Текст книги "Throne of the Fallen"

Автор книги: Kerri Maniscalcol

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Camilla rocked her hips forward, fingers threading into his hair, tugging his face closer, earning a growl of approval that vibrated so deeply, she went tumbling over the edge, her body taking flight as pleasure rippled through her in one hot wave after the last. She’d orgasmed before, but this was unlike anything else. This made her want to stay in this bedchamber forever.

He didn’t let up, his fingers and tongue continuing to ride her through the sensation until another orgasm barreled through her. She cried out as the next orgasm sent her straight out of her body, floating somewhere far away.

Synton’s ministrations slowed to languid strokes, not stopping until the final wave broke, leaving Camilla feeling boneless and spent. She collapsed back, breathing heavily.

“That…” Was a religious experience. If he was the Lord of Syn, she’d happily become the worst sinner there was.

He kissed her inner thigh one last time, then gently set her trembling legs down.

She felt the heat of him leave. His jacket rustled, the air stirred. Then all was quiet.

He couldn’t have…

Camilla sat up, ripped off the blindfold, and blinked. The room was empty. She stared around her, emotions whirling from one extreme to the next.

There was no way he’d done that and then left. Without a word.

“Synton,” she hissed, furious.

And unless she’d been in some suspended stupor from his talented mouth, he’d moved faster than anyone should be able to.

Still, he didn’t return.

The immeasurable ass had in fact given her an orgasm to end all orgasms, then left.

She stared at the door, body still trembling from the aftershocks, wondering how Synton could go from such burning passion to cold indifference that swiftly.

If he was playing a game with her, he would regret it.

Camilla decided right then that instead of showing him how angry she was, she, too, could play. She’d adopt his mask of indifference. Let him be humbled too.

She tossed herself back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, rethinking the whole encounter. It took far longer to get her annoyance under control than she cared to admit. But once she did, she puzzled his behavior out more clearly.

The blindfold.

The mention of only tonight.

The abrupt departure.

In some way, she was certain, he’d bared himself more than she had.

There was something he desperately didn’t want her to see, which only made her more curious to unravel the mystery of his past. Forbidden things always intrigued her.

And Lord Synton, mercurial moods, gruffness and all, was very tempting indeed.

TWENTY-THREE

THE PAINT, CANVAS, and brushes are all here in the studio,” Envy said by way of greeting, keeping his back purposefully to the artist he’d summoned at first light.

He’d left the Edwardses’ early that morning, also sending a message of apology for missing the celebratory betrothal breakfast.

“I expect you’ll work swiftly, Miss Antonius.”

He turned then, surprised that Camilla did not betray any of her feelings upon entry. It wasn’t like her to be so… quiet.

Envy had been certain she’d be furious that he’d left without so much as a goodbye. Or predictably lovestruck.

She was neither.

Her attention simply swept around the room, passing over him like he was one more canvas to catalogue. She gave no indication that Envy had been on his knees, nestled between her thighs, a few short hours before.

He bristled.

“Should you require anything else, Alexei will see to it.”

“Thank you, Lord Synton,” she said at last. “If you’ll have him bring a cup of tea, that will be all.”

Envy’s brows hit his hairline. Did she take him for a servant now?

“What of scones and clotted cream? Shall he bring some of those as well?”

“Unnecessary, but thank you for being thoughtful.”

Camilla ignored the obvious sarcasm in his tone, striding over to the wooden stool and easel, running a hand lovingly across the polished wooden grain before hoisting up her chosen canvas.

She’d dressed in a charcoal gown today, the color deep and rich in pigment. A line of pearls ran up the sleeves from her wrists to her forearms, and a second line traveled along the front of her bodice from neck to navel.

Envy wanted to pin her hands above her head and rip the pretty pearls off with his teeth.

“You may leave now,” Camilla said over her shoulder, almost as an afterthought. As if she’d forgotten he was there. “I work better alone.”

Envy stared after her.

Camilla did not drink at the party last night, so it wasn’t as if she’d been in some drunken stupor. He was positive she remembered coming all over his tongue, sweet and warm like honey. Was she choosing to ignore that?

