By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories) (11 page)

His eyes had turned expressionless again as he held her gaze and answered:

“Enter!”

She heard the door but did not dare turn. No matter what danger came from behind, the largest danger remained firmly in front of her. With every approaching step she heard, her throat tightened more, the speed of her breaths increased. She did not want to show fear, but it was impossible to suppress the rising terror. In those deep blue eyes holding her capture a new emotion rose, something close to worry, close to confusion, definitely concern. None of these emotions were even remotely reassuring. She could feel the tightness of her chest foreshadowing the rising hyperventilation she could not control, when a voice sounded close behind her.
 

“Milord, everything is arranged to your satisfaction.”

Her nerves were so tense, so frayed, her body jerked at the tenor of the voice, instinctively, her body cringed away from the pale hand setting a plate piled high with cheese and grapes on the table. At her reaction, a man stepped from behind her to the side, into her field of vision, and she realised it was one of the twins. Only one. One man - she could survive only one. Her breath calmed, the involuntary shakes of her body abating almost from one moment to the next. Kathryn felt their eyes on her, felt their answering tension, their vigilance. Not even the smallest twitch, the smallest change in her body, escaped their notice. Only with the minute relaxation of her fear, did the men relax their intense concentration.
 

“Thank you, Brandon.”

“My pleasure, Milord.” He bowed to his liege and then, to her surprise, to her: “Milady.”
 

She did not hear him leave, but the sound of the latch was loud and somewhat final as it fell close this time.
 

“I am still thirsty.”

His demand brought her back to the task at hand, sharpened her concentration, her mind on him anew. She reached for the glass anew and took a sip into her mouth. As she leant close, she was frightened her nerves would betray her, that she would again spill the wine too soon - but before she had the chance, he closed the last distance between them and opened his lips beneath hers. When she let the wine from her mouth run into his, she felt him swallow, felt his tongue lap at her lips, never forcing its way into her mouth. When she moved away he did not hold her back, though his tongue licked over his lips as if to savour the last drop of wine he could.
 

“Take another sip.”

She did and held it in her mouth whilst setting the glass down again.
 

When she turned to him, he grinned almost boyishly and said: “Now swallow.”
 

The smooth and heavy wine slid down her throat, pooling comfortably warm in her belly, just underneath his hypnotically stroking fingers. She was not used to alcohol. It was not a good habit to acquire when you were constantly on the run - as Paul was a good example of. Even with only these two sips in her she thought she felt warm languidness rising in her joints.
 

“Choose something.”
 

It was an unmistakable order. He indicated the plate with a movement of his chin. She wanted so bad to take some cheese. Cheese was expensive and therefore a rarity in her world, a rarity which, if found, was normally saved for the children. But she was afraid, she would not be able to keep it down so she reached for one of the grapes, but it was taken from her before she could raise it to her mouth. He held it between his long fingers, waited for her attention to return to him, before offering the grape to her lips.

Holding his gaze, her lips tried to take the fruit from his hand, the cold, sweetness a counterpoint to the warmth of the fingers so close. She tried to take the fruit from him without touching those fingers, without tasting the skin so strangely alluring. His fingers refused to let go, forcing her to bite the ripe grape in two. The juice spurted down his hand, the smell an somehow weaving seamlessly into the basic nature of his presence in the room. She was so mesmerised by the path the juice took along his skin, she swallowed her half of the grape without due attention to the delicacy.
 

He waited patiently, not even with the bat of an eyelash did he betray any reaction, simply offered the other half of the grape to her lips. This time she savoured the taste of the fruit. When she had swallowed the piece, he held his fingers to her mouth and ordered:

“Clean it.”
 

Her tongue caught the sticky juice trail across his palm from wrist to fingers. His skin had a salty taste, almost smoky and, to her surprise, showed signs of callouses. He was not satisfied with her ministrations.
 

“All of it.”

His hand was warm and heavy in hers as she took it to allow her better access. The skin between his fingers was so much softer, his taste so much stronger. It exploded in her mouth, mixed with the sweetness of the fruit. It was so easy to get lost in this simple task, to forget what would come. It was so easy to simply do what she was told, even though she expected some form of punishment each time she moved. She had long since learnt not to expect reason for punishments and cruelties.

But he simply sat back in his chair, watching her with those enigmatic eyes, the long limbs below hers spread in studied relaxation. When his hand had lost the last traces of stickiness, his eyes were blue slits and it was
his
breath coming in pants. She had no idea what she should do, what reaction might provoke him, so she simply froze. Gently, he extricated his hands from between hers and returned them to her waist.
 

His next question confused and shook her completely: “What will happen in an hour?”

Her eyes flickered to the clock on the mantlepiece and she realised with shock that he was right; it was only just over an hour until midnight, until her own personal biological clock threw her into hell. She sucked in a breath.

“What will happen in an hour?”
 

He repeated the question, clearly reminding her that she had not yet answered it. The problem was she was not entirely sure how to respond, how to comply with his request. Did he want her to tell him how to bind an ErGer? She thought that it was common knowledge among vampires and, to be honest, she did not know how the bond worked from their side. The sex and blood seemed to be clear, but she did not know the mental component. She could tell him what she did to try to keep it from happening but was not sure how much that would help, as she had promised not to resist. And in all this there was the question if she wanted to answer.

She still tried to explain, to give him as much information as she could. She had given her word and that was pretty much the only honour she had left in her life: “When you take my …”

His finger came to rest on her lips, halting any further words. A wry smile stretched his lips. She noted that he was able to smile without letting even a glimpse of his fangs peek through.

“I do not need instruction on what to do, I am well informed there. What will happen to you?”

