Chas glanced over at her and she met his black gaze coolly. She’d learned long ago not to show weakness or truth in her face or eyes. It could be used against her. And it had.
Oh, it had.
Chas’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners as the ends of his mouth tipped slightly, and she knew he was measuring her response to meeting two of his sisters. Narcise tucked down the little unfurling of warmth in her belly. She felt safe with him. Safe and comfortable.
But he didn’t need to know that.
Nevertheless, she didn’t want to be here, but Chas had given her little choice. It was either come to London with him, or be foisted off on Giordan.
And that was not going to happen. The very thought of being in the same city, let alone the same room, as Giordan Cale made her ill. Knowing Chas had met up with him at the inn in Reither’s Closewell, where she and Chas had been staying, had been disturbing, to say the least. She’d remained upstairs in their chamber, out of sight.
Although, knowing Giordan, he’d probably scented her.
On Chas.
“You must be Narcise Moldavi. The vampire.”
The words came from Angelica, who’d been looking closely at her. Maia hissed something at her sister, and then both of them focused their attention on Narcise. Neither appeared pleased, although while Angelica looked angry, Maia seemed merely surprised.
Annoyed at having her disguise expunged, Narcise directed her own gaze onto the little chit who’d spoken in such distasteful tones, allowing the flare of heat to blaze there for a moment.
You have no idea who you’re dealing with, little mortal girl.
“I am.” She drew off her hat and flung it onto Dimitri’s desk. Her head and face immediately felt cooler as her hair sagged in its low knot.
“Are you here so we can welcome you to the family?” Angelica responded just as coolly.
Narcise ignored Chas’s slight movement, as if he were about to interfere. “I can handle this,” she said with a quick glare. “I’m here, in fact, endangering my person only because of you,” she told the girl.
Narcise moved deliberately, away from the fireplace and over to help herself to a glass of Corvindale’s whiskey. “Your brother learned Voss had abducted you and he insisted on coming to London, despite the danger to me.”
“You know very well you didn’t have to come to London with him,” came a smooth voice from the doorway. “Don’t blame your own cowardice on the girl, Narcise.”
The glass slipped in her hand, but she held on to it. Just barely. Turning, she faced Giordan Cale for the first time in a decade.
Their eyes met for a moment and she felt the twin spears of loathing: hers for him, and the same emotion shining in his own burning gaze. He was baiting her, referring to her imprudent choice to accompany Chas to London rather than stay with Giordan at Reither’s Closewell.
Narcise didn’t bother to respond other than to add a warning flash of fangs to a brief sneer. Sipping her whiskey—trying not to gulp what she suddenly, desperately needed—she walked over to stand next to Chas.
But Giordan was no longer paying attention to her. He’d turned, presenting her mostly with his back as Dimitri grudgingly introduced him to the Woodmore girls. Narcise sipped from her glass again, focusing on the heat burning down to her belly and through her limbs and not the back of his head, or the way his coffee-colored coat stretched perfectly over broad shoulders. Giordan paid his tailor well.
He looked the same as he had the last time they’d seen each other, although then his face had been bitter and hard, and worn from nights of depravity and hedonism. Tonight, his handsomefeatures were relaxed and his eyes bland, except for that brief flash of emotion when she first saw him. Giordan still wore his hair unfashionably short, in close, rich brown curls that left his Slavic forehead and temples exposed. She caught a glimpse of his hand, ungloved, curled into a fist against his thigh, and realized he wasn’t as unmoved as he appeared.
But whether it was anger or hate that tensed his fingers, she didn’t know.
And she didn’t care. She was hardly aware of the conversation going on around her until Dimitri made a joke that wasn’t really a joke about Giordan taking over the responsibility of the Woodmore girls and their guardianship. It was quite clear to everyone in the room he was deadly serious about it.
Giordan responded with easy humor, accepting a glass of whiskey that his friend had moved to pour for him. “I wouldn’t dream of depriving you, Dimitri.”
“But why can’t we go with you, Chas?” asked Maia.
Narcise looked at her, noting the firm yet desperate note in her voice. Someone was either very attached to her brother, or exceedingly unhappy at Blackmont Hall. Pleased to have something to distract her from the presence of the man she loathed most in the world—or second most; that other honor belonged to Cezar—Narcise watched the elder Woodmore sister.
Upon closer observation, Narcise had to adjust her first impression of the young woman. Despite Maia’s self-assurance and need to be in control, there was an underlying sort of heat exuding from her that made her softer and more sensual than at first glance. Perhaps something only another woman would notice.
Narcise amended her thought—perhaps only another woman who was very experienced in the ways of intimacy would notice the sense of unfulfilled sensuality smoldering beneath capable hands and brisk movements. It lingered in the eyes, Narcisedecided. In the green-brown and gold eyes, in that full pout of an upper lip, and most of all, in the female, musky scent her Draculian nose recognized.
This was a woman who was not experienced with men, but who was on the cusp of being so…who’d come to the edge and who hadn’t gone over. Who was waiting.