Certainly, last night had been shocking. But Camilla had survived the crisis of Lord Garrey and moved on. Had decided she wished to live, to celebrate life.

He’d found that highly attractive.

He hardened just recalling her soft moans, her rapture pure and free as she fully submitted to the pleasure he’d given her.

She’d bitten her lip to keep anyone from hearing, and thrashed across those sheets, tangling them up just as he’d wanted her legs to be tangled with his when he climbed on top of her.

When she’d started undulating her hips, directing him to the exact place she wanted him, it took everything in him not to sink his cock into her wet heat the way they’d both craved him to. Camilla was a surprisingly vivacious lover and he’d only had one small taste.

One being the operative term.

His rule of only bedding someone once typically included one night of lust.

Which usually included every possible position, every act of pleasure. Then it made sense that their time together was over forever.

There wasn’t anything typical about how he’d gone about things with Camilla last night.

He’d left before he couldn’t tear himself away.

The moment she came, he’d imagined pulling her on top of him, dragging her up and down along his hard length until they’d both been teased into a frenzy.

Envy wanted to make love to her properly.

If he was only going to have one night to experience Camilla, he wouldn’t waste it. Plus, he’d promised not to ruin her, and had he given in last night, there was no way Lord and Lady Edwards would have missed the sound of Camilla’s moans.

Propriety had fucked him again. He was a walking, frustrated ball of gods-damned virtue, even after tending to himself with thoughts of her taste making him so cursedly aroused, he’d come with a demonic roar. Several, increasingly frustrating times. Each time he came, he was less satisfied than before. He craved her and his hand did not compare.

And her indifference was driving him positively feral. If this were a game played between them, he’d have to admit she currently had the upper hand. All previous lovers had been near savage with jealousy after he’d graced their sheets, begging for more. And that was the way he preferred things.

“Was there anything else, my lord?”

Envy’s attention snapped back to Camilla. She’d been watching him, and he’d been oblivious.

He was never oblivious.

That was antithesis to his very nature. Envy planned, he was meticulous, he missed no details. Everything was a puzzle for him to solve. If Camilla thought to best him in this game of seduction, she truly had no idea who she was playing against. If she wished to be indifferent, he would be doubly so. Use her move against her.

He gave her a cold look.

“Do not dismiss me in my own home, Miss Antonius. If it happens again, I’ll be forced to remind you who serves whom.”

Amusement ghosted across her features.

He had the distinct impression she knew exactly who’d served whom last night. Gods-damn it all. None of his shots were landing.

“I imagine that will be very hard for you, my lord.”

Camilla’s gaze slowly dropped to his trousers before she flicked it back up, mischief glittering in her silver eyes. His cock jerked in response, eager to draw her attention again.

“Since it appears that you’ll have your hands full thinking, I really must get to work.”

Saints curse him, Envy’s arousal grew at her second blatant dismissal.

If this had been any other time, any other circumstance, he’d have taken Camilla right there on the paint, using her perfect little bottom and his handprints to capture each thrust of pleasure on the canvas.

Then he’d hang the damn thing in his foyer.

Let her dismiss him then.

Rock-hard and frustrated in more ways than one, Envy left Camilla to her painting.

Out in the corridor, his cursed brother leaned casually against the wall, carving thin strips off a pear and popping them into his mouth. For once, his expression was oddly contemplative.

“What?” Envy snarled.

“You’re in trouble,” Lust said, pointing out the obvious. “The lust coming off you would make my court blush. Ever think maybe Camilla was chosen to distract you?”

Envy had.

Which meant the game master had chosen her with care. And that enraged him.

Camilla deserved to be more than a pawn, designed to pierce him deeply.

“In a few hours, she won’t be a problem anymore. I’ll have both the Hexed Throne and the next clue.”

And Miss Camilla Antonius would have a missing and presumed dead fiancé, one who’d left his entire mortal estate to his would-be wife.

It wasn’t part of their original bargain, but once Envy got what he was after he did not plan on returning to Waverly Green, and it made sense to give Camilla an added boon. He’d surmised that her finances had taken a downturn after her father’s death. Otherwise, he couldn’t imagine why she’d resort to creating forgeries. It was the least he could do to repay her for helping his court.

