“You wish to marry someone else?”
She shook her head. “No. But I will not marry a man twice my age. A man I do not love.”
He grunted softly. Once, long ago, he had been forced into a marriage he did not want. It had not ended well.
They walked in silence for several minutes. Bryony glanced at the man beside her. What an enigma he was. She knew nothing about him, could not fathom why he wouldn’t let her go. He said he meant her no harm but how was she supposed to believe that? Even now she could feel the latent power that clung to him. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced—foreign, frightening.
She flinched as lightning crackled across the sky, followed by a prolonged rumble of thunder that was so close, so loud, it shook the ground beneath her feet. A moment later, the clouds unleashed their burden. Sheets of rain pummeled the earth, flattening the grass around them. It took her a moment to realize that no rain fell where they were walking. How was that possible? She looked up at Stefan, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised.
Meeting her gaze, he asked, “Are you also afraid of storms?”
“No, but don’t you think it’s strange that we aren’t getting wet?”
He shrugged. “There are a lot of strange things in the world.”
And he was the strangest of them all, she mused. And then frowned. Was he controlling the weather around them? The idea sent a shiver down her spine even as she told herself such a thing wasn’t humanly possible.
“You are cold,” he said. “Let us return to the house.”
The rain continued to fall yet they remained untouched.
Stefan opened the front door for her. The house had been dark when they left. Now, the candles were lit. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth.
Bryony shivered again, unnerved by the strange events of the night. Who was this man who refused to let her go? Thewordwarlockflitted through the back of her mind. She tried to dismiss it, but it explained so much. Could it be true?
Feeling his gaze on her, she glanced over her shoulder, her whole body trembling as he walked slowly toward her. Caught in the web of his gaze, she could only stand there, her heart beating a wild tattoo as his hands folded over her shoulders. And then he was lowering his head, his lips brushing hers lightly. She felt herself yearning toward him, her eyelids fluttering down as he covered her mouth with his, his tongue demanding entrance. Heat spiraled through her as he deepened the kiss until there was nothing in all the world but Stefan, his mouth possessing hers. She leaned into him, wanting to feel the hard length of his body against hers.
She moaned, a soft, needy sound when he lifted his head.
Stefan swore under his breath. His body was on fire for her. His gaze lingered on the sweet curve of her neck, the pulse beating wildly in the hollow of her throat, the musky scent of desire on her skin. The voice in his head urged him to take her, to ravish her body, to taste the sweet elixir of her life’s blood, to drink until all his hungers had been satisfied.
Hands knotted into fists, he backed away from her and bolted from the house. She was supposed to be his prisoner, he thought ruefully. But he feared their roles were now reversed, for Bryony had captured him, heart and soul.
He prowled the dark streets of the city for hours, but he couldn’t escape her. Her scent clung to his clothing, his hands. The taste of her lingered in his memory, her lips warm and soft, and after a moment, sweetly yielding. She didn’t trust him. She was afraid of him. But she relished his kisses, the touch of his hand in her hair. She was young, so young.Innocent. Untouched. All the reasons why he should send her away. All the reasons why he would not.
He had been alone for so long, denying himself the companionship of others, especially women. He was unworthy of love, of trust. He despised what he was and yet he fought to survive. He fed on the blood of others. He killed to preserve his own existence, even though he was an aberration and not fit to live among decent people.
As a young fledgling, he had gloried in his new preternatural powers. He was a vampire. A law unto himself. Invincible. Indestructible. He had loved the thrill of the hunt, the terror in his prey’s eyes, the knowledge that he held the power of life and death in his hands. And the blood—there was nothing else like it. Warm and sweet, how he had craved it. He had taken it with no regard for his prey, no guilt for the bodies he left in his wake.
Monster!
He had changed since those days so many centuries ago. It had happened overnight. He would never forget the woman who had made him see himself for what he had become. He had held her in his arms, her life’s blood hot on his tongue, as she grew weak, weaker. Suddenly curious to know her thoughts, he had let his mind brush hers. He felt her terror, her fear of death and the unknown, her sorrow at leaving three young children motherless and alone because a red-eyed demon was slowly stealing her life. Guilt had exploded within him.
Monster!
He had lifted his head, but it was too late. She had breathed her last in his arms, proving yet again that he was, indeed, a monster.
Chapter Four
Stefan did not appear the following night, nor the next four nights. Bryony told herself she was relieved by his absence. She had asked Leanora if she could bring her some small canvases and paints and the girl had agreed. It made all the difference in how Bryony passed the lonely hours after Leonora had gone home. Though she could not leave the house, Bryony sat at the window in her bedchamber and painted the things she saw—Daisy, standing hipshot in the corral, the distant mountains shrouded in clouds, a rooster scratching in the dirt near the barn, a single red flower growing in solitary splendor in a patch of weeds.
One afternoon, she painted Leanora, though portraits had never been her strong suit. Leonora had been so pleased with the result, she had begged Bryony to let her have it, saying the portrait would be the perfect gift for her mother’s birthday.
The evening of the fifth day, Bryony sat on the couch in the main room. She was in the middle of sketching the sailing ship depicted in the painting over the mantel when Stefan’s image suddenly sprang to mind. She immediately ran up the stairs to her room and found a new canvas.
Sitting by the window, she began the initial sketch, her excitement growing as the image in her mind took shape on the canvas. When the sketch was done, she sat back, pleased with what she had accomplished. He stood in profile on awindswept hill, gazing into the distance. She would paint him clad in black, of course. The cloak billowing from his shoulders would also be black, maybe lined in crimson or a deep, dark blue. A breeze ruffled his long, dark hair.
Not wanting anyone to see her work before it was finished, she hid the canvas under the bed.
