Her mouth slavering for the food she wished was on her plate only made what was in front of her less appealing. Unless the next course included a steak and a pile of mashed potatoes, she’d leave the table hungry.
Anxiety shrank her appetite anyway.
While she blamed most of her nervousness on the new experience of dining with such elegant company, she also blamed the man to her right. She’d only given him a polite nodand cursory glance since the beginning of the meal, but he’d stared at her the whole time. As an exotic dancer, she’d dealt with leering men as part of the job description, but this was a wholly different sensation. His gaze wasn't just intense, but also filled with purpose.
It didn't settle well in her stomach.
After an hour of subtle glances and shameless eavesdropping, she had a better sense of the twins, and had to rethink her first impression.
Barbie dolls? No. Barbie dolls were made of plastic, a material that warmed when held. These two were ice sculptures, carved from glacial floe by the hand of a master. Cold, beautiful, perfect, but not normal ice. Normal ice melted from the heat of someone’s touch. Those two were permafrost. Always frozen, and dangerous to anyone who dug beneath the surface.
A shudder rocketed through her, and an inner voice warned her to tread lightly.
In theoppositedirection.
Her thoughts returned to the duke. Logan. She turned her head, oh so slightly, in his direction. His glittering obsidian gaze devoured her. Heat flowered through her chest. She tried to swallow, but her throat was desert dry. She grasped the stem of her wine glass with shaking fingers and took a deep drink.
That was a mistake.
His dark eyes now focused on her mouth as her tongue flicked over her wine-wet lips. He narrowed his black gaze, burning with a desire so hot the flames consumed her without touching her. Overcome with an answering lust, she shifted in her seat, determined not to make a fool of herself. She peeled her gaze from Logan, replaced the wine glass, and turned with the intention to greet the man at her right.
Second mistake.
Angelous Kroger’s eyes were bright, clear, and filled to the brim with greedy eagerness. It was rude to ignore another guest at the table, but damn it, his presence chilled her to the bone. She wanted to push away from the table, beg her excuses to Millie and Logan, and run headfirst, to the nearest roaring fireplace.
Unfortunately, she doubted the warmth of the flames would reach into the marrow where the chill crept in.
She shivered.
How had she transitioned from being overheated with broiling desire to ice cold within a sixty-second span? The emotional roller coaster was taking her on the ride of her life, and it was one she didn't want to be on.
Suck it up, you sissy!You can't fall apart now. You still have so much to do. You'll never get home if you break.
She breathed deep, and then spooned sickly sweet dessert into her mouth.
She was determined to enjoy her first dinner party despite the depressing lack of macaroni salad.
Chapter Thirty-Two
She was just as exquisite as he remembered her. Stunning beauty, perfect body, and skin so flawless he almost groaned. Her flesh was so deliciously golden he could barely keep his hand from reaching inside his breast pocket and gripping the knife secreted there.
Oh, the delightful things he would do to her.
His large and varied blade collection included a stiletto he'd acquired in Florence, a Yoroidoshi from Japan, and he’d most recently acquired a narrow seax, a blade that shared his Germanic ancestry. The seax blade was fashioned from steel, and engraved with the writhing body of a ruby-eyed serpent. The craftsman carved the hilt from a whale's tooth, and shaved it to fit the blade perfectly.
The stunning seax. His favorite.
Sadly, it was locked away in a secure place. He trembled with the desire to wrap his fingers around the handle, to feel the weight, and see the curved blade glisten beneath the candlelight.
No, that wasn’t true; he didn't want to see the blade shine beneath the cold light of a chandelier in a crowded dining room. He wanted to draw her away from the others, and into an intimate space where they could be alone.
Only her flawless skin, his cold knives, and hot passion for precise, deep, slow slicing.
Her eyes would widen and glimmer when she looked upon the sharp, wicked edge. Her body would writhe under his gaze as he contemplated his first cut. His second. Third. Fourth. Twentieth. He would feel the warm, sticky gore pour through his fingers as it streamed from the cuts he'd made in her quickly paling flesh. When his masterpiece was complete, she would be a quivering, bloody canvas; the final masterwork commissioned by his Sire. Nothing pleased him more than bringing glory and honor to who he worshipped—except carving masterpieces on willing human canvases.
They were always willing. Even if they fought a little at first, they soon acquiesced to his art.
After her heatedeye-fucking with the duke, and her chilling reaction to the male Kroger twin, Haven was relieved when Minerva Hughes began a lively and rather uncomfortable line of questioning about her supposed life in 1817 America. She was impressed by her own ability to make things up spontaneously; attending balls, the people she knew, her favorite nineteenth century American foods….