He would also see to it that Vexley would never be an issue for her again. Nor would any other player. He had Alexei working with his spies now, tracking down anyone else who was mildly suspicious in Waverly Green.

He’d kill the whole realm before anyone else got to her.

Lust gave him a doubtful look.

“Bring her to House Lust first, when you visit. If she starts with House Wrath, she’ll think we’re a bunch of vengeful savages who don’t know how to have any fun.”

Envy rolled his eyes. From what his spies had revealed, Wrath and his wife were having lots of savage fun. All over their House. In fact, rumors were circulating that Wrath had barely seen his court since his queen’s coronation. They’d been too busy playing with chains and knives, stoking each other’s fury like deviants.

If they kept this up, there would be a hellish lot of nieces and nephews soon.

“Camilla will come to House Envy first,” Envy said without thinking, immediately regretting it when Lust flashed a victorious grin his way. “Why are you still here?”

Lust lifted a shoulder and dropped it.

“Can’t I just be concerned for my brother? I know something’s wrong. We all do.”

Envy’s attention narrowed on his brother. It wasn’t an outright lie, but he sensed Lust was fishing. And he was getting entirely too close to the truth.

“You and Gluttony have a wager going?”

“There is that aspect as well.”

“Get out.”

Envy turned and began walking toward the kitchens. Apparently, he had a cup of tea to request for Miss Antonius. Then he’d take another long, icy bath. Alone.

“She doesn’t succumb to my influence, at least not strongly.”

Lust’s shift in topic drew him up short.

“Have you tried to use your power on her?” he continued.

“The rules of the game won’t allow me to use magic,” Envy finally admitted.

It was a weak excuse, one his brother didn’t bother to call out.

“Wait until after she paints the throne.” Lust was quiet for a moment. “Then try.”

Lust didn’t say it, but Envy knew what he was thinking: that Camilla might be very different from Envy’s last mortal.

Lust, for all his incessant bed hopping, was a secret romantic.

But Envy had already decided how this story would end.

In his world the only happily-ever-after he sought was for his court.

TWENTY-FOUR

CAMILLA PULLED THE emerald brush from where she’d hidden it in her bodice, eager to use it for the first time, even if she wasn’t as thrilled to begin work on the Hexed Throne.

Trepidation inched its way down her spine, making the fine hair along her arms stand on end.

She already sensed the wrongness of what she was about to do, felt the first gusts of dark magic blowing in around the edges of the room, like spilled ink bleeding its way across a fresh page. If her father’s stories could be trusted, the Hexed Throne—from wherever it slumbered—was cracking an ancient eye.

Would it be curious or furious at being summoned?

Camilla would soon find out—after striking the devil’s bargain with Synton, there was no getting out of this part now.

Perhaps she was giving her talent too much credit, perhaps it would only be a simple painting.

And Synton is only a simple art collector with no dubious aspirations whatsoever.

She all but rolled her eyes at herself. Denial never did anyone any favors. Damned or not, this was the fate she’d chosen for herself, and it was time to get to work.

A quiet tapping drew her attention to the window.

She walked over and peered out across the manicured grounds, not seeing anyone. Another chill of foreboding caressed her spine. It was probably just a wayward branch. But after her encounter with Lord Garrey in the hedge maze, she wasn’t so sure.

Anyone could be out there.

She glanced up at the cloudless sky, the color an unblemished, crisp fall blue. There was no breeze today. No hint of any impending storm. She shook the odd sensation away and took quick stock of her supplies; oils, watercolors, pencils, charcoal, pastels…

Tap, tap, tap.

She jerked her attention back to the window. Had a shadow just passed? Chills raced over her. Surely it was just a bird flying too close.

Foolish. Her mind was playing tricks on her, that was all. After such a violent attack, that was not surprising.

Tap, tap, tap.

This time, the noise was louder, a definite knocking. When Camilla looked out the window now, her breath caught. Was that Lord Garrey?

Fear slammed into her. Not Lord Garrey.

