11. A Bedtime Story
Chapter eleven
A Bedtime Story
Julian
I t had been a long time since I’d had a warm body in my bed.
I allowed myself a moment to revel in it—the scent of honey in Nicolette’s hair, the way her form fit so naturally against mine.
Even the way she held my hands in a viselike grip, determined to keep herself from doing anything she might regret. It all stirred something inside of me.
It was a reminder of the lines we could never cross, no matter how much I wanted to. Lines that would be far more difficult to honor while we shared a bed. But this was necessary torture.
I’d feared that my family didn’t believe that what Nicolette and I shared was real. Today had only confirmed my suspicions. Now I could leave no room for doubt. Not when Nicolette was finally allowing me the chance to plead my case.
Perhaps I was being too hasty. Even too trusting.
But the risk felt worth it. The possibility of being human again eclipsed every concern I might have had.
The thought of my being able to warm the beautiful creature in my bed, to have another child of my own, to feel pain, to grow old as I was meant to do—it filled me with a hope so dangerous it bordered on being reckless.
“Are you warm enough, darling?” I asked.
“Um, yes,” she said, hesitating—as if she were trying very hard not to be comfortable around me. “You know, you don’t have to call me ‘darling’ in private.”
“I think it’s best if we maintain the facade in both public and private. It will be easier for people to believe we are in love.” And admittedly, I enjoyed having someone to use the term of endearment for.
“I hate that my life is a lie.”
For that, I felt truly awful. “Let it be my lie, not yours. I am the bastard here.”
“While true,” she quipped, “it doesn’t make me feel better.”
I knew I would never solve that particular problem for her, so—like the prat I was—I pressed on. “What I’m about to tell you is the truth. A truth no one outside my family knows. It is how I came to be . . . and why I have searched for centuries for a cure.”
“Centuries,” she whispered in awe.
I could only imagine how strange it must seem. To her, I was a walking history book.
“I’m not sure how much my mother told you. But I’ll start at the beginning—before I became what I am today. The days of my humanity.” There was no keeping the wistfulness out of my voice. Even after nearly six centuries, I longed for it.
Nicolette went still, becoming my captive audience. I took the opportunity to draw her closer, wrapping my leg around hers. I needed her to smell like me. And, truth be told, I enjoyed the feel of her skin against mine.
She trembled only slightly but didn’t pull away. For that, I was grateful.
“I was born in Italia, in the Republic of Florence. This was long before the Italian peninsula was unified and called Italy. It was a time of rebirth. We still concerned ourselves with the afterlife, of course, but we also began to focus on human potential here on earth. Art, music, philosophy, commerce—these became our hallmarks. From that, a prosperous middle class emerged, and I was part of it. I belonged to a powerful textile guild that dealt in fine silks and wools, which we sold to the popolo grasso.”
“The fat people?” Nicolette giggled.
“Very good. You know some Italian.”
“A little.”
“If you ever wish to learn more, I would be happy to teach you.”
“Uh . . .” She seemed at a complete loss for words. Her walls weren’t coming down anytime soon. Perhaps not at all.
I moved on. “Life was good. I was married to a beautiful woman and had three daughters.”
“You had children? What were their names? What was your wife’s name? How many wives have you had? Did you love any of them? What happened to them all?” The questions tumbled out of her so quickly that she could barely keep up with herself.
I should have guessed she would be curious. And I should have told her more about my past long before now. But it was a painful subject. I shouldn’t have had such a long past to recount. And I had only ever allowed myself to love my first wife.
“Giovanna was my wife’s name,” I murmured, her name sacred on my lips.
“You loved her,” Nicolette said—a statement, not a question. “You say her name differently than mine.”
“Does that bother you?” I asked. I’d hardly expected jealousy from a woman who despised me.
“Not at all,” she said quickly. “It’s just . . . even when you were pretending to like me, before I knew who you really were, you never sounded that sincere. And yet I still fell for it. I feel so naive.”
Now I felt like even more of a prick.
“Nicolette, I never pretended to like you. In all sincerity, I adore you. Any man would be proud to be your husband. And I am. But we both know this isn’t a love match.”
“Yes,” she snapped. “I am well aware.”
She pulled away, but I drew her right back and wrapped her in my arms. My fingers pressed into her soft, warm skin.
“Please,” I begged. “Let me keep you safe. I don’t say these things to wound you.”
“I’m not hurt. It’s just . . . you’ve doomed me to a life without love, even though you’ve known it yourself.”