That was a harder question to answer, and for a moment, she almost hated him for asking it. Could he not leave her one piece of dignity? A bitter laugh escaped her lips. Dignity? She had not had any since she had turned fourteen and been recognised as an ErGer.
 

“My memory is a bit spotty in places but apparently I fuck everything in sight.”
 

Her answer was deliberately crude, her voice dripping with all the hate and disgust she felt for herself and those forcing her into this existence. He did not flinch, did not react in any way, save for a rise of his eyebrow as he stared evenly back into her blazing eyes. She could barely stand it, the even gaze, the lack of any blame or disgust in his expression. It undermined her bitterness, her repugnance, her perception. She started to squirm in his hands in order to escape her own thoughts.

“What happens?”
 

Kathryn could not meet his eyes anymore, her equilibrium severely threatened by his matter-of-factness. Her front teeth started to worry her lower lip and her hands started to tense, dig into the soft velvet of the arms of the chair. He did not let her escape, captured her chin and turned her face to meet his eyes. His thumb ran over her lower lip, gently teasing it free from the abuse her teeth inflicted on it. He held her there, ensuring she knew, in her bones, he would demand her compliance.

“What happens?”
 

Low, slow words. His voice still held no anger, not even demand - simply a calm confidence in her ultimate submission to his will, in her ultimate answer to the question. She would not escape, but as she spoke she could not look at him, had to avoid those eyes. So she let hers flicker over the room, coming to rest again and again on the clock:
10.49
.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“What do you know?” He was relentless in his pursuit of information, she would learn this to be an essential feature of the man.

“I have only been caught once on February 14
th
after that first time, I …” She was lost for words, her mind too full and too blank at the same time to answer. Her breath rose, its panicky edge audible in the silent room.
 

His voice broke through the mounting terror: “What happens when you are alone?”
 

She could answer this. Holding onto that thought, the necessity to string words together, helped.
 

“I go find an abandoned building, preferably with a deep cellar, lock myself in and hope to hell that no one finds me before the day is over.”
 

She met his eyes with a challenging look of her own and that is how she saw his eyes flicker down to her wrists. Suddenly she felt deflated again, felt obliged to clarify: “No, not from those times, not from any of the cellars.”

He nodded, not pressing any further. She was almost grateful for the small amount of privacy he granted her with his lack of pursuit, for the small amount of self-respect he allowed her.
 

“What happened last February in Tirana?”

Her eyes became empty as she let her mind wander back, and she heard her words almost without having made the conscious thought to tell them:

“We had been in Albania only two weeks, freshly arrived from Rome, when Paul handed me over to the Lord of Albania for one million
leke
. It sounds so much, but it was barely over 6000 pounds.”

She sighed, lost in her own thoughts.

“ It was February 1
st
, thirteen days before St Valentine’s, thirteen days in which he thought he could prepare me for a bond, break my mind. By the 14
th
I was weak and ill and yet, at midnight, the Need rose. Apparently I screamed from arousal whilst he kept everyone away from me. Only then did he gave me to his court. He believed by the time they were done with me, their seed would have sensitised me enough to his for a bond to be inevitable. I do not know how long they had me. I don’t even know when he took over. I just know I suddenly could feel him in my mind, could feel him rape even that. But he was not particularly strong, and his concentration slipped. I don’t know what I did, exactly - it was as if, in that moment, he showed me where his mind linked to his body, and where I would have to cut. So I did. I cut that link with my mind and felt him scream and whither in my mind and body.”

Kathryn looked at him, waiting for him to judge her too dangerous, to see she was best contained now, killed now, before she could pose a threat to him personally. She waited with hope, but the blow never came.
 

Instead the questions continued: “How did you get away?”

“The weaker of his court were dead because they had not emancipated from him and even the older ones were disoriented for a moment. I just left, just walked out, found Paul and the children and left town.”

He nodded thoughtfully.
 

“Take another grape.”

He said the words as if they had not just talked about her killing a Vampire Lord in cold blood. Her eyes were drawn to the plate, but could not convince herself to reach for any of it. When he did, she tried to speak: “No.”

A frown marred the beauty of his face and she tried to qualify before it appeared as if she wanted to disobey his order: “I don’t think I can.”
 

The beginnings of censure on his face smoothed and he nodded, pity in his eyes. His hand returned to her waist now beginning a gentle massage of the tense muscles lining her spine. Slowly, her back relaxed bit by minute bit.

“Have you ever made love?”
 

She looked at him, exasperated. Had he actually asked that question? How often she had been found and caught, how often she had been raped. The foregone conversation indicated that he knew this. Had she ever had sex? Obviously.
 

Before she could answer, though, he tried to clarify - tried to rephrase his question:

“I do not mean how often you have been raped - I want to know if you ever have given yourself to a man without force?”

She winced, uncomfortable with the distinction, with the personal information she was requested to provide. There was no way out though, no way to escape the answer, locked in by her own promise.
 

“Tell me about it.”

There was not much to tell. Her eyes flickered to the clock again:
10:53
. Now she had noticed the clock was there, it was impossible not to fix on the slowly moving minute hand. It was too much to hope he would not notice her preoccupation, but it still surprised her when he sighed, frowned at her. She froze, too aware of the dangers his anger could pose for her. His sigh was heartfelt.

“Get up.” His hands pushed her backwards, did not give her a choice in moving, forcing her to her feet. Kathryn stood still before him, tense and resigned. There was only an hour left, but truly she suspected her time had just run out. She expected him to rise, to move the evening to its inevitable crescendo - but instead he relaxed back into his chair with a studied nonchalance.