A cloaked figure stood just on the other side of the glass, his face hidden from view in the garment’s depths. A scream caught in Camilla’s throat a half second before she recognized the figure as one that had lurked outside her gallery. He rapped gloved knuckles along the pane, jerking his head toward the latch.

“Synton?” she called out at last, backing away.

Somehow, the figure outside seemed amused. It made no movement to try to stop her, or to come in. Still, she retreated toward the door, keeping her attention on the man. He lifted a hand—probably to break the glass—and any calmness she’d been clutching at vanished.

“Synton!” she yelled. “Hurry!”

The figure tilted his head back, but all she could make out was one pale yellow wolflike eye that seemed to wink at her before he abruptly turned and darted away.

A beat later, Synton was there.

“What’s wrong?”

Camilla stared at the window, recognition dawning, if not understanding. That eye… it couldn’t be. She had to be mistaken. She dragged her attention to the lord, trying to find a reasonable excuse for her behavior. She couldn’t very well tell him the truth, not now.

“Apologies, my lord. Do you have the tea?”

He gave her an astonished look.

Camilla cleared her throat awkwardly. “Once I begin painting, I’ll need to be completely alone.”

Synton frowned at her and then looked over the rest of the room, suspicion clear in his face. But there were some things she couldn’t reveal, not after how hard she’d worked all these years, and the man at the window—however he’d gotten here—was one.

After a drawn-out moment, Synton finally left, still frowning, and came back a few minutes later with a tray. A silver tea service, some biscuits, and cubes of sugar.

“Will that be all, Miss Antonius?”

His tone was mocking, but she ignored it.

“For now. Thank you.”

Once he left, Camilla fixed herself a cup of tea to settle her nerves. She didn’t want to think about why the hunter had tracked her down, especially now, of all times. He might once have promised he’d be back, but no good could come from his visit right before she painted a hexed object. And how had he known she was at Synton’s, anyway?

The more she’d tried to keep her world together after her father’s death, the more threatened it had seemed to become. She’d made her choice, years ago. That should have been the end of it. But deep down she’d always worried that she’d only been granted a small reprieve from the inevitable. Her past was circling like a buzzard, waiting to dive down and drag her carcass off. The hunter was gone for now, she figured, and surely harmless. Until he tried to speak to her again, she might as well embark on the task at hand.

Camilla sipped her tea, a smooth Waverly Green blend, and looked around the space again, finally able to appreciate the details now that she was alone.

As if it were chiaroscuro made solid, the chamber was a study of bold, dramatic contrasts—on one side a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows let in bright sunlight, and on the other dark paneled walls cast nearly black shadows in the corners.

A long wooden table held stacks of sketchbooks, leather-bound and well-worn. Broken bits of charcoal, a few balled-up sheets of paper. And a crystal decanter half filled with deep amber liquid, with two matching crystal glasses.

A large limestone fireplace along the wall at the back of the studio held a gentle blaze that was giving off a warm, cozy glow. A leather settee and a handwoven rug were tucked in front, offering an artist a comfortable place to lie back and dream. Along the last wall, a few canvases were stretched and waiting on easels.

It was all perfect, exactly what she’d have chosen for herself. Synton was a man who missed nothing.

She’d need to be extra careful around him now. The faster she completed the painting, the faster she’d be free from their arrangement.

She pulled an apron from the nearest chair and tied it around her waist.

Camilla returned to her easel, situated before the wall of windows, and sat, her attention focused solely on her own work now.

With steady hands she undid her locket and tucked it into a pocket she’d had sewn into her dress.

She kept the ridiculously oversized emerald-and-diamond ring on; then she canted her head and closed her eyes, pulling up an image from her father’s stories.

In all accounts, the Hexed Throne burned on one side only, completely unaffected on the other. Another stark contrast; another act of balance.

Camilla thought about her father’s voice, telling her the Hexed Throne had been created by the First Witch, a supernatural being descended directly from the sun goddess, according to legend.

Her daughter had fallen in love with a demon prince—one of their mortal enemies—and the First Witch was so furious, she hexed several objects in hope of destroying the demons. The story claimed that the Hexed Throne was meant to entice the prince, then overtake him.

