Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Lucien
I hear her heartbeat before she even reaches my door, slightly elevated, betraying her nerves. Rose. I’ve been expecting her since Drake mentioned her excitement about the Winter Ball. The corner of my mouth twitches as I move to open the door before she can knock.
She jumps back, hand clutched to her chest. “We’ve talked about this, Lucien.”
“My apologies.” I’m not sorry in the slightest. “I heard you coming.”
“Of course you did.”
I step aside, gesturing for her to enter. A fire crackles in the hearth, unnecessary for my comfort, but I enjoy it still.
Rose hesitates at the threshold.
“I, um.” She shifts her weight, uncharacteristically uncertain. “I need your help with something.”
“The Winter Ball,” I supply, enjoying the surprise that flashes across her face. “You need something to wear.”
“How did you?” She shakes her head. “Drake told you.”
“He mentioned that you were excited about it.”
Rose sighs, and looks down at herself, gesturing to her current outfit. “This is pretty much the extent of my fashion knowledge. I have no idea what I should wear to a black tie ball.”
She would look ravishing in a burlap sack, but her humility and earnestness are adorable. “I took the liberty of making some arrangements.”
“What kind of arrangements?”
I direct her attention to the antique privacy screen standing in the corner, its dark mahogany panels inlaid with subtle Art nouveau patterns that catch the firelight, near which are arranged carefully on mannequins, are five evening gowns in different styles and colors.
Beside them stands Mrs. Bright, her hands folded primly in front of her, expression stern.
“Mrs. Bright!” Rose exclaims. “You’re still here? I thought you’d left.”
“I serve the academy, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Bright says in her clipped, no-nonsense tone. “Not any particular administration.”
Rose looks from the dresses to me, then back to Mrs. Bright. “Did you conjure these?”
“At Mr. de Lacroix’s request,” the older woman confirms. “He provided rather specific instructions.”
I incline my head slightly. “Mrs. Bright has an exceptional talent for textile conjuration.”
Rose approaches the gowns slowly, reaching out to touch the fabric of a deep red silk creation. “These are incredible.”
“I’ve taken into account your coloring, your figure, and the occasion,” I explain. “Each one would be suitable.”
Mrs. Bright adjusts the drape of a midnight blue gown. “Will there be anything else, Mr. de Lacroix?”
“That will be all for now. Thank you, Mrs. Bright.”
The woman nods once, then leaves, closing the door behind her softly. Rose and I are left alone, the gowns standing like silent attendants between us.
“You did all this for me?” She reaches out to touch the silk of a gown.
“I’ve attended more formal balls than I care to remember. The rules have changed over the centuries, but certain things remain constant.”
She smiles. “Well, thank you. I was freaking out a little.”
“Shall we begin?” I gesture to the privacy screen. “You can change behind there.”
Rose selects the red gown first, taking it carefully from the mannequin. She disappears behind the screen, and I listen to the rustle of fabric as she changes. The scent of her skin grows stronger as her clothes come off, and I force myself to remain perfectly still, hands clasped behind my back.
“I think I need help with the back,” her voice calls out after a few minutes.
I approach the screen. “May I?”
“Please.”
I step around to find her with her back to me, the gown hanging open to reveal the smoothness of her spine. The sight of her bare skin sends a surge of desire through me. I’ve seen her body before, touched every inch of it, but there’s something about this situation.
I keep my touch impersonal as I zip the dress, though my fingers brush against her in the process. “There.”
She turns, and I step back to appraise her. The red is striking against her dark hair, the cut emphasizing the fullness of her hips and breasts.
“Walk toward me,” I instruct.
Rose takes a few steps, looking uncertain.
“It’s lovely on you. Do you like it?”
She shrugs.
“Try the blue.” This time, I’m prepared when she asks for assistance with the fastenings.
The midnight blue is even better than the red, and it brings out the warmth in her skin and complements her eyes. The bodice is fitted, with delicate beadwork that catches the light, and the skirt falls in soft layers to the floor.
