Текст книги "Darkest distiny"
Автор книги: Pepper winters
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
That sex to him was a threat instead of a pleasure.
That he’d never known a kind word or touch.
It hurt.
Shooting away, I used the flush of embarrassment and another swell of pity to numb myself to the fact that I touched bags of his blood. Locking everything down, I stuck labels on for the monsters who’d forced this man to harvest his own life-force, and managed not to vomit as I carried both horrendously warm and heavy bags to the fridge.
Wrenching open the door, I smacked them onto the moving shelving that would keep them from coagulating.
Under the harsh light, the red glow was obscene. Each bag labelled and shelved like wine vintages in a cellar.
I spun around and bent over.
Planting both hands on my knees, I panted, “Please don’t ever, ever ask me to do that again.”
He merely buttoned his coat with a shiver. “I’m cold and tired. I’m going to rest.” Not looking at me, he moved stiffly, as if he didn’t trust his legs to support him. At the door, he turned and said, “Let yourself out. Whisper will guide you.”
As he stepped over the threshold, my temper burned away my stress, no doubt leading me into a whole heap of trouble. “You know, you could thank me.”
He turned and held onto the doorframe. “For what?”
“Not throwing up on you for one.”
The faintest twitch pulled at his mouth, but it died quickly. He turned to go but I couldn’t stomach another day where this man used me, commanded me, and refused to know my name.
If he was going to make me care about him. If he was going to make me do things that would irrevocably change me and not for the better, the least he could do was know the name of the girl he was destroying.
“My name...” I straightened and squared my shoulders. “Is Rook Snowden.”
His gaze snapped to mine. “Did I ask for it?”
“No, you didn’t. But now you know it. So use it.”
His upper lip curled and for a moment, it looked like he’d follow through with his threat to kill me, but his eyes snapped closed, he swayed against the door, and without another word, he left.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“YOU CAN LEAVE AGAIN, YOU KNOW.” I narrowed my eyes as I slipped from the kitchen, my arms laden with cleaning products from under his sink. Cleaning products he’d ordered me to collect the moment Whisper had dragged me into his quarters after finding me sunning myself in the garden. “You don’t have to oversee my work. I won’t slack off, even though I’d love to.”
I’d really, really hoped Lucien wouldn’t summon me today.
I’d assumed he wouldn’t be feeling well after draining two bags of blood yesterday and would want to rest, alone. But that assumption had been dashed the moment a slinky, shiny panther appeared in my pavilion, twined around me in hello, and not so subtly pushed me toward the exit and the black stone palace on the horizon.
I’d tried to refuse.
I wished I knew how to say no to a giant predator who knew exactly what disobedient women tasted like. But in the end, I’d had no choice but to be herded toward Lucien’s home, spying a few assassins training in the trees along the way.
A couple of girls had daggers, and one even had a crescent-shaped blade that flashed through the air—practicing their killing swings.
The thought of any of them actually harming Lucien made that odd, unfathomable loyalty spring hot, followed by the horror that if they didn’t succeed in killing him then...they were the ones who would be dead.
“Are you wanting me to leave so you’re free to steal from me?” Lucien asked softly from where he sat on the huge window seat. “Or are you planning on setting traps around my home?” Leaning against the wall, his long legs speared in front of him, bare feet smooth and relaxed. The padded seat formed a half circle, the glass soaring to the ceiling and drenching him in buttery sunlight.
My fingers gripped the disinfectant bottles a little tighter as my heart skipped a beat.
Did he have to look so beautiful?
With the sun pouring over him, his hair turned molten black, every strand slick as wet ink. His face looked carved from pale stone, sharp shadows lingered under his eyes, and lips set in a perpetual curl of disdain. He looked like a man carved to be worshipped, not one who bled himself dry for bastards.
“No, of course not,” I snipped, arching my chin and forcing myself to be utterly unaffected by him.
“Then why do you care if I read while you clean?”
“I think you’d be better in bed.”
“Excuse me?” His face blackened. “Remind me again that you’re not trying to sleep with me when every word out of your mouth hints at seduction.”
“Seduction?” I gasped. “Yeah, okay. That’s exactly what I’m doing.” Rolling my eyes, I laughed, amazed that I could. That I felt relaxed enough to joke with him. “I’m incredibly talented in making men want me by pointing out that I don’t want them lurking over me or that they look under the weather.”
