Beloved Vampire (Vampire Queen #4)

Beloved Vampire (Vampire Queen #4) Page 38

The sheet’s touch on her sticky thighs reminded her of what they’d done. Or more specifically, what Mason had done to her. She wanted more. She wanted something more than those fingers, devil-blessed though they were.

But here in the daylight, she knew he’d been right. She hadn’t been ready, running toward him from nightmares. If he’d followed through, she might have woken up feeling far more wary and mistrustful of him than she already was. Of course that explained it only for her. What about for him? He was male, for Heaven’s sake. How many would have resisted a woman throwing her legs open and saying “take me now” like that? She’d been too much of an exhausted puddle when it was over to even offer to reciprocate with her hand, or mouth. And she couldn’t believe she’d had that thought, or trembled from the imagining of being down on her knees again, like that first night . . .

Okay, Jess, this isn’t a high school date. He’s a vampire, a nine-hundred-year-old vampire. He can get his rocks off with his two third-mark servants anytime. He doesn’t need to . . .

Oh, bollocks. He’d been hard as iron against her leg last night, and based on the size of that iron bar, he’d wanted her as much. So why had he held back?

A sense of honor. Of course. It was the only explanation that made sense. She scowled. Bloody honorable, saving-the-damsel-in-distress, irritating bloodsucker. She didn’t want to be the damsel in distress. Okay, so maybe she did need his care during her way-too-frequent meltdown episodes, but still . . .

“Aarggh.” Throwing back the covers, she put her legs over the side. The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted, who she was or if she was a fucking insane psychotic or simply a damaged soul right now. Maybe she was both. But she did know he’d wanted her. Part of her had wanted to prove she could get him to give in to that desire. But had it been because she wanted him, or wanted that sense of control?

“You must not be in my head right now,” she said aloud, glaring around the room as if he were there, hovering like a ghost. “You’d have made some smart-ass comment by now.”

She waited, and only silence was forthcoming. He might still be sleeping, of course. She’d kept him up past his vampire bedtime.

But the attempt at humor didn’t dispel the twinge of isolation she felt at the silence. Therefore, she wasn’t entirely unhappy to see Amara come in, bearing a tray loaded with food. God, she was pathetic. Afraid of the dark, afraid of being alone, afraid of trusting . . .

“How are you this afternoon?” Amara sat down next to her, comfortably reaching out to smooth Jessica’s rumpled hair and glancing down at her breast to see the now-faded mark of the knife. “You gave Lord Mason quite a scare last night. All of us, in fact.”

Before Jess could formulate a reply to that uncomfortable observation, Amara had picked up the satin robe on the end of the bed and shook it out, holding it for Jessica. Jessica put it on but belted it herself, adjusting her position to sit cross-legged on the bed.

“There’s enough here for two of me,” she ventured.

“I thought we could share an early dinner together.” Amara folded her flexible legs into a mirror of Jess’s seat and picked up a croissant. “These were just baked. They’ll melt in your mouth.”

“More babysitting?”

“No, actually. I brought you something, other than food.” She produced a clothbound book from the pocket of the tunic she wore and laid it on the covers. “That came from Lord Mason’s library. Farida had two journals. He lost the one you found, many years ago. This one he still had.”

Jess stopped, the croissant halfway to her mouth, her gaze snapping to the book. The wrapping was silk, a painting of a desert scene on the front, the imprint of an orchid in the foreground.

Wiping her hands on the napkin, she picked it up with careful, loving hands. “Nothing I found indicated she had two of them. In fact, I never even found out how she learned to read and write English, which was one of the main reasons I sometimes doubted the memoir was even hers. But her words . . . the way she wrote, it was as if she were speaking. How she’d repeat herself, or ramble on about him . . .” A light smile touched Jessica’s mouth, but the thought brought sadness as well.

“It is what a woman in love does, not a professional writer,” Amara finished quietly, meeting her eyes. “Lord Mason does not speak of her often, but Enrique told me once that Farida’s mother had some connection to a British family, by blood. She taught her daughter to read and write English before she died. Sheikh Asim allowed it, because his wife had proven useful in preparing correspondence with outside trading contacts. He was a man of some standing already, but that ability increased his influence with other tribes.”

Jessica wondered if that was why Farida was often allowed to listen in on his meetings with male visitors. She stroked her hand over the book again. Another piece of the puzzle solved, but it created even more questions. Had her mother been full British, maybe an explorer’s daughter who fell in love with Sheikh Asim, converted and became one of his wives? Or perhaps Farida’s mother had only been part British, the next generation of such an unexpected union. How wonderful it would be to explore this new branch of Farida’s family tree, ask Mason the questions burning inside of her—if she wasn’t determined to get as far away from vampires as possible before this was all done.

