dish it out. Unlike my brother, I’m able to discern my feelings between lust and hunger. The two aren’t the same. And I certainly won’t fall under the spell that Amber attempts to drape over my shoulders like a handmade cape. I still can’t discern her true motives.
We’re night and day; Amber and me.
Though Iaminterested in Amber’s sewing skills. I want to see what she creates for me.
I pad to the rotary phone, dial Maude’s office located on the first floor, and order enough fabric to give Amber another orgasm.
If I’m lucky, I get to witness it too.
The library stands stories higher than the third floor. It’s a gorgeous addition, a remarkable architectural feat that resembles the Library of Alexandria. What secret knowledge was lost there will forever burn in the ether, unknown to us.
But not to me.