Chapter 32 Gideon #3
“I threw a fur coat over my dress, buttoned it high to hide the collar, filled a trunk with fine dresses and silk scarves, stuffed every hidden pocket and fold with Astor’s jewels and cash, and held a candle to the wooden coffin until it caught alight.
Burned, drained, and beheaded – the only three ways to kill a vampire, and I’d done them all to ensure I was rid of him.
I escaped from the house before Astor’s maid returned.
I made it to the port and purchased a berth on a merchant ship sailing for Marseille.
From there, I made my way to Paris. I intended to sell my fine clothing and the jewels I took from Lord Astor, and use the proceeds to find myself a little cottage in the country.
But on my first night, I saw a poster for Sarah Bernhardt performing at La Comédie-Francaise.
I snuck into the theatre and watched her from a secret spot in the lighting rig as she enthralled the audience.
I was determined that I could be like her.
So I went back to my old trade, selectively selling off some of my riches and saving my coin until I could afford a theatre of my own. And La Petite Mort was born.”
Arabella touches her hand to her throat, almost as if she can still feel the heavy weight of the collar.
“That collar was more than jewels to me. I don’t care about the legend.
It was a symbol of when I took my life into my own hands, when I freed myself from a man’s shackles. And you took it from me.”
I hang my head. “I am so sorry. If I’d known, I—”
“You what? You never would have taken it?”
I pause. She’s right. I still would have done what I did to save my brother. To save her.
“Exactly.” She shakes her head. “I would not have expected any less. On the scale of my pride versus your brother’s life, your brother would always win.
This is our problem, Gideon. We are who we are.
We may be guilty of the same sin, but we will always be at cross purposes. What became of your brother?”
“He was shot over a card game in a Whitechapel pub. He died a pauper,” I pause. “He died free.”
She contemplates this. “You said you had a surprise for me.”
“Ah, yes. A Bloodeve surprise – a game of skill and chance.”
She taps her nails. “Not backgammon again.”
“No. Far too boring for the great Arabella Lestrange. All that frowning at the board like every decision is life-or-death.” I pull out the game store bag from behind my chair. “We play Catan. Are you in?”
“I win again!” Arabella throws her cards on the table, that triumphant glint in her eye. “Longest road! I’ve been amassing an empire while you’re over there crying like a little bitch over your ore mines!”
“Urgh, fine. You are ore-inspiring in your talents.”
“Gideon.”
“I’m in ore of your majesty.”
“Gideon.”
“You give me wood—”
She hurls a city at my head.
Small confession: I let her win. Arabella is hopeless at this game.
She holds everything too close to her chest and utterly refuses to trade.
She’s determined to do everything herself, and because of that, she spreads herself too thin and allows me to monopolise ore and wood. I could have won three times over.
But I like seeing her smile and laugh and dance around. Letting Arabella win means we both get exactly what we want.
There are no windows in the dungeon. I glance down at my watch.
I checked the time of today’s sunrise – 4.
43 am. I’d normally be crawling into bed by 4 am.
It’s now 6.59 and Celeste is still a wolf.
Dreamless sleep tugs at my limbs, but I can’t imagine closing my eyes while in Arabella’s presence.
Partly because I think she’ll do something unspeakable to me while I’m unconscious. (She does have prior form.)
But mostly, I don’t want to spend a single moment asleep around her.
“Are we playing again?” I reset the board. “Do you fancy a little rule change? Strip Catan? Every time one of us builds a city, the other loses a layer. I can promise you plentiful wood—”
“Make one more resource pun and I will do something unspeakable to you.”
I lean close and hold up a sheep card. “It’s a baaaaaad idea to keep flirting with me like that.”
I expect her to slap me, but she doesn’t. We stay like this a beat too long, our noses practically touching.
“You never needed jewels or fine dresses,” I whisper. “You shine so brightly you make the moon jealous.”
“Will you shut up?”
“Make me.”
I brace myself for her to thrust a city into my eyeball. Instead, her lips brush mine, so light and soft that I almost can’t believe it’s real, that she’s real.
But it’s all the permission I need.
Catan pieces fly everywhere as I throw aside the table. I pull her from her chair and settle her over my knees. She kneels on me, grinding herself down against me.
