“There will be no sweating in the ballroom.”
If I could jump out of my skin, I would. Darius has a bad habit of sneaking up on me. Most vampires are like that. Jasper had the sense to cough or clear his throat.
But Darius? He just drills me with his gaze.
And not the drilling that occurred before.
Heat boils my cheeks as I look elsewhere. Part of me is furious that I have to serve myself up on a silver platter to the vampire who cut off my sister's head but then there’s this secret shameful part of me that’s excited about the way Darius entertains my uncontrollable reactions to our feedings.
Because it is out of my control, right? I mean, with anyone else, it would be.
Maybe.
I don’t know if I can resist him.
“Do you need another feeding before we go?” I ask in a faint voice, folding my hands together in the layers of my skirt. It hides the shaking... for the time being.
As long as he doesn’t need me to touch up his coat, I can hide my hands.
I study his breeches, his waistcoat, his coat. All gold with gold trim, embroidered with green and red thread. Flowers bloom over his shoulder to match mine. The green thread has the same effect—though we’re not declaring any sort of union, so I kept it to a minimum.
Still, the pieces are there. I can easily bring them out if he ever requests it.
Not that I’d ever want to do that.
Anger fuses with the pride I feel for my work.Why would I ever want to match a murderer?
Darius circles me. His eyes draw deep lines into my body, leaving an earth-shattering impression on my spirit. It’s not so much his aura as it is thewayhe’s looking at me. Like a prized treasure.
Or meat ready to be thrown on the slicer.
He completes one circle and then begins another, starting a new string of lines, etching the shadowy layers under my hands. He takes my hands and spreads my arms, then he taps my chin to get me to stand straighter. Or that’s how I take it.
My mother used to do something like that. She’d pat my cheek in the way mothers do, that light and comforting touch that says I don’t have to hide.
I always hated making eye contact. And she never forced me to do it. But she did instill in me the importance of good posture. Something as minuscule as posture is hard to remember around a guy who breaks through all my barriers.
The taffeta rustles as Darius spins me. “Lovely.”
“Thanks.”
“We could use your style here, Amber. We’re a bit short on seamstresses at the moment.”
I have to swallow my reaction. “Is that why it’s so empty downstairs?”
He pauses near the mirror and adjusts his waistcoat. It didn’t need adjusting. I know he’s doing it just to do something. It’s getting easier to read him these days.
He coughs twice. I’m beginning to suspect that’s his signal for things that he’s not too keen on discussing. “What you’ve seen downstairs is hardly indicative of the entire manor.”
“Au contraire, Darius. The guts of the castle are what make it. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not particularly fond of guts. I prefer livers.”
I can feel every last ounce of blood drain from my face. While teetering on the verge of a panic attack, Darius does something I didn’t ever think he would be capable of doing.
He fuckinglaughs.
It’s odd at first like a dry bark coming from an old dog. But then it crests into a manic tumble, deep and resonant, echoing through my suite like a rhythmic bass beat. My chest feels like it’s going to cave in.