“Some might take such observations as a sign that you care.” He spoke those words—I saw his lips move—but the moment the sentence ended; he looked shocked and angry. As if he’d had no intention of saying such things.
Our eyes locked.
Things flew between us.
Awkwardness mainly but also awareness and that uncomfortable undercurrent of connection.
Needing to sever such ridiculous things before they ruined me for the rest of my life, I blurted, “How are you even out of bed after yesterday?”
“And there you go again.” He smiled thinly. “Why are you suddenly so obsessed with my bed?”
“I’m not.”
His eyebrow arched as elegantly as if someone had painted it with a calligraphy brush. “Are you so sure about that?”
“Very sure. I’m merely concerned for your wellbeing.”
“Keep going and I’ll be forced to kill you based on the fact that your true colours are finally showing.” He flattened a palm over his book, pressing it against his thighs. “I was wondering when you’d slip and make your move like all the rest.”
“My move?” I scowled. “What move?”
He sighed with a soft smirk. “Aren’t you getting sick of this little game? You’ve done well, I’ll admit. You’re the first woman to gain access to my inner quarters and the only one who’s ever seen my bed, let alone been in it, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”
My cheeks heated, reminding me far too clearly that he was right. I had been in his bed. I’d been plastered beneath him in his bed. Our skin had touched. His fiery heat had soaked into me, branding me as if searing his way into my bones.
My heart raced as I forced a sunny smile. “You know what? I don’t think talking is our strong suit.” Shuffling the cleaning products in my arms, I backed up. “I’ll just...do what you summoned me here to do.”
He smiled, holding my stare. “First wise thing you’ve said.”
Spinning on my heel, I marched toward the dining table that didn’t look like it had ever been used for a meal but was more of an office dumping ground. The stacks of papers, ledgers, and other official-looking documents all held a logo of a single glowing flame.
Placing the bottles and rags on the only clear space, I turned back to face him.
He’d resumed reading his book, his chin tipped down and the sunshine gilding him like he wasn’t human, but some fallen god who couldn’t escape this hellish world.
His gaze cut to mine, sensing me looking at him. “Now what?”
“I’m not good with medicine and I go out of my way to avoid blood, but you...you took two bags out of your body yesterday. That seems like a lot.”
Placing his thumb in the centre of his book, he closed it slowly and rested it on his lap. His signature black trousers and shirt rustled as he shifted. His black coat had been shed and tossed on the floor. “I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk.”
“I think I earned the right to ask a few questions after what you made me do yesterday.” I shuddered. “How can you act as if draining yourself means nothing?”
“I’m used to it.”
“Don’t you get...dizzy?”
He arched a brow and reached for a teacup on the quaint side table shaped like a swan. “Why? Are you suddenly worried about me?” With a barely-there smirk, he brought the fragile china to his lips, the sunlight twinkling on the gold leaf around the rim.
His mouth pressed lightly to the cup, the tendons in his throat worked as he swallowed.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Heat stung my cheeks as his sleeve draped down his arm, revealing the silver cuff. The cuffs that I now knew opened a constant line to bleed him dry.
“I’m just worried that you drain your blood as if it’s as simple as driving to the supermarket for snacks. Normal people don’t have permanent ports in their veins.”
“Supermarket?” He placed the cup down and spread open the book on his lap. “What’s that?”
I froze. “You’ve never seen a supermarket?”
He held my stare, his face deadpan and unreadable. “Describe it to me.”
Moving toward him, another dose of absolute pity filled me. “Oh, you poor thing.” I forgot how to command my body—to stop it from going to him. I crossed the room in a daze and plopped heavily onto the window seat, right by his knees.
He stiffened as my hip nudged his leg. His lips twitched and his eyes narrowed, landing on mine with cutting distrust. “What are you doing?”
“You’ve never seen the outside world? Never been shopping or to a restaurant or the beach?” I sucked in a breath. “That’s...that’s—”
“Are you truly this gullible or are you still trying to fool me with tricks?” Shifting away as much as he could, his knuckles turned white as his fingers clutched his book. “Of course, I know what a supermarket is. Now, get away from me.”
I shot to my feet, knocking over a stack of books that he’d placed by his reading nook.
