Page 37

I have never come like that before. Steven never made me feel like that. In fact, for the last three years the only orgasms I’ve had have been the sad, quiet, hurried ones I’ve had in the shower or in bed at night when he was out at the pub with his friends, and I dared to remember what it was like to feel turned on.

The way Lucien touched me… it was as if he already knew me. The way he gave me a voice and made me ask for what I wanted… no one has ever done that for me before. I shocked myself, and I aroused him. I could feel it in the way his cock stiffened against me when he pressed up close, and I could see it in his eyes.

He wanted me. And in those moments, even though I knew he could still hurt me if he wanted to, I felt safe.

I believed what he said about protecting me.

But then he ruined it by stalking out of here, taking my clothes with him, and locking me back inside.

My head is spinning. The buzz of arousal is mixing with fear and confusion, and I can’t distinguish any one emotion from another. It’s like they are swirling together in one big hazy vortex of fuckery that I don’t know what to do with.

I’m curling into the armchair, pulling my knees up to my chest, ready to have a cry because it’s the only thing I can think of that might release these feelings when I hear the key in the door.

I stand up and, fuck knows why, but a sudden burst of bravery makes me toss the blanket to the floor and put my hands on my hips. “Did you bring my clothes back? Or are you here to ask me more questions? Because forget sucking my nipples, what I want right now is to get out of this godforsaken hell hole of a⁠—”

I stop mid-speech when I realize the man backing into the room, carrying what looks like a large sheet of MDF and a hammer, is not Lucien Thornfield.

Whoever the fuck he is, he sets the MDF down by the wall, closes the door, locks it again, slips the key into his pocket then turns to look at me,

I’m still standing with my hands on my hips, brazenly, as if I don’t care that I’m half naked.

He raises his eyebrows. They’re light brown, and thick, but half obscured by a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses. Brushing his curly hair from his face, he rolls up his white shirt sleeves and very deliberately looks away from me.

“I’m afraid I don’t have your clothes, I don’t have any questions for you right now, and I’m not adverse to sucking your nipples but I feel like we should at least exchange names first. Unless you’re asking to suck mine, in which case…” He pauses, scratching his chin. “No, I still think we should introduce ourselves first. Maybe get a drink. Or dinner.”

I grab the blanket, cheeks flaming beetroot red, and wrap it around myself like a towel, covering my breasts, wishing I had my bra on because they do not defy the laws of gravity and are nowhere near as pert as they should be.

“I’m so sorry. I thought you were…”

The man glances at me, realizes I’m covered, then points at the painting. “Window behind there?” he asks.

I nod, sinking back into the chair.

He takes the painting down and whistles, shaking his head. “You broke the glass?” he asks.

I nod, and gesture to the candlestick which is still on the floor nearby.

“Oh shit, nearly forgot…” He strides over to me and grabs my hand.

The sudden contact makes me flinch, but when I look up and meet his eyes, a sense of warmth settles in my stomach instead.

“Thornfield told me to fix your hand up.”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“True story,” the man says, holding up a finger. “Bathroom in here?” He gestures to a door opposite the bed.

I nod; I checked it out as soon as he locked me in here. But there was nothing useful. Just a plain white room with a toilet, a sink, a shower and – weirdly – the exact shampoo I’ve used for about the last five years.

The man disappears inside and comes back with a damp towel. He kneels in front of me and holds my wrist, then cleans the cut on my palm. His touch is slow and gentle, and as he wipes the blood from my skin there is no flicker of blood lust or hunger in his eyes.

“You’re not a vampire?” I ask him.

He shakes his head, then reaches into his pocket and takes out a tube of antiseptic cream. He dabs it on gently, then pulls out a plaster. It has cartoon cats on it. I chuckle as he presses it to my skin.

“I was with my nieces and nephews at the weekend. Sophia cut her knee. Thankfully, still had these in my car because Thornfield has fuck all in the way of human first-aid around here.”

“I guess he brings his humans here to eat them not heal them,” I reply, tilting my head to study the man’s square jaw and grey-brown eyes.