“When Lord Mason noted how she liked writing in her journal,” Amara continued, watching her face, “he picked up this second one for her, from a caravan. He thought she would run out of pages eventually in her first journal. Instead, she was so pleased by his gift, she switched between them randomly. It might be somewhat confusing to follow the timelines, but he thought you might like to read it.”

“I would,” Jessica murmured, passing her hand over the silken cover, imagining Farida’s hands cradling the book. “Amara, what does he want from me?”

The sloe-eyed woman met her gaze. “I can’t speak to that, Jessica. But I do know he is more concerned about what you want for yourself.”

Jessica’s irritation spiked. “That’s typical.”

Amara merely forked up a bite of mango and put it on her tongue. “Mmm. You should try this.” Jess put the book aside. “I don’t accept that.”

Amara paused, lifted a brow. “I’m not following.”

“I don’t want to be some fucking damsel in distress. That’s not who I am, damn it. I’m not a victim. Okay, yeah, so terrible things were done to me. But that’s . . . I don’t want a bloody, fucking V stamped on my forehead, as if that sums up everything I am. And he should have . . . I wanted . . .” She scrambled out of the bed, nearly upsetting the tray. “I’d rather live in the stables as a groom, with Jorge, than be treated like an abused pet he has to handle like glass.”

“I see.” Amara chewed thoughtfully. “Perhaps you would feel better if you got out.”

“I’ll go to the stables later, but—”

“No. Not what I meant.” Amara put down her fork and cocked her head, as if deciding whether or not to continue. “There’s a private club in the city Lord Mason visits. We go about once a month. It’s a short charter flight from the estate. Perhaps you would join us.”

Jess studied her face, came back to stand by the bed. “What kind of club?” Though of course she already knew, because the blood was draining out of her face, dizziness gripping her so that Amara was off the bed and capturing her arms, easing her back to the mattress.

“Jessica, it’s all right.”

“It’s a fetish club.”

Amara bit her lip. “Yes, for Masters and their slaves. There are a few other vampires who visit, but it is primarily human, so of course we do not reveal what Lord Mason is there.”

She’d wanted him to take her over last night, and yet she couldn’t even mask her reaction to a suggestion, a harmless suggestion. “I can’t . . . ,” Jess said faintly.

“No one is asking you to do so.” The crisp voice came from the door, sharp as a knife blade. Jessica lifted her gaze, finding Mason there. He had a small bundle under one arm and wore his usual house garb of riding breeches and loose white shirt, causing her pulse to accelerate. However, she also noticed the temper snapping in his golden eyes. So did Amara. She dropped to one knee, bowed her head. “My apologies, my lord.”

“Leave the tray and go.”

Jess rallied, pushed her trepidation away. Hadn’t she said she didn’t want to be treated like glass? “Don’t get all mad at her. She was just trying to help.”

Mason cut his gaze to her, his attention dipping to the loose wrap of the robe, then rising back to her face. “I realize that. Her motives were inappropriate.”

Amara had already risen, giving Jess a reassuring look and a quick press of her knee before moving to the doorway. When she reached it, Jess drew in a breath, for Mason’s hand flashed out, grasped the woman’s throat. Amara stilled, unresisting, her gaze meeting his briefly, before it swept down, her lashes fanning her cheeks. “Do not forget your place, Amara,” he said, low. “I will be by shortly to get my dinner, and I am not likely to be kind about it.” She nodded, a flush rising in her cheeks, and then she slid past him, her body brushing his. Jessica noticed that flush wasn’t fear, any more than the feeling that uncurled in her own stomach at the rebuke. Then she remembered him poised over her, a few hours earlier, and crossed her arms across her chest, feeling an inexplicable irritation. “What was that? Vampire code for ‘I’ll fuck your brains out if you forget that’s your main purpose in my household?’ ”

“Astute,” he observed. Jess started at the hard edge in his tone. But when he looked down at the bundle in his hands, flexing his fingers on it, she narrowed her gaze.

“You’re mad because Amara’s motives had nothing to do with me. It was about you.” A brief flash of surprise was replaced by that infuriatingly unreadable look. “It’s something I shall resolve with Amara. It doesn’t concern you. This, however, does.” Coming to the bed and sliding the tray out of his way, he put down the bundle and settled his hip next to her, his gaze again sweeping her in that tantalizing way that made it hard for her to concentrate on the tension between him and Amara, and its potential source. But it was even harder, now that he was so close to her, to forget the implicit threat to his third-marked servant. Farida had not feared his punishments, nor did Amara. Deep inside that well she feared, Jessica knew why they didn’t fear it, why they might even embrace it. It turned over in Jess’s stomach, giving her a sour taste in her mouth.