Yes, that was regrettable. “But you’re alive and well. That would not have been the case had I not interceded.” I said it more to soothe my guilt than to comfort her. “And I assure you that what I’m about to tell you is no fairy tale. Shall I continue?”
“Sure,” she grumbled—obviously curious, though she’d never admit it.
“To answer the rest of your questions . . . my daughters’ names were Caterina, Isabetta, and Lucrezia.”
“Those are pretty names,” Nicolette whispered.
“They were beautiful girls, all of them.” I could still see them clearly—pale skin and rosy cheeks, long, dark, wavy hair tied in braids and ribbons that bounced as they ran to me, calling Babbo, Babbo . “They each died of tuberculosis, as did my wife,” I murmured.
Nicolette placed her hands over mine. “That’s awful. A painful way to die. I’m so sorry.”
“It drove me to my knees. I wished to die myself but believed I would be damned to hell if I took my own life. I suppose, in some ways, hell came calling anyway.”
“You truly don’t love being a vampire? You’re so good at it.”
I gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Probably too good. But it wasn’t the life I wished for.
I wanted to see my daughters grow and have children of their own.
Life expectancy wasn’t what it is now, but all three of my girls had lived past the age of ten.
That was a great milestone. And we lived better than most. My children never went hungry, and Giovanna was meticulously clean. Her father was a man of medicine.”
“I can’t imagine how painful it must have been for you. Losing my mother was crushing. But at least I still have my father and Daphne.”
“And a husband,” I teased.
“Yeah, he’s a real gem,” she said tartly.
“He can be,” I groaned, lowering my mouth to her neck. My lips skimmed her smooth skin.
A soft gasp escaped her beautiful lips. “Julian,” she stuttered.
“Yes.” I kissed my way to her ear.
“You need to finish your story,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
“I will. I’m just helping you smell more like me.”
I nuzzled her ear, and before I realized it, Nicolette turned. Suddenly we were face-to-face, our bodies flush against each other. Her wide eyes burned with equal parts fury and passion.
“I hate you,” she whispered, as if the words might save her—though her parted lips told a very different story.
I wanted to kiss her. More than wanted to. But I needed her trust far more than I needed her mouth. So instead, I placed a finger gently against her lips. “I know you do. I want to change that.” And I meant it.
She closed her eyes, trying to steady her breath. “Will I ever not want you?”
I brushed her hair back from her face. “Hopefully, in time, what I am will not be so intoxicating to you. Perhaps if you succeed in making me human.”
She peeked one eye open. “I didn’t agree to that. I don’t even know if it’s possible.”
“Fair enough.” I exhaled softly. “For now, let me finish my story.”
“All right.”
I kept my arms around her, holding her close. This was a far more advantageous position for what I hoped to accomplish.
She didn’t pull away, but she went still, clearly not trusting herself—even as her fingers dug into my chest.
“You are so . . . just, wow. Like better-than-Legolas wow.”
I chuckled and let her enjoy my chest while I pressed on with my story.
“In my despair, I turned to the priesthood.”
Her hands froze. “You became a priest? Are you serious?”
“Very. Why is that so surprising?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you said you’re going to kill whoever sent me that note. And I figure it’s probably not the first person you’ve unalived. That’s not exactly very ‘man of God’ of you.”
“I am not a man anymore. I have long since lost my soul. And I wish to have it back.”
“Oh.” Her voice softened, as if something clicked into place. “You want redemption. Like Edmond Dantès. Instead of a life of vengeance, you want one of mercy. That’s why you talk about The Count of Monte Cristo the way you do.”
Nicolette was brilliant and insightful.
“It was I who gave Alexandre the idea.”
“Oh. My. Gosh. I knew it. You knew him.”
“We were friends—at least for a short time. You don’t keep long acquaintances when you don’t age. Too many questions.”
“I suppose that would be hard. You probably have to move a lot.”
“Yes, and it becomes tiresome. Especially in today’s world, when everyone’s life plays out on the internet. Disappearing and reappearing as someone else is far more difficult.”
“You’re not always Julian Rossi?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been a Rossi since . . . well, since my change. The Rossi name is powerful in my world. But my first name changes often. Though I do think Julian suits me.”
“I thought so when we first met. It’s very alluring. Sexy, even.” She blushed.
I smoothed her cheek with the back of my hand. “It has been a long time since I’ve been with a woman who could blush.”