“I will make you,” she growls. “I will make you come apart so you will never annoy me again.”
“I am wheat for you,” I manage to groan out.
She grinds down harder, her fangs knocking against mine. Her tongue is vicious, stealing any further puns I’ve saved. My cock strains as she brushes me through my trousers, desperate to discard the fabric between us.
The spark that flares when we kiss wakes the magic in my veins. The blood of ancient vampires pulse within us, whispering of sins that taste like heaven. We are the same.
She cups my cheeks, her sharp nails digging in. My fingers roam over the planes of her body that I memorised on our first night together. The ones I’ve hungered for ever since.
Arabella breaks our kiss abruptly, her breathing heavy as she narrows her eyes, staring me down. “This means nothing. It’s like scratching an itch, you understand? I still hate you.”
I smile, trailing my fingers down the length of her until I cup her clothed pussy. The heat in my hand is almost more than a vampire can bear.
“You’re kind of ruining the vibe when I’m about to build my longest road to your settlement.”
“You…” Her eyes drift downward to my straining cock and my finger running over her through the fabric of her tailored linen trousers. “I can’t believe you’re still using Catan puns. It’s as if you’re asking me to punish you.”
“They’re turning you on,” I whisper, leaning forward and running my lips down her neck.
“That’s a stretch,” she says through a laugh.
“I mean, I’m not judging you. To wheat her own—”
She grips my shoulder, wrenching herself off my lap.
The chair hits the door of Celeste’s cell and shatters into splinters as Arabella presses my back against the wall, holding me with her talons at my throat.
She melts against me, her curves fitting perfectly as she holds me beneath her spell, exactly where I want to be.
The smile barely touches her lips as she leans forward, her words a cool breath against my cheek.
“Why do you like to play with fire, Gideon Blake? I could easily take your life right now and disappear forever, and no one would even know. I could run to Alaric’s mother or the Conclave with word of your crimes. So why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Is that what you want, for me to fear you?” I reach up, placing my hand beneath her chin, tilting her head up so she has no choice but to meet my gaze. “Now that you’ve come back to me, the only thing I’m afraid of is losing you again.”
“Then you should probably stop making terrible Catan puns.”
“Probably,” I nibble her bottom lip. “But you said I couldn’t make snake puns, so I don’t know what else to do with my talents. Plus, I enjoy being afraid. That’s how I know I’m still alive. From the way your heart is beating in time with mine, I know we’re the same.”
Her hands slowly trail down the front of my shirt. I suck in a breath as she slides them below my trousers, running the very sharp points of her fingernails over my hard shaft. “We’re nothing alike.”
Her bottom lip quivers. I pull it between my teeth, tasting her lip gloss.
Our shared heartbeat thrums madly with fear, with ecstasy.
“We both killed our sires. We both crave wealth and comfort and safety. We both like to be in control of everything, including Sanctus. We both know that you’re a goddess who demands supplication.
And I have been waiting a century and a half to show you how I can worship you. ”
She doesn’t pull away when I kiss her again. Her hand in my trousers strokes harder, and the other goes to the back of my neck, pulling my hair so she can take in more of my mouth. Our tongues caress one another. I can’t even breathe because every time I do, I just take in more of her scent.
Memories from our night in her bed mingle with the here and now, so that the scrape of rock behind my back feels like the softness of her ridiculous bed and her hand on my crotch feels like the first time.
But this is not then, this is now. Our old selves have died, and now we have nothing left to lose.
Hungry growls escape my throat as I let my fingers trail down her back, the tips still dancing from the memory of the heat, the wetness, between her legs. Now that she’s in control I can no longer touch her pussy, but I still feel every inch of her through her clothes.
I need to find a way to get the blasted things off her.
She must have read my mind, as her fingers make quick work of unbuttoning my shirt and tossing it aside.
Next goes the leather belt and scabbard for my sword, which clatters loudly as it hits the floor.
In her bed in Paris, she was languid, sensual – a nymph that might slip through my fingers and disappear.
Here, she is not nymph but monster, hunger gnawing at her belly, teeth bared, taking what she wants.