By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories) (10 page)

He let her have the time she needed, let her find herself, let her rearrange the jumble of panic into a more rational whole without interfering or trying to justify. Only held her in the safety of his arms. She was grateful, more even, she was impressed by his ability to give her that time without pushing her one way or the other. It helped. Her hand rose to his cradling her face, covering it with her own, not to remove it but in a quiet gesture of gratitude. When she pressed a quick kiss on the palm of his hand his smile returned.
 

“Better?”

He would know her emotions had calmed just as she felt him relaxing his vigilance with every slowing breath she took. Still, she nodded. The gesture more an assurance to herself than him. There was nothing she could do, her path had led to this place from the moment she had entered his court. Before fear could rise again he distracted her:

“Jennifer, can you listen to me for a moment?”

If not his words then the solemnity of his gaze would have made her aware of the import of his next words. When he spoke his voice held utter conviction, as if he wanted to imprint the words on her very soul, and possibly he did.

“You, Jennifer Ashton, are safe with me, always in my care, always under my protection. I will not harm you, nor will I let anyone else harm or threaten you. Do you understand that?”

And she did. This man had grown up to a time when those of his station routinely held the lives of those under their care in their hands and he saw nothing peculiar in this. More, the obligation was one he cherished and felt belonged to him alone. She was under his care to be protected and as linked as she was to his mind, she felt the absolute depth of that conviction in him. Her modern mind might not be able to relate to it, but this man was certain in his belief: his life, his very being, was a shield against the harm that might come to those under his care. Knowing this, she could accept his power — she might fight him on every second decision he would make to keep her safe but she could live with the situation they had both been forced into. Her smile surprised him, she saw and felt it.

“Yes, Milord, I understand.”

Before he could say anything more her mouth found his, plundered and demanded the passion he was only too willing to give. For a long time there was only touch and taste, the sounds of shared intimacies, though in deference to the aches and pains the last night had left her with, their pleasure was more sweet than carnal. Eventually, however, she felt his restlessness. Their time away was coming to an end, he had a court to run, duties to fulfil. When he levelled himself up on one elbow, looking down on her with a smile, she could not help the pang of regret.
 

“And now?”
 

Her question too quiet and still so full of bittersweet wistfulness. His warm fingers strokes along her brow, over her temples and tangled in her long hair.

“Now, sweetheart, now we learn to live.”
 

And when he bent to her lips his kiss held a promise.
 

About the Author

If you have come this far then you have at least like my friends enough to follow their stories to the end. My characters are exactly that, friends. I see them in the corner of my eyes when I go out to the market, they run alongside when I am in the gym. They have always been there — and I love to share them now. In a way, each of my characters also belong to one of my friends. As children I started telling them stories and never quite stopped.
 

Stories are my life, in a way. I am an academic and most of my life is concerned with finding the little pieces, the clues, that make up the big story, the story we all live but are too intimate with to see it as such. I study the way we live, the way we interact, the way we are and the way we want to be. Surprisingly, that leaves me more naive and ideological than you might think. And as I am not allowed to let my imagination come out in my work, I give it space here.
 

Aside from a love for learning, my haphazard parents have left me with speaking seven languages, a love for embroidery and a fascination with debates. Don’t ask. My husband has added a fascination with pointed objects. I met him at my first fencing lesson (yes, the one with the swords) where he told me it was physical chess. I have never been able to sit still long enough for a game of chess — so it is fortunate for our relationship that the physical version includes a lot more movement. It is fortunate for me that he is laid back to the extreme and therefore able to put up with my constant shenanigans. And even more fortunate for my stories that he knows how to cook.
 