Camilla let her memory expand, releasing its boundaries, moving beyond its emotions, until her talent felt alive in her veins, rushing out to her fingers, into the brush, ready to leap beyond.

Deep in her mind’s eye, the throne spoke to her, told her the colors it needed, the shape, the very manner in which it ought to be revealed.

Camilla waited until the whole image had presented itself before opening her eyes.

Now, when she looked at the canvas, she saw the entire composition as if it had already taken its rightful place. She understood that this wasn’t how it worked for everyone, but somehow, this was how it had always worked for her.

She began. The background needed to be solid black to start—like the throne was emerging from deep within an abyss, a spark of life where nothing should survive.

And perhaps a bit of mockery for the Creator.

The throne held its own power now. Was its own god in its eyes. The witch who’d hexed it, given it power and life, was nothing compared to its glory now.

Oh, yes, the rumors of its being sentient were true. Except it wasn’t mildly sentient, it was fully aware, had as many thoughts and emotions as any other being. The Hexed Throne knew what it was and liked playing games, considered itself quite the game master, in fact.

Camilla passed no judgment, felt no emotion other than determination to bring forth the piece the way it desired to be seen. She had become a vessel for it to inhabit as it saw fit.

When she used her talent, dove deep within that well of creative power, Camilla lost all sense of time. Seconds or months could pass, and she’d remain blissfully unaware, conscious only of her brush.

Her father used to say talent like hers was a long-ago gift, perhaps bestowed on her family by some powerful Fae, and that when Camilla delved into its power, she shifted into the time of Faerie or the shadow realms.

It was dangerous, Pierre would remind her, to meddle with unpredictable forces, to stand between realms.

The idea that she might not be able to control her gift annoyed Camilla, even coming from her father. The depths of her talent might be a gift, but she’d worked hard at her craft. To understand not just what called to her, but how to give it life, how to make it her own.

Something Pierre Antonius had once known too. Before he’d crumbled in the end.

Camilla set her brush down, rubbing at the knot that had formed in her chest.

Her heart ached when she thought of her father. Time was so precious, human or Fae. She’d give nearly anything to have one more moment with him.

The abandoned canvas sent out a subtle pulse of light, a shadow-like heartbeat.

The throne did not want Camilla’s attention to stray. It was displeased.

It was the master of her universe now. And she would obey.

In an almost trancelike state, she picked up the brush, dipped it into the paint, and continued. From the darkness the throne had emerged, and now from the throne came the flames, burning bright, bold, insistent—

What felt like a moment later, she’d been roughly lifted off her feet. A hand firmly held her legs, and another pinned her backside while all the blood rushed painfully to her head.

Disoriented and half under the throne’s spell, Camilla needed another long moment to realize she’d been unceremoniously tossed over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Just as suddenly as she’d been picked up, she was dropped to her feet, the sound of a door slamming finally snapping her into the here and now at the same moment her back hit a wall. The impact wasn’t strong enough to harm her, but it did jolt her into awareness.

Camilla blinked until her abductor’s furious face came into view.

“What the bloody hell were you doing, Miss Antonius?”

Synton’s normally cultured voice was nothing more than a snarl, his expression bordering on savage as his gaze raked over her.

Cold air kissed her flushed cheeks.

The temperature had suddenly dropped, as if each fireplace in the estate had gone out at once. If Synton hadn’t been standing so close, she’d have rubbed her arms to escape the chill.

“Painting.” She glared back at him. “Or have you somehow forgotten our bargain in the last hour, my lord?”

He gave her a strange look, eyes narrowing slightly.

He stared for an uncomfortably long beat, his expression remaining as ruthless and hard as ever as he slowly looked her over again.

After another intense sweep of his focus, his stance relaxed, and he stepped back.

Marginally.

A flicker of warmth returned to her skin.

“From now on, you’ll only work on the Hexed Throne with me inside the studio too.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m protecting my investment.”

“That’s not—”

“Negotiable,” he interrupted, flashing a dark grin as her scowl deepened. “Willingly paint with me in the room, or I’ll handcuff us together until it’s complete, Miss Antonius. And I do mean the whole time it will take. The choice is up to you, pet.”