Why was she so terrified? She had outgrown the terror and paralyzing fear long ago. She’d learned to submit, to exist…to get through the demands of her own body’s bloodlust, the reflexive response to fresh blood and penetration. There was nothing she hadn’t lived through before. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn’t already been done.
But she knew what the problem was. Not only had Cale betrayed her fantasy of him, but there was still that lingeringneed. The desire for his blood and the memory of his taste and touch still hummed deep inside her.
Narcise was aware of herself being directed out of the room and down the brief corridor to The Chamber; but she felt as if she were outside of her own body, watching this event.
Cale said nothing to her, nor to Cezar’s servant, who led the way to the room of Hell. It wasn’t until they reached the heavy wooden door that her captor turned and offered their tied wrists to the servant. He obliged, using a dagger to cut through the handkerchief, and Narcise was free just as the door opened before them.
With a rebelling stomach and weak knees, she forced herself to walk into the chamber.
She heard the sound of the door closing behind her, and of the metal bolt being shoved into place with its familiar, ominoussnick.
Gathering all of her courage, Narcise turned to face Cale and said, “How do you want me? Shall I fight you and make it rough, or shall I lie there and let it be easy?”
4
Giordan stilled at her words, at the revolting offer.
Narcise stood no more than ten paces away from him, straight as a rail, her ivory face paler than usual and without its normal luminescence. The dark, scraped-back hair gave her an even starker appearance, verging on gaunt. Her fencing attire, those close-fitting tunic and breeches, had damp spots from perspiration and one red blossom on the shoulder from where someone had nicked her.
Her blue-violet gaze was cold and dark, without a hint of Draculean glow.
“Is that how you normally do it? Give an option?” he asked, legitimately curious and at the same time, repulsed by the very thought.
“Not at first,” she said conversationally, though there was the faintest tremor in her voice. “I fought them all at first. It took me some time to realize that it was less painful, and often over sooner, if I lay there like a dead fish.”
His gut tightened as his attention was drawn automatically to the large bed off to one side. The images flashing into his mind were unpleasant and dark; yet he couldn’t deny that the vision of her lying on the bed, naked and spread out, was compelling. More than compelling. Desire flooded him, compounded by the fact that the very room smelled of her—of that heavy, rich ylang-ylang and vetiver—and of coitus and blood.
His veins began to swell as his fangs threatened to show themselves. He forced himself to look away from the bed…which wasn’t an altogether prudent thing, for his gaze then lit upon a variety of other accessories in the chamber.
Chains with manacles hanging from a plastered and painted, rather than stone, wall—which gave it an absurd appearance of civility. A rack of whips. A small metal box. Carved ivory phalluses, of varied sizes. Even small knives: too dainty to slice one’s head from one’s shoulders, but certainly dangerous enough to cut decorative nicks into one’s flesh.
Giordan’s belly churned, knowing that each of those items had been used many times over. And those were only the items he saw at a glance.Narcise, Narcise…how can you be less than mad after this?
“So which shall it be?” she pressed, her voice a little more tense now. She was as rigidly controlled as he struggled to be. “Surely it cannot be that difficult a decision.”
“Where is the peephole?” he asked. For now, he must ignore her question. The very thought was enough to weaken his already stretched control.
She looked at him blankly for a moment, then her eyes skittered to the wall across from the manacles and chains. Cezar hadn’t attempted to even hide the small holes through which he must observe. They were hardly larger than the arrow slits in a medieval castle, but there were several of them, at varying heights, in the plastered wall. Not obvious enough to distract one from one’s pleasure, but certainly there.
Without preamble, Giordan walked across a thick rug to the wall and spoke into the dark slots. “I don’t wish to be spied on, Moldavi.” He could scent the stew of male need and lust through the holes, and knew that at least several of them from the previous room were there, prepared for even more entertainment. And, indeed, as he looked into the dark spots, Giordan saw the faint glow of several pairs of orange and red eyes, burning, blinking, and then turning away.
He suspected that his host might be annoyed, perhaps even furious, at his statement—but Giordan was confident that the man wanted badly enough to buy into the spice ship he was sending to China, and that he would acquiesce gracefully.
His need for fresh opium was a strong incentive.
But of course, too, Cezar Moldavi needed always to be in control, and a conflict that he couldn’t win—such as this with Giordan—would make him appear to be out of control.
So, once the male scents had faded and he knew they were all gone, he turned back to Narcise. She was watching him warily, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t moved.
“What is it to be, Cale?” she asked a third time. “You only have until dawn.” The edges of her full lips were white with tension.
“Neither. I’m not going to touch you,” he said.
A strained silence settled over the room.
“Are you mad?” she whispered. Her hand had moved, and he could see its faint tremble as she rested it against her throat. A bit of color rushed into her face.
“Just a bit.” Giordan pulled his attention away and said, “Is there anything to drink in this torture chamber?” Blood whisky would take the edge off his senses.
