Alexander cups my cheek and smiles indulgently. ‘Just for a couple of months, my love. To give Charlie some space. I’d hate for anything to happen to you.’
Anger bubbles up in me. ‘Humph, you didn’t seem too worried when you dumped me on Jack the Ripper’s doorstep!’
Alexander strokes my cheek soothingly with his thumb. ‘Shush now, my darling. I had complete confidence in you, and you handled the situation beautifully.’
‘Yes. Well, Jack won’t be bothering anyone else from now on!’ I growl, and Alexander’s lips quirk.
‘That’s my girl. But Charlie is more dangerous than a common street killer. I thought he would be mature enough to handle our relationship. It seems he isn’t.’
‘Can’t you just keep sedating him?’
Alexander purses his lips, as if considering it. ‘That’s a possibility, but it’s not a long-term solution. I’d much rather get you away from him completely, let him feel the consequences of his jealousy.’
I shrug, not really caring about Charlie and his emotional problems. He’s brought it on himself. Besides, I’m excited by the thought of a trip to Paris with Alexander. ‘Yes, allright. If you think that’s best, Master.’
‘I do, indeed ...’ He leans forward and kisses me deeply. I close my eyes, returning it, relishing his attention.And I want you all to myself, he says huskily in my mind. His icy hands reach into the cooling water to cup my breasts, and I shiver in pleasure.
Let us go to bed, my queen. I wish to make love with you and share blood before the sun comes up, in celebration of your first conquest.
I nod eagerly, and Alexander takes my hand. Under his adoring gaze, I emerge like Venus from the bath, rosy-tinted water sluicing off me. I feel like the most powerful woman on earth. I feel like a god.
Chapter 24
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
Tilting the bottle of Jack Daniel’s to my lips, I slug it straight back and slump against the pillow. Adding more alcohol on top of the two whiskies I had at the bar isn’t smart. But after the night I’ve had, drunken oblivion is preferable. I just want to slip underneath the duvet and get some respite from my thoughts. But how I’m supposed to deal with the woman I like being a vampire, I’m not sure. I groan out loud and take another large gulp.
Outside, the wind is howling and rain is lashing down, which only adds to my misery. Even the weather agrees. It’s the perfect night for an all-night binge drinking session.
I must doze off for a minute or two (or fall unconscious) as I’m woken by the smell of alcohol and a burning sensation on my chest.
Shit.I quickly right the dribbling whisky bottle, which has created a large wet patch on my T-shirt. Capping it and placing the bottle on the floor beside the bed, I drag a weary hand across my face and pluck at my T-shirt. But I can’t bebothered getting a fresh one. Nothing’s changed.
It’s still raining.
I’m still alone.
And Florence is still a vampire.
I close my eyes, feeling slightly nauseous from all the whisky I’ve drunk. But despite that, the moment she admitted it to me is imprinted on my mind. We sat there, looking at each other after she came back from the bar and handed me a whisky. I took a steadying breath. My brain was telling me not to ask. But I had to know.
‘So w-what you’re trying to tell me is t-that you’re av-vampire?’ I stuttered, my mouth as dry as a bone.
‘Shh.’ She glanced quickly over her shoulder. ‘Keep your voice down. This is privileged information. But yes, I am.’
All I could manage was a choked gurgling sound in reply. Then—and this is the bit that I’m not particularly proud of—I acted like a frigging cold robot, thanking her politely for whisky and chucking it back in one. The worst thing was that she didn’t seem surprised at all. Just sat there, looking at me sadly as I grabbed my coat and legged it out of there.
Determined to erase her beautiful face from my mind forever, I reach over the side of the bed for the bottle. But before my fingers touch it, I become aware of a steady tapping on the window.
Whatisthat? Hail? A loose aerial?
Stumbling from the bed, I swipe back the curtains and freeze in terror. It’s her. Florence. Hovering outside my window. Dressed all in black, dark hair whipping like snakes around her pale face. She taps on the pane and indicates that I should let her in. I whip the curtains shut, stumble back to the bed, and collapse on it.
Holy fuck, how drunk am I? Now I’m hallucinating about her!
The tapping begins again.
After five minutes, by which time I’ve convinced myself I’m having an alcoholic-induced nightmare, I lever myself up off the bed and shuffle over to the window. I peek through the curtains, and my gut trembles. She’s still there. My eyes slip to the pavement below. Oh my god, I’m in a top-floor apartment and four storeys up. Yet she’slevitating...
