Chapter 33 Jules
Jules
I wake up disoriented—the kind of dizzy, foggy feeling that sits heavy in your skull like you’ve been drugged.
For a long moment I just stare upward, blinking at a ceiling that isn’t mine.
It’s too high…too dark. Heavy carved beams cross overhead like the ribs of some ancient beast. The air smells wrong too—woodsmoke and something sharper underneath it, like cloves and iron.
My mouth is dry and my body feels warm and sore in places that make my cheeks heat even before I remember why.
Where am I?
Panic sparks inside me, quick and bright…but then the memories slam into me all at once.
I remember the Carnal Bazaar with its endless velvet shadows and twisting alleys, the air thick with perfume and sweat and sorcery…
getting lost while I tried to keep my head down and my heart from pounding out of my chest. Then I recall Kael’s smile—handsome and cruel.
The way his demons’ eyes tracked me like I was a prize and the way he tortured me with his lust magic.
Then I remember Lucian coming for me and the deal he made to get me back.
The moment Kael demanded payment and Lucian…
actually gave it to him. A vial of Lucian’s blood, gleaming darkly in the strange light, handed over as if it cost him nothing—even though I could see the fury in his face and the tension in his frame.
And then—oh God—the Lust Gates and what we had to do to get out of the Carnal Bazaar.
My skin prickles as the memory comes over me all at once. Lucian putting me down on my feet…right there in the open. The carved black iron gate towering over us, pulsing with that terrible, hungry magic…my stomach twisting when he said every gate demanded a sacrifice.
And when I realized what this one wanted.
The way he kissed me—hot and cinnamon-sweet and too good, like a dangerous candy you know you shouldn’t eat but you do anyway. The way my tongue caught on his fang and I cut myself, and instead of stopping, he told me, “No, let me taste you.” Like my blood and my mouth were his to take.
Like I was his to take.
The way his hand slid up the slit of my gown and cupped me so casually, so possessively, as if he didn’t care that people were watching us. The humiliating thrill of it, him touching me in front of everyone and the shock of realizing my body was already wet for him.
The way he made me come in public.
Because we had to, because the gate demanded lust and we needed it to open, I remind myself. But still…I can’t quite get over the shame of what we did—of what I let him do. Am I some kind of closet exhibitionist?
But my memories don’t stop at the gate. I can’t help thinking of how it was afterward… the way he held me and carried me back to Crimson Spires. He treated me like I was something precious…like he didn’t want to put me down.
And then he took me to bed and did it all again—making me come even harder the second time. He asked nothing for himself—didn’t demand that I give him a quick fuck or a blowjob, the way a lot of men would. No, he only wanted my pleasure.
I don’t know if I’ve ever been with a man like that before—one who was such a giving and talented lover. Then again, I’ve never been with a vampire before. Maybe they’re all like Lucian. But somehow, I doubt that. There’s something about him—something special.
No, wait—what am I thinking? He kidnapped me and brought me here and told me my old life was over!
Just because he saved me from the creature in the dungeon and came to rescue me from the Carnal Bazaar, doesn’t make him some kind of hero.
And just because he gave me the first orgasms I’ve had that weren’t by my own hand—because why is it that human men can’t find your clit with two hands and a map? —doesn’t make him a good guy.
My body doesn’t seem to think that, though.
You fell asleep in his arms, whispers an accusing little voice in the back of my head. Naked.
The thought brings me fully awake.
My eyes fly open wider and I sit up so fast the crimson sheets slide down my chest. I clutch them automatically, as if modesty matters now—as if anyone is here to see me.
“Lucian?” My voice comes out raspier than I expect. I clear my throat and try again. “Lucian? Are you here?” Maybe he’s in the bathroom. But wait—do vampires have bodily functions like humans? I have no idea and no inclination to find out.
But my calls are met with silence. I guess he’s not here or in the bathroom after all.
I glance around, my heart thudding.
The bedroom is huge—cavernous and intimate at the same time.
The heavy, dark, four-poster bed with its crimson sheets and the thick carpets and curtains seem to swallow sound.
The chandelier hung with ruby crystals casts a warm red glow over everything.
The massive fireplace on the far wall sheds more illumination, the flames low but steady, flickering gold and red and pushing back the chill that seeps in from the stone the walls are made of.