“Turn,” I tell her.
She does a slow spin, the skirt flaring slightly. “What’s the verdict?”
“The color suits you.” I reach out, adjusting the strap that’s fallen slightly off her shoulder. My fingertips linger against her collarbone.
She meets my gaze. “What’s next, then?”
“The green.”
The emerald gown is my personal favorite, though I haven’t admitted this to Rose.
When she emerges from behind the screen, I know immediately that I was right.
The deep, rich green sets off her pale skin and dark hair to perfection.
The cut is both classic and daring, a fitted bodice with a sweetheart neckline, the fabric draping in elegant folds across her chest before cascading to the floor in a fluid line that accentuates every luscious curve.
“Oh,” she says softly, looking down at herself.
I circle her slowly, taking in every detail. “Indeed.”
The back of the gown dips low, almost indecently so. The color seems to change as she moves, shifting from deep emerald to forest green to something darker, more mysterious. It reminds me of the woods at twilight, of things hidden in shadow.
“The neckline needs adjusting,” I say.
I move closer, my hands going to the bodice, and I adjust the draping, allowing my fingers to brush against the swell of her breast.
“There,” I murmur, though I don’t move away.
Rose looks up at me, her pupils dilated.
But her scent fills my head, floral and sweet, underlaid with arousal. My control, cultivated over centuries, frays at the edges.
“This one,” I say. “This is the one.”
She nods, but neither of us is thinking about the dress anymore. Her heart beats faster, the sound filling my sensitive ears like a drum. I can hear the rush of blood beneath her skin, see the pulse at the base of her throat. Vampire instincts rise unbidden, but it’s not her blood I crave.
“Lucien.” It’s an unmistakable invitation.
When my mouth finds hers, she yields immediately, lips parting on a sigh that I take greedily.
The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Her hands grab at my shoulders, fingers digging in, and I walk her backward until she hits the wall, pinning her there with my body. She gasps into my mouth when I press against her, and I feel her hips tilt forward.
“I thought we were just picking out a dress,” she manages to say when I move to her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat.
“We were.” My hands find the zipper of the gown, slowly lowering it. “We are.”
“This wasn’t part of the plan.” Her voice breaks when my hand slips inside the loosened bodice to cup her breast.
“Consider it a complimentary part of the service.”
The gown pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a pair of simple black lace panties. The contrast of the lace against her skin makes my mouth water. I’ve seen her like this before, touched her, tasted her, but the hunger never abates. If anything, it grows stronger with each encounter.
I lift her and carry her to my bed. She weighs nothing in my arms, a small, precious thing, a fleeting human life that I could break without effort. The thought makes me gentler as I lay her down on the sheets.
Rose reaches for me, impatient, but I catch her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. “Not so fast,” I murmur against her ear. “We have time.”
She quivers as my fingers slide beneath the waistband of her underwear, finding her already wet. I tease her clit slowly, watching her face as pleasure overtakes her. There’s something uniquely satisfying about seeing Rose Smith, stubborn, defiant Rose, come apart under my touch.
“Please,” she breathes, hips moving against my hand. “Lucien, please.”
I release her wrists to remove my own clothing without taking my eyes off her. She watches me hungrily, her gaze trailing over my chest, down to where I’m hard and ready for her. When I kneel between her legs, her hands immediately go to my shoulders, pulling me down.
“Patience,” I chide, though my own is wearing thin.
I drag her panties down her legs, baring her beautiful cunt. I part her thighs, admiring the soft pink flush of her sex, the slickness already gleaming. My hunger sharpens, all the more exquisite for how long I deny it, how many centuries I have spent mastering want.
“Lucien!” She gasps as I seal my mouth over her clit and suck, gently at first, then harder. My tongue moves in rapid circles, and I’m rewarded by the way her hips buck and jerk under my grip.
I spread her wider, using my thumbs to open her completely, exposing every vulnerable fold to my gaze and my mouth. She is beautiful like this, pink and slick and utterly at my mercy.
Then I’m balanced above her, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance.