He winced at the clattering but couldn’t hide the wariness in his gaze. He might look like he’d happily kill me—as if he was moments away from having Whisper drag me from his sight—but his temper seemed less from hate and more from exhaustion.
The shadows beneath his eyelashes hinted the blood loss was the least of his problems. Was he an insomniac? Did he have nightmares? If he didn’t want me here, then why had he ordered his four-legged bodyguard to fetch me?
Backing up a little, I said softly, “You’re not feeling well. I can see it on your face.”
His jaw worked as if he chewed on a response then swallowed it down in favour of a snarl. “Don’t presume to know me.” Pointing at the room, he added, “Get to work.”
I huffed and crossed my arms. “I told you, I’m not good at working.” My head throbbed a little in agreement.
“You’re complaining about a little dusting?”
“I’m saying I don’t understand why people work for work’s sake.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I arched my chin at the huge open-plan quarters that was his prison cell. “Apart from the tidy up of clutter, the room is incredibly clean.” I shrugged. “No grime on the skirting boards, no dust on the mantel. Even the windows are streak-free.”
He sat lethally still. “Are you refusing to obey me?”
“No. I’m merely saying you obviously look after this place well enough that you don’t need a maid—”
“And if you like living you’ll do as you’re told and clean.”
“But it’s already clean—”
“I don’t care.” His jaw clenched and any sign of being willing to converse slammed closed with an impenetrable scowl. “Do it.”
An icy shiver ran down my spine, reminding me of all the things I tended to forget when I was in his company. This man wasn’t kidding when he threatened to take my life. I’d seen him do it to others. I shouldn’t piss him off.
He was also the only one who could potentially grant me my freedom.
How I didn’t know, but...wasn’t it better to stay on his good side rather than antagonise him?
Ugh, forget it.
Letting my arms fall, I backed away with a respectful nod. “As you wish.”
His nostrils flared, and for a second it looked like he might say something, but I spun around and marched back to the table to arm myself with disinfectant.
* * * * *
I worked obediently for three hours.
I tried to find lint and debris, grime and dust on every piece of furniture, lantern, and figurine. And apart from a few dirty spots on the coffee table legs where the lattice wood liked to gather dust in its corners, Lucien’s home was horrendously clean compared to mine—and I had a legion of staff back in the house I’d fled from over seven years ago.
Cleaning his space told me more about him than he probably wanted, chiselling away at the walls I’d hastily erected around my heart, chipping them away stone by stone as I gathered up more of his secrets.
He lived here alone.
He’d lived here alone for twenty awfully long years.
He didn’t have anything like modern-day society to distract himself from boredom. I’d found no cell phone, laptop, or access to the outside world apart from a single tablet with a folder full of random movies.
His library was extensive with books in both English and Mandarin, but the fastidious tidiness hinted the long hours were held at bay by finding things to polish, wax, and wipe.
“What are you doing down there?”
I squeaked and looked up, my gaze skimming up a pair of black-clad long legs.
Lucien towered over me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His long hair kissed his upturned collar, slightly messy as if he’d run his hands through it before coming to find me.
Holding up the thin rag I’d been using to pull through the tiny gaps of his intricately carved coffee table, I blinked innocently. “Doing what you told me to do.”
Stepping back a little, he commanded, “Get up.”
My heart kicked, drenching my system in a rush of adrenaline.
A steady pounding pressed against my temples the longer I looked up at him. The more he glowered, the more my pulse flurried beneath his fierce attention.
Swallowing hard, I begged my body to behave as I scrambled upright and balled my hands.
As expected, I had a few seconds of feeling okay before my vision went black, my ears rang, and the need to fall back down again made me sway.
I tripped.
Strong, warm hands locked around my elbows, keeping me upright. His thumbs dug into my forearms, his intake of breath ever so close as he stepped into me. “What’s wrong with you?”
My vision rushed back but the pain in my head grew worse, thanks to him touching me.
How long had it been since another human, male or female, had put their hands on me? My father’s distracted squeeze a few days before he died? My mother’s hurried kiss as she rushed to the lab?
Apart from them, no one had touched me in almost a decade.
And yet, this man...he’d been on top of me—if only for a few minutes. He’d had his hand on my throat more than once—if only to let me go. He’d touched me with violence, annoyance, wariness, and hate, but right now...right now his touch shook just a little, his fingers digging painfully tight.
