Page 19 of Vampire Savage

This woman will be enough tonight. I’ll fucking make sure of it.

Chapter Eight

WREN

Pacing always seems to help people in movies but all it’s doing is cranking up my nerves. In twelve minutes, Landon will be walking through the door of my father’s specially curated antiquities and curiosities gallery. I’d been confused by it when he first announced his decision to open it a year ago, since it has no connection to his Benoit corporation. My father has always been an avid collector, filling our home with ancient pieces of history from civilizations lost to time. Before now, he’s always preferred to invite people to our home in order to see these pieces. And his intentions to sell some of the pieces? No, this place is entirely unlike my father.

Checking the time on my watch, I consider running to the bathroom. I don’t necessarily need to, but I feel like I should splash water on my face or something. Anything to compose myself better. Lan had texted me directly following his departure from dinner, and I hadn’t been able to reply until the following day. Even then, all I could say was a time for him to arrive. What I really wanted to ask was who the hell does he think he is and where was my thong?

When I’d realized Lan was the man we were meeting for dinner, I momentarily considered faking a heart attack or some other medical emergency. Anything to get me out of there. I still don’t know if enduring that dinner was easier than the consequences of ruining it in my father’s eyes.

“You are a grown-ass woman,” I tell myself as I stop near the middle of the showroom and put my hands on my hips. Reminding myself of the fact doesn’t completely ease my nerves, but that and a deep breath has me better prepared. Adults who have had illicit . . . assignations do business with each other all the time after. It’s not like he’s going to waltz in here and push up my dress again. I’m wearing pants, anyway.

Landon might not be on a directors board, but I dressed as if he were anyways. Clothing is a woman’s armor, especially in a field dominated by men. I settled on my tailored heather gray three-piece suit and sky-blue silk blouse. I’ve kept my accessories to a minimum, wearing my mother’s earrings and the delicate chain watch my father gave me when I graduated high school. Recalling how tall Landon is, I forewent my flats and opted for my “man-killer” heels, as Niamh dubbed them—my four-inch Christian Louboutin black leather pumps with the famed red soles. Sometimes a girl just needs to feel like a femme fatale.

With Landon, I know I need every edge I can get.

The only thing I relented with is my hair, leaving my strawberry blonde curls to fall down in a riot around my shoulders. A couple of bobby pins manage to keep it out of my face.

There’s only five minutes until he should be walking through the door and now I wish my father hadn’t ordered the windows papered to prevent pedestrians from seeing in before the grand opening.

It’s necessary, of course, for security reasons as well as PR. Many people have strolled past the building, located centrally in the most popular high art district in Newgate. Across the street from us is the only other studio on this street with a primary artist, though my father isn’t necessarily an artist. The Steele Gallery is run by a proprietor by the name of Elizabeth Juerta, and I liked her the instant I met her when my father and I first explored the district. The gallery features awe inspiring metal sculptures, some as finely delicate as sugar work and others as intimidating as a full-size rendition of Venus de Milo, so perfectly rendered in stainless steel that it boggles the mind it was done with a welding tool. When I inquired about the artist, Elizabeth gave me a secretive grin and told me that Mr. Steele never appears at the studio and in fact lives outside of the city itself. If anyone is interested in a piece, she is the only contact for the man. My father made some amused quip about artists and their eccentricities. The smallest frown marred Elizabeth’s brow before she smoothed it away, agreeing noncommittally. I noticed, even if my father did not. Later, when I’d returned to look at the pieces for greater inspection, not shocked at all at the five-figure price tags on most, I gathered enough from Elizabeth’s and my conversation that she was protective over her artist. To my great delight and surprise, Mr. Steele also created subtle pieces of those who live in the Barrows; shifters, fae, and vampires had featured in his pieces.

My favorite, the one I long to buy, is one Elizabeth showed me in the back. She’s preparing for a paranormal event, revealing that despite Newgate’s disdain for the Barrows, the pieces featuring supernatural creatures are bought nearly as quickly as they are displayed.

No doubt the one that captured me under its spell will be bought as quickly. A massive sculpture of seduction, inspired by Hades and Persephone. Hades, in this case, is a domineering vampire, his head dipped down towards his Persephone, a human woman, and his fangs bared. Rather than depict the woman in fear, he’d sculpted the woman in a pose and expression of willing submission. She clutches him, even as he looms over her, promising to fill her world with darkness.

She looks how I felt when Lan crowded me against that wall, his eyes full of wicked promises.

A tall figure stops in front of the door, and thanks to the one-way tint, I have the brief advantage of seeing Lan before he sees me. Unless, I realize, his vision is strong enough to see through it. Squaring my shoulders and reminding myself I am a professional with incredible accomplishments under my belt, I pull on the same confident persona I use in any meeting with my peers. The gallery is wider than it is long, and the center is still clear of podiums, the relics currently on display organized around the outside of the room and walls. My father wants the Dark Helm to be the central piece of his opening. It takes me all of thirty seconds to make it to the door, and while I walk, I pull out the key ring and select the front door key. My hand quivers but I slide it in on the first go. A moment later, I’m pushing open the door as he takes a step back.

He’s wearing a pitch-black three-piece suit that seems to absorb the light, with a crisp white shirt with the collar unbuttoned, foregoing a tie completely. If I have to guess, I’d say it’s Armani. With his tall and lean Scandinavian figure, his extremely kissable jaw, and perfectly tousled back wheat blond hair, words escape me for a long moment.

Landon Polastri is beautiful in the same way as a blue-ringed octopus–fatally.

Like Persephone, though, I long for his darkness.

My eyes find his, his right brow arched in quiet amusement, and like the pub, I don’t seem to have control over myself.

“You’re wearing contacts again.” My cheeks burn and I try to recover, gesturing inside with my other hand. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” Landon’s voice is distant, but it still washes over me. When he steps past me, the draft carries a scent of crisp snow, a touch of balsam, and something else that makes me think of cozy nights by the fire in winter.

I pull the door closed behind him, locking it again before pocketing the keys. Still not used to the engagement ring, it catches on my pocket and I mutter a curse.

“Did I congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials?” He asks sardonically, and I shoot a glare at him.

“It’s unnecessary,” I dismiss it and gesture to the open floor gallery. “Welcome to Demencius Antiquities.”

Lan stiffens when I announce the name, something we’ve kept secret despite all media inquiries. Money goes a long way to keep even public records private. I wait a beat but when he says nothing, I begin the introduction I’ve given multiple times.

“My father has always collected pieces of great historical value, to the consternation of many museums. He has traveled much of his life and collected pieces while doing so. Before, we kept each piece in our home in a specially designed room. Just as we had there, we’ve installed the best technology to control the environment within the gallery.”

I begin to walk to the right, at a stately pace that allows Lan plenty of time to study each display briefly. With heavy dictation from my father, the curator has positioned the relics in a way that allows the viewers to explore a specific type of item at a time. It begins with less consequential items, stones or plates etched in archaic symbols depicting messages to tradesmen, or simple pottery whose only note is the age and remarkable preservation. On the left side, the relics are similar. Then as we walk further into the gallery, more impressive pieces are on display: reed parchments, books, plates and vases, and then weapons.

“As you can see, each piece is in a case. Each one is environmentally controlled, specific to the requirements best suited to each piece’s preservation. Benoit Tech Corp has pioneered the protective technology that allows us to display items sensitive to light, such as our collection of Persian scrolls, without harming or risking degradation.”

Lan looks at me, his head tilting to the side. “From what I recall, it was your team heading the design. You were one of the main creators, right?”

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