I push in slowly, allowing her body time to accept me, inch by inch.
I stretch her gently, hearing the choked breath she tries to swallow as I fill her.
Her eyes flutter closed, dark lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, lips parted.
I begin to move, slowly and deeply, and the sound she makes is exquisitely enticing.
I could lose myself in this—in her—so easily.
But there is a hunger deeper than desire. It settles in my gut, insistent, and it will not be resisted. I have never wanted to taste her more than I do now, the scent of her blood calling to me like a lover’s perfume. I hold myself back at first.
She hugs me tightly as I thrust, her legs around at my waist, and the pulse at her throat is maddening.
“Lucien,” she says, and I know she wants me to take control, wants to be consumed, and I am helpless before the invitation.
I lower my head, lips skimming over the delicate skin just above her jugular.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.
If anything, she bares her neck further.
I sink my fangs into her neck with perfect precision, just enough to pierce the skin.
The taste of her blood floods my mouth, sweet and laced with the magic that sets her apart from every human I have ever known. I drink, but only a little.
Rose moans, and her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving marks that will heal within minutes. The bed frame creaks beneath us, and her noises grow louder.
I fuck her harder, allowing the monster in me just enough chain. I want to mark her, make her mine, make every other man living or dead fade to nothing. She is writhing, panting, and I can feel her cunt clench as she comes.
I lick the wound closed, not wanting her to bleed more than I take, and she sags against me, boneless and spent, yet smiling.
She is not afraid. Not of me, not of this.
My thrusts slow, riding her through the peak, then I finally allow myself release, emptying into her with a groan.
After, I do not move. I listen to her heart slow from its frantic gallop to a steady canter, as I remain sheathed inside her, a reminder of how fully she has been claimed. Eventually I withdraw carefully, and lay beside her, propping myself on one elbow to watch her come back to herself.
“Holy shit.” Her voice is hoarse.
I smile. “Indeed.”
“Well,” she says finally. “That was unexpected.”
I chuckle. “I aim to be thorough.”
Rose stretches, satisfied. “So the green one, huh?”
“Definitely the green one.” I trace a finger along her collarbone. “Though I admit some bias in my assessment now.”
She reaches for my hand. “Thank you. For the dress. And the rest.”
I kiss her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair. “My pleasure.”
Rose’s smile turns wicked. “Definitely that, too.”
I rise, moving to the small bar in the corner to pour her a glass of water.
“Drink,” I say, returning to her side with the glass. She props herself up, unsteady, and I cradle the back of her neck as she takes it from my hand. She drains half the glass in one go, then hands it back, a drop of water trembling on her lower lip. I wipe it away with my thumb. “Good girl.”
She looks so thoroughly debauched, hair mussed and skin still flushed, that I want nothing more than to have her again.
Instead, I force myself to dampen a cloth with warm water, and gently clean her between her legs, instructing her to spread them for me once more. She smiles as she obliges me. After drying her, I gather her discarded clothing and help her dress.
“I always feel safe with you.”
I stare at her. Safe, with a creature like me.
It is absurd, laughable, a sentiment no human has ever directed at me in all the centuries I have walked this earth.
I, who have killed more people than she could ever name, who have, even tonight, given in to urges that most would call monstrous. “You are aware, I hope, of the irony.”
She laughs at me then, and throws her arms around my neck, kissing me hard. “I have to go. Please come to the ball, Lucien. I’m going with Drake as my date, but of course I want you there too. All of you.”
And who could deny her?
I find myself looking forward to the Winter Ball with an anticipation I haven’t felt in decades.
Not because I enjoy such events, I’ve attended too many to count, watched fashions change and social mores evolve, but because I’ll be seeing Rose in that dress again, knowing what lies beneath it, knowing that I helped her choose it.
It’s a small, private triumph, perhaps petty of me, but I find I don’t care. After centuries of existence, I’ve learned to take pleasure where I can find it.
And Rose Smith, it seems, has become a source of pleasure I cannot deny myself.