When I don’t fall in love with my characters I write a blog on erotica and feminism —
 
come talk to me:

www.christineblackthorn.eu

Or email me at:
[email protected]

Read on for an excerpt from

 
A Variety of Chains

Coming soon

A Variety of Chains

She pulled her green cotton T-shirt, still wet and clinging unpleasantly to her cold skin, over her head without hesitation, only pausing for a second when she realised there was nowhere to put it. She was not used to being careless with her clothes, as money was precious and her almost 6 foot 2 inches made it hard to replace clothing. But then she tossed her shirt on the floor; she might not need it again after tonight.
 

Over the last ten years, each and every Lord and Lordling having captured her over the last ten years had informed her gleefully that they would keep her chained and naked - not because her body pleased them, but because it would mean they, and their people, would have instant and constant access to what it could provide through blood and sensation. She unsnapped her jeans and piled them on top of the shirt. Her bra and panties followed.
 

Her scarf was last, if one ignored the wristbands she had no intention to remove. Her hands hesitated over the cheap fabric she habitually kept closely knotted around her neck. The scars marring the skin of her neck were hideous and graphic, but had strangely excited the last Vampire Lord Paul had had sold her to. With trepidation pulled on the tight knot, let the cloth drop from her throat to the pile of clothes on the floor.
 

This Lord, though, did not react at all, at least not visibly, as she stood there naked, but for the two broad wristbands, her eyes fixed on the pattern of the dark red carpet at her feet. She wondered fleetingly if it was red to hide the blood spilled, then pushed that thought into the cold too.
 

“There is wine on the chest. Bring it here.” His voice was still as calm and expressionless as it had been when he greeted her.
 

She had no idea why she said what she did say in answer and in the moment she did speak, she wanted to take it back: “I am not your servant!”

The silence of the room wrapped around her like a vice. She could not look at him; instead her eyes were drawn to the
 
glass on the chest and the dark, red liquid of the wine - liquid almost as dark as blood.

“There are three little girls in the room your brother is entering just now.”

He did not have to say more. The words cut through her, and sh e closed her eyes in pain.
 

“How?”

“I have known for three months”
 

They had arrived in town only three months ago, and for the whole time, she had been relieved and happy that they seemed to go undiscovered for such a long time.

“Why?” Why had he allowed her to have that hope? To be free for another three months when the outcome had been so clear?

“There had not been any need before tonight.”
 

No need to bring her in before the only night each year in which a bond could be effected. She was defeated.

She had started to move towards the wine, even before he continued to speak:

“The longer you obey me, absolutely, the longer they will be safe.”

No contest.

The glass was large and her hands not too steady when she brought it over to him. He took it wordlessly and placed it on the table, the light of the fire behind it playing through the liquid, turning it into a goblet of mystery. Her eyes were caught by it, caught and held, as she stood naked in front of his chair and felt his eyes playing over her too thin, too scarred body.
 

When she finally looked at him she was surprised not to see his gaze fixed on the marks other men, other vampires, had left on her - or even on her breasts, which were the only part of her body where the constant hunger seemed to leave little sign. No, his eyes were on her face, and met hers with an expression she could not identify. She could not blame him; a man like him, she supposed, rarely found himself faced with the necessity to bed such an unappealing woman. She expected him to speak, or drink from the wine she had brought him. Instead he reached for her hands and pulled her closer, close enough for her feet to touch his and then, nudging her legs apart, pulled her even closer. When her legs touched the velvet upholstery of the chair, he transferred his hands to her knees.
 

“Kneel.”
 

Her mind was not fast enough to translate the order into action, so he applied light pressure to her legs and guided them up on the chair. She found herself straddling him on the chair, his hands around her waist, settling her to sit on his lap. She noticed that his large hands easily spanned her thin waist so that his thumbs met over her belly. Not sure where to rest her own hands she let them come to lay on the armrests of the chair.
 

The black wristbands stood out in stark contrast on her pale skin. He let go of her waist and lifted her right hand for closer inspection, then he found the simple closure that held the band and pulled it off. However much she tried to control her reaction, her whole body still jerked.
 
