Page 10 of Feral Possession

Dove crossed her arms, tucking her hands into her armpits. “Not a music fan, huh?”

“That wasn’t music,” he snapped.

Dove stiffened, sucking in an injured breath. He didn’t have to be mean about it.

Marcus loomed over her. She shivered, keeping her eyes downcast, avoiding the intimidating glare she’d likely find beneath that ghastly hood.

While he didn’t shout, his low, threatening tone raised goose bumps on her arms. “I will say this once and only once, so listen closely. Bright light gives me migraines. Noise gives me migraines. Your. Voice. Gives me migraines. As my Chosen, you will respect my wishes and keep anything that provokes me to a minimum. Am I clear?”

Dove lowered her hands from her pits, shrinking in on herself, hugging her waist. “Clear. Yep. So clear. Crystal in fact.” By the fates, this was going to be much worse than she thought. No music, no talking, no noise. She’d go mad from the boredom. When she was bored, bad things happened. It was one of the reasons Vivian had entertained her every desire. The reason Havenwood released her two years early.

Across the room, she spotted a stout woman she’d yet to meet. The lady watched her interaction with Marcus, face a mask of motherly concern. Over a simple gray dress, she wore a crisp half apron. Every strand of her silver hair was twisted into a flawless bun.

When Dove caught her eye, the woman hastened across the room, blocky heels clipping the hardwood. “Good evening, Lord Steele. How was your trip?”

“Tedious.” Marcus sighed, stepping back. Dove sucked the first full breath she’d taken since he’d closed in on her.

The servant clasped her weathered hands at her waist. “Sir, you have an unexpected guest waiting for you in your study.”

Marcus’s energy darkened and swelled. “You know I’m not accepting visitors.”

“Yes, I understand, but… it’s your uncle.” The older women’s tone firmed, her chin tipping higher as though she dared him to reprimand her. “I felt it wasn’t my place to deny the Council magister entrance.” Given her demeanor, Dove suspected the elderly woman was someone who’d known Marcus for quite a while, long enough to feel confident of her position in his home. Unlike Dove, who skated on fractured ice.

Though it seemed impossible, Marcus’s mood darkened even further. His shoulders tensed, a low growl emerging from his chest.

“Fine,” he grated. “I’ll see to my uncle while you take care of my Chosen.”

“Very well, sir.” The housekeeper bobbed her head.

“Make sure she understands the rules,” he said over his shoulder, storming toward one of the hallways.

The woman heaved a disapproving sigh before turning to Dove, introducing herself in a gentle voice. “Hello, dear. I’m Ida Stoneworthy, Lord Steele’s housekeeper.”

“It’s nice to meet you. Dove Laurent.” She thrust out her palm and Ida accepted, clasping her with both hands, patting instead of shaking. Soft shades of peach and pink washed over Dove’s senses, along with some supernatural vibes.

“You’re an anculus?” Dove asked.

“Yes, dear,” Ida answered, a note of pride in her tone. “My family has served the Steeles for centuries.” Like Vivian’s butler, Gilbert, the maid was descended from generations of those hand-selected to serve the vampire aristocrats.

“Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll get you settled?”

“That sounds lovely.” Dove exhaled.

Ida led her to a hallway, opposite the direction Steele had headed, just off the main room. “Here we are, my dear. I do hope your room is to your liking. There was so little time to prepare.”

“Tell me about it,” Dove muttered. Twenty-four hours since the zombie hellhound attack, and Dove had a new benefactor and home. Temporary. It was all temporary, she reminded herself. The second Vivian gave the all clear, Dove was as good as gone.

Ida leaned her shoulder into the heavy door and pushed it inward, leading Dove inside.

Like the rest of Marcus’s home, her accommodations were beautiful and completely lacking in personality. Before her was a snowy tundra of white, cream, and vanilla. On the bed, gasp, were zero toss pillows. Oh, the humanity!

She turned to find Ida watching her, anticipation in her raised brows.

“It’s, um”—bland—“nice. Everything a Chosen could ask for.”

Ida’s rounded cheeks sank. “You hate it. I told him it needed a touch of color.”

“Well, technically, white is a color. It’s beautiful. Fit for a queen.” A frozen queen who lived in an ice castle. Dove fought the urge to spin around the room, singing songs about building snowmen. The rug beneath her feet seemed thick enough to make snow angels. Yeah, she was totally doing that the minute Ida left her alone.

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