CHAPTER 08 #2
"Voice of an angel, too," Vance muses. He reaches out. His hand brushes my bare arm. It is a light touch, barely a graze, but it feels like a violation.
CRACK.
The sound of Alaric setting his wine glass down is loud enough to silence the entire room. The crystal stem has snapped in his hand. Red wine—blood red—spills over his fingers and onto the white tablecloth.
"Alaric!" Mrs. Sterling gasps.
Alaric ignores her. He ignores the bleeding cut on his palm where the glass shattered. He stares at Vance. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated murder. "You are touching my property, Declan," Alaric says. His voice is a low, vibrating growl that echoes in the silent hall.
Vance pulls his hand back, holding it up in a mock surrender. He looks amused, not afraid. "Easy, Doctor. Just admiring the merchandise. You know I have an eye for quality."
"She is not merchandise," Alaric says, standing up. He grabs a napkin and wraps it around his bleeding hand. The white linen turns crimson instantly. "And she is not for sale."
"Everything is for sale," Vance counters, taking a sip of his wine. "Especially in this room. What did she cost you? Her father was in debt, wasn't he? Charles Fray? The failed investor?"
The name hangs in the air. Charles Fray. He knows.
I freeze. I look at Alaric. Alaric doesn't look at me. He is focused entirely on Vance. "If you say her name again," Alaric whispers, leaning over the table, "I will remove your tongue with a steak knife and feed it to you. Do we have an understanding?"
Vance laughs. "Always so dramatic, Alaric. That’s why you’re the genius and I’m just the money." He raises his glass to me. "My apologies, Miss... Elodie. No offense intended."
Alaric doesn't sit back down. He reaches down and grabs my arm. His grip is bruising. "We are leaving."
"But the main course," Sterling protests. "Alaric, sit down. Declan is just baiting you."
"The dinner is over," Alaric declares. He pulls me up from the chair so fast I almost trip in my heels. He drags me away from the table. "Walk," he commands in my ear.
We exit the Atrium. We leave the stunned silence of the vipers behind. Alaric marches me to the elevator. He punches the button with his bloody hand, leaving a smear of red on the metal.
The doors close. We are alone. The energy in the small box is nuclear. Alaric is vibrating with rage. His chest heaves. His jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks in his cheek.
"Alaric, your hand," I whisper, reaching out. "You're bleeding."
He grabs my wrist before I can touch him. He pins me against the mirrored wall of the elevator. "Did you enjoy that?" he hisses.
"What?"
"Vance. Did you enjoy him looking at you? Did you enjoy him touching you?"
"No! I hated it!"
"You didn't pull away," he accuses. He presses his hips against mine, trapping me. "You let him touch you."
"I was frozen! You told me not to move!"
"I told you not to leave my side! I didn't tell you to let another man put his hands on what is mine!
" He brings his wounded hand up. He smears the blood from his palm onto my cheek.
It is warm. sticky. "You are mine, Elodie.
Do you understand?" he roars. "You don't belong to the Board.
You don't belong to the world. You belong to me. "
He kisses me. It is violent. It tastes of wine and blood.
He forces my mouth open, his tongue invading, reclaiming.
I taste the copper of his blood. I smell the violence on him.
And God help me, I kiss him back. My hands clutch his tuxedo jacket.
My body arches into his. The fear of Vance—the fear of being sold—makes Alaric feel safe.
Even his rage feels safe because it is directed at the threat, not at me.
The elevator dings. The doors open on his floor. He breaks the kiss, gasping for air. He looks at me—lipstick smeared, his blood on my face, my eyes wild.
"Bedroom," he growls. "Now."
He doesn't drag me this time. I run ahead of him. Because for the first time, I am not running away from him. I am running to the only place where the other monsters can't reach me.
We burst into the suite. Alaric slams the door and locks it. Deadbolt. Chain. Key. He turns to me. He rips his bow tie off and throws it on the floor.
"Take it off," he commands, pointing to the dress. "Alaric—" "Take it off! I want to see you. I need to see that you are still here."
My hands shake as I reach for the zipper at my neck. I unzip it. The dress falls to the floor in a pool of black silk. I stand there in the black lace lingerie. The padlock choker gleams at my throat.
Alaric stares at me. His eyes are black holes. He walks toward me. He holds up his bleeding hand. "Lick it clean," he whispers.
I look at the cut on his palm. It is deep. It needs stitches. But the look in his eyes says that if I don't do this, if I don't accept this blood offering, he will tear the world apart.
I take his hand. I bring it to my lips. I taste the salt. The iron. The wine. I lick the wound.
Alaric groans—a low, animalistic sound that vibrates in his chest. His other hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back. "Good girl," he pants. "My good, wicked girl."
He picks me up. He throws me onto the bed. He crawls over me, a dark shadow, a wounded wolf. "Tonight," he promises, his voice rough with need. "Tonight, we don't play structure. Tonight, we play chaos."
And as he descends upon me, blocking out the light, blocking out the memory of Vance and the Board and my father... I realize the terrifying truth. I don't want to be saved anymore. I want to be ruined.