But Lucian is nowhere to be seen.
Of course he isn’t. He’s a vampire mafia Don. He probably has meetings. He probably has people who kneel and kiss his ring and bring him reports on how to ruin someone’s life before lunchtime, whispers the little voice in my head.
Still, the empty space beside me feels…wrong.
Why does it feel wrong? I ask myself. I don’t know.
My body still feels soft and heavy from sleep…from the way he held me so close and so long. There’s a warmth between my thighs that makes me remember last night—remember his fingers…his voice…the way he said “good girl” like he meant it.
No, stop—stop thinking about that, I scold myself. It’s time to get up and get going. I still need to find a way out of here.
I push the sheets back and swing my legs over the side of the bed, determined to do something about my situation.
But then my eyes fall on the plush chair in front of the fireplace, angled perfectly toward the warmth like a cozy invitation.
And beside it, the small table holds a silver tray under a domed cover.
It makes me think of the mouthwatering feast I was served last night, before I snuck out and went on my misadventure to the Carnal Bazaar.
Hmm…well, maybe I’ll just have some breakfast before I start trying to break out. After all, it’s hard to think or escape on an empty stomach. Only, I don’t want to eat naked.
I start to go to the closet for some clothes but at the foot of the bed I see a robe. It’s folded neatly, as though someone put it there with deliberate care. The fabric is heavy crimson satin, as glossy as spilled wine in the firelight. I pick it up and it slides through my fingers like water.
He left this for me, I can’t help thinking. He planned for me to wake up like this…to see the robe and the breakfast and be so happy I wouldn’t want to leave again.
My cheeks go hot again at the thought that I slept naked in his arms all night, and he didn’t do anything else. He could have—God knows he could have—but he didn’t.
Not until you’re ready, he’d said. He talked about loving my curves…
my thick thighs and wide hips and big behind, which I’ve always been so self-conscious about.
And this morning he left me breakfast and this incredible robe, which feels like something a princess might wear… or a Curvy Queen, I suppose.
Well, if he thinks he can buy me with luxury, he’s wrong. Still… I slip the robe on because I can’t walk around naked, right?
It feels amazing against my bare skin—cool at first, then warming quickly as it wraps around me. It’s a little too big—the sleeves fall over my hands, so I roll up the cuffs. It smells faintly like Lucian—like smoke and clean linen and dark, masculine spice.
I should hate that…but I don’t.
I pad across the thick carpet toward the comfy chair, and my feet make almost no sound. The room is so quiet I can hear the crackle of the fire and the soft ticking of something—maybe a clock hidden somewhere in this gothic billionaire vampire lair.
I sink into the chair like I belong there, just like I did last night. It’s kind of becoming my spot.
This chair is mine now, my brain says, and I snort softly because that’s ridiculous. Nothing here is mine. Not really. But since Lucian seems intent on pampering me, well…who am I to stop him?
The silver tray gleams invitingly so I lift the dome and find breakfast—no, brunch—laid out like I’m at some absurdly luxurious hotel where the staff are invisible but somehow know exactly what I want.
There’s a porcelain pot of tea sending up fragrant steam—Earl Grey, I think—the citrusy bite of bergamot makes my mouth water.
To go with it, I see a small carafe of thick cream.
There’s also a plate of flaky croissants layered with butter, their golden edges crisp and crackling when I tear one open.
Fresh berries are piled high on another plate—strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries—all still cool, like they’ve just been rinsed in cold water.
To go with the croissants there’s a little cut-crystal dish of honeycomb dripping amber, the honey catching the firelight like molten gold.
Another plate holds soft scrambled eggs, flecked with herbs.
I also see smoked salmon folded into silky ribbons and toast points arranged with ridiculous precision, like someone took a ruler to them.
My stomach growls loudly and I think briefly of the story of Persephone and how she was stolen by Hades and taken to the Underworld where she ate magical pomegranate seeds and was then forced to stay with him for six months of the year—one month for every seed she had eaten.
Well, if that’s the case, I’m already cooked, I decide. I had plenty to eat last night, so there’s no sense in starving now when it’s too late to stop what has already been started.
Besides, I’m really hungry.
So I dig in and oh my God, it’s so good. Even better than last night’s feast, I think.