Our gazes locked but he didn’t let me go. His thumbs pressed a little harder as if blaming me for this uncomfortable connection. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he didn’t know what to feel.
He’d asked me a question, but I forgot how to answer.
Time webbed around us as my heart palpitated.
In the outside world, he’d be classified as the villain through and through. He’d killed multiple women and held my life in his palm, and yet...I couldn’t see him as the bad guy—not entirely at least.
Clearing his throat, he finally muttered, “Are you going to fall down if I let you go?”
I swallowed and shook my head, wincing a little at the pressure.
Unlocking his hands, he released me, stepping back as if our closeness stung him.
Squeezing the back of his nape, he sucked in a breath as if to speak then just shook his head and prowled off.
I watched him go, unable to take my eyes off his lean, lethal body. At some point, he’d donned his coat. Unbuttoned, it flared around his legs like black wings, snapping at the furniture as he moved past.
Disappearing into the kitchen, he returned a moment later with something in his left hand.
Whisper jumped down from the couch where he’d been napping all afternoon. Yawning and revealing glistening ivory teeth, he grunted and headbutted Lucien’s hip as he moved past the dopey jungle cat.
Lucien’s lips flicked into a smile before he smothered it with another scowl.
Marching barefoot back to me, he held out his hand. “Here.”
Whisper trailed him, looking between both of us as if trying to understand where the sudden tension had come from.
I narrowed my eyes and made no move to take whatever Lucien wanted to give me.
Exhaling heavily, he grabbed my wrist and shoved the earthen jar into my palm. “Your reward for surviving such gruelling labour.”
My skin sparked and warmed beneath his hold, greedy for touch even if it was from him. Letting me go, he rubbed his fingers as if he’d felt the same tingle then shoved both hands behind his back.
Running a finger over the label, I whispered, “Pear-blossom wine?”
“You smelled of it when you—” He cleared his throat and looked away. “When you helped me the other night.”
My nipples pebbled, remembering the icy shock of wine soaking into my shirt as Whisper knocked me down and dragged me into Lucien’s bedroom.
“I assumed you liked it,” he added softly.
“You assumed correctly.”
He nodded stiffly as if this was the first time he’d ever given something to someone that wasn’t a grave. “Good. Then take it.”
I fumbled for something to say. To ask why he’d rewarded me, but all I could think about was how he’d looked that night in his room. How pain etched his skin, and agony drenched him in sweat. How he’d burned and groaned and clutched me as if I was the only thing keeping him alive.
My skipping heart forgot entirely how to beat as my gaze tangled with his, drifting down his throat to lock onto the black shirt hiding the silver disc embedded in his chest. “Do you feel pain like that often?”
He bared his teeth. “Why? Next time will you try to kill me instead of help me?”
“Your lack of trust that I’m not here to kill you is getting old.”
“You’re annoyed at me for protecting myself?”
“I’m annoyed at your paranoia.”
Anger flared in his eyes. “Is it paranoia when everyone proves me right?”
I sucked in a breath.
How would that feel? Living in a world where everyone he’d ever known had betrayed him?
My heart hurt and I deliberately changed the subject. “How did I help you?”
He braced himself as if the question stabbed right in his vulnerability. His jaw worked as if he contemplated refusing to answer but then he admitted, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
He shook his head. For a second, it looked like he’d say something else—to give me the answers I was desperate for—but he coughed and cut around me. His voice sailed like snow over his shoulder. “Leave.”
The word landed heavy and final.
He vanished down the corridor leading toward his bedroom.
Whisper gave me a feline version of a shrug, then stalked after his master, leaving me alone with my hard-earned wine and a heart full of questions.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SOMEHOW, ANOTHER TWO WEEKS PASSED.
Another fourteen days of being summoned in the morning, given tasks to complete around the palace, and constantly aware of Lucien watching me.
He was everywhere, even when he was nowhere.
I sensed him around every corner, in every shadow.
His very existence seemed tethered to my own. There was something about him that was too much—too dark, too depressed, too cold and quiet and calculating. But there was also something else too...something that only grew stronger, deeper, and harder to ignore the more time I spent with him.
On the rare moments where I managed to look at him without him noticing, I’d catch sight of his ever-present hatred and rage. He ached with his imprisonment. He throbbed with helpless frustration. But beneath all of that, he hurt.