He had revealed her ultimate humiliation. These were not the scars left by countless teeth tearing into her, like those found on her neck. Her throat she could hide from the world with a playful scarf and, most importantly, those were marks of her resistance, her fight. The marks shielded by her wristbands were the scarred gouges the chains had left on them as she fought, as she ripped her skin and flesh to the bone in a desperate attempt to escape. They were marks of shame, of a fight lost against herself. He said no words, not as he removed the other band, nor as he settled her hands back on the armrests and his own around her waist.
 

Only then did he speak: “Pick up the wine and take a sip.”

“I don’t drink.” She had been surprised by his words, surprised enough to once again be startled into speaking without thinking.
 

His eyes remained expressionless, as was his voice when he spoke again: “It was not a request.”
 

One night of absolute obedience for the safety of the girls.
 

She reached for the glass and took a small sip. As she tried to put it back down, his hands tightened on her waist and her attention was brought back to him mid-movement.

“I am thirsty, too.”

She offered him the glass, but he shook his head and remarked: “My hands are full.”

To illustrate this fact he began to paint little half circles over her belly with his thumbs. She tried to offer the glass to his lips but he shook his head again.

“Not like this.” Now there was a hint of amusement in his eyes and a twitch to his lips. Instead, she tried to offer her wrist, but that simply made him raise an eyebrow.
 

“How then?” She herself heard the desperation in her voice and tried to suppress it, tried to make the cold rise further.

“Take a sip and hold it in your mouth.”
 

She was still not entirely sure where this was leading but was starting to have an idea. She tried to lean forward to feed him the wine but his hands still kept her from him.

“Set down the glass first, then let me drink from your mouth.”
 

Carefully she put down the glass before leaning forward. In her haste and nerves she parted her lips before touching his and spilled most of the wine down her chin and his neck. She froze in terror, aware of the strength in the hands around her waist and the sharp teeth entirely too close to her. His lips parted and his tongue snaked out to lazily lap at the liquid dripping down her lips and chin. Only as he had cleaned her thoroughly did he allow her to move back enough to meet his still expressionless gaze. Her eyes fell to his mouth and the spilled wine painting his neck and shirt red. She could still see small droplets caught in the less-even skin of his cheeks.

“Clean it!”
 

There was not even a hint of a question in her mind, he meant her to use her own mouth for the task. The first flick of her tongue was tentative at best, barely a touch, but when he simply moved his head to allow her more access she became bolder. The taste of his skin, mixed with the taste of red wine, filled her mouth - unidentifiable, subtle and strange. As her tongue reached his neck, his arousal grew impossibly large underneath her. She shied back - feeling stupid immediately. It was inevitable where this evening would lead. For an ErGer to bond, the mind needed to be broken open as only sex did - and her own body would force it soon enough. In her experience, he had shown more patience than any other. Every Lord ever acquiring her, either because her brother had sold her to them or because they had tracked her down out of their own accord, had taken her blood and body within minutes of their acquaintance. What was the point otherwise? A bond with an ErGer doubled power levels for them as well as giving the Lord and his dependents a more elusive advantage, a feeling of home, of safety and well-being rarely found in a predatory society. All, they needed to do was break her mind with blood or sex.
 

He had not moved at all as she shied back, still presenting his neck for her tongue, and holding her waist between his stroking fingers, but his eyes were not expressionless anymore - they were hot and burning. Yes, indubitably, she was being stupid. She knew exactly what this would lead to, but if she could push the time it would happen in a little farther away…. Kathryn bent to return to her duty. She had reached his collarbone, had had to nose the soiled shirt out of her way when a knock sounded on the door. She gasped and his hands softly guided her back upright. She could feel her own eyes huge in her face and her breath coming fast, but she could not help it; she knew this was it - this was the moment when his people would come to hold her down, to await the time when they could take their turns with her body after he was done with her. If she was lucky, she would not outlive the night - but she was never that lucky and they were never that careless.