He hurt every second of every day and my wariness of him somehow switched over those two weeks from fearing for my life to fearing for his. Whenever he thought I was in another room, obeying his command to sweep and mop and dust, I’d occasionally sneak back to see what he did on his own.
The first time I’d spied on him, I’d had to slap both hands over my mouth to prevent myself from asking if he was okay. He’d been sitting on the window seat—one of his favourite spots—and his face turned white. His lips pressed tight together; his hand clutching his heart as if he could rip out the silver disc embedded in his chest. He groaned low and long, sweat rolling from his hairline and glittering on his cheeks.
I’d moved to help him...somehow...but Whisper blocked my path, preventing me from going to his master’s side.
The second time I’d stumbled on Lucien in the throes of agony was when I’d gone to refill my water bucket in the kitchen. He stood in the walled courtyard by a gnarled, slightly stunted tree in the centre. His back had been straight and stiff, but his head bowed as he buried his face in his hands.
I’d almost dropped the bucket as he suddenly collapsed to his knees and wrapped his arms around his middle, rocking forward and pressing his forehead to the ground.
I’d rushed toward the door without thinking.
Unfortunately, Whisper appeared again.
“Why are you stopping me?” I whispered. “Didn’t you bring me to him the last time he had a bad attack in his bed?”
The panther hung his head and whimpered as if he wanted me to help but had been commanded to keep me away.
The third time, I’d almost risked a panther bite.
I’d been up the ladder cleaning the books on the top levels of his library. A heavy thud and crash of porcelain had me racing down and flying into the central living space.
Lucien lay on his side by the door, a smashed coffee mug beside him and a puddle of hot liquid spilling across the floor. He’d twitched, his shirt pulling aside to reveal the top of the silver disc on his chest and the red light flickering there.
I’d tried to go to him. To keep him supported as he passed out for reasons I couldn’t understand, but Whisper once again stopped me.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” I hissed. “He’s unconscious. Aren’t you worried?”
The huge black cat looked over his shoulder, his entire body slouching with fear for his master.
“This is ridiculous. I need to check on him.” I skirted around Whisper and dashed toward Lucien, only for the large cat to leap in front of me with a snarl.
For the first time, the panther acted as if I were his enemy, his fangs bared and sharp.
I’d deliberated taking the chance that he wouldn’t hurt me as Lucien groaned in his sleep, quaking with misery. But Whisper herded me back and snapped at me until I fled.
Lucien’s suffering wasn’t the only thing I’d had to get used to.
When he wasn’t in agony, he was out hunting.
Almost every night, a scream would cut through the estate, only to be cut off a moment later as a girl’s life ended—either by Lucien or Whisper.
Our numbers dwindled and the lavish picnics I’d often walk past on my reluctant way to work grew less and less. I didn’t know how many women were still alive, but it was definitely fewer than what first entered.
At least Laura—the other ‘mistake’—was still alive. Keeping to the outskirts and doing her best not to antagonise the others.
Another silver lining about being forced to do physical work meant sleep returned. Most nights, I’d tumble into bed, exhausted from working all day.
In the mornings, I always took my time before reporting to Lucien. I’d cling to laziness and the safety of doing nothing—taking a long shower, eating a slow breakfast, dressing in the least restricting dresses I could find.
At least, with those snatched moments of doing the bare minimum, I managed to hold it together long enough to deal with Lucien and his many household demands.
But what I hated the most was the blood-harvesting.
Every third day, I’d be forced to help, even though I’d said I would never bleed him again. Even though I liked to think I could make some choices in here, I wasn’t allowed to make that one.
He’d drag me into that half-office, half-hospital room.
He’d walked me through the process again, keeping predator eyes on me as I swayed and swallowed and did my best to stay conscious.
And then he’d make me bleed him, tag the bags, and carry them to the fridge.
By the fifth time, I’d learned how to shut myself down enough that the sensation of his warm blood in those slippery anticoagulant bags didn’t make me quite as nauseous.
I shut down my stupid heart and obeyed him because I couldn’t do anything else.
I’d lived in this elegant nightmare for almost a month.
I’d walked the gardens while the fires of hell burned every night and witnessed the bodies of women who’d come to murder him being carried out each morning.
And I thought nothing would get better or worse.
Until it did.
