Page 20 of Entity

No sound comes from within Eros’s room.

“Eros?” I whisper, knocking lightly. I’m afraid to speak any louder, like something unwanted will hear me.

He doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t. He’s in sleep mode. The thought of him standing in that room, beautiful and still as Michelangelo’s David, hidden away from the world in utter silence and darkness, raises a sudden lump in my throat. He should be outside. He should be enjoying his youth, or…

I pull away from the door abruptly. There is nothing Erosshouldbe doing. He’s fine. He’s a complex program loaded onto some very sexy hardware. I may as well be lamenting the fact that my phone can’t get married and raise a family.

And Eros isn’t why I’m down here, anyway.

My breathing is still shallow. A sweat breaks out on my upper lip as I turn to the door that hung ajar earlier.Hisdoor. The Prototype.

The wail, those echoing slams, reverberate in my mind. I’m shaking. Fight or flight wells up in my chest, demanding that I flee.

Don’t be a pussy, Katherine.

Every minute that goes by is a minute that Ian could return. That those strange sounds, the vision in my guest room, couldbecome real and cause me harm. But I don’t stop. My feet carry me forward. I have eyes only for that door.

I type in the code, and there’s a soft click as the door unlocks.

Every hair on my body stands on end. My stomach flips, fear and excitement turning my gut to mush. I push on the door.

I hold my breath.

Darkness waits for me beyond. But as the door swings open, pale light fades on, slowly brightening to illuminate the room. It’s just like Eros’s: empty and white, but for a circular dais at the center. And on the dais, unmoving, bathed in shadow, stands the Prototype.

His features are shadowed. He’s tall and elegant. Unlike Eros, he is not posed artfully, but stands unassuming, his weight distributed to one leg, the other bent slightly at the knee. His arms are folded in front of him. His face, mostly obscured, seems peaceful in the darkness.

I step into the room.

The light brightens just enough to clear the shadows from his face.

My heart stops.

The Prototype is breathtaking. Where Eros is bright and vivid, almostmorethan human, this… this creature is something else. His skin is pale porcelain, so smooth and delicate that I can see his synthetic veins running like blue threads underneath. Thick silvery hair falls past his shoulders in waves. His nose is angular, aristocratic. Cupid’s bow lips turn down to meet a sharp jaw and chin. Dark, elegant brows arch low and brooding over honey-colored eyes.

Every part of him is beautiful, making up an achingly flawless whole. But a shadow seems to hang over him. His expression is almost dour. And his clothes, intricately embroidered black pants and shirt, vaguely Medieval in style, reveal nothing but his throat, face, and hands.

There is nothing other than his physical attributes, and maybe the reputation Ian has so effectively crafted for him, to set the Prototype apart from Eros. ButIfeel infinitely different. When I saw Eros for the first time, I was overcome with awe, eagerness, fascination. But with the Prototype, here and now, I feel like I’m taking the final step of a long and arduous journey. I’m breathing fresh, unspoiled air for the first time.

It’s strange, almost embarrassing, reacting this way to a silent and unmoving figure. Strange that my heart has slowed to a tranquil crawl. My muscles have relaxed, my shoulders slumped in a palpable relief. Strange that from the moment I stepped into this room and saw the Prototype, I felt a bizarre, inexplicable sense of comfort.

It doesn’t make any sense, but I go with it. Better strangely calm than strangely disturbed.

I make one full circuit around the Prototype, blatantly admiring him one last time before we meet. And then I kneel at his feet, pressing the back of his heel. He’s wearing boots, but through the supple leather, I feel something give way. I scramble to my feet, stepping back. I don’t want him to be startled when he wakes.

I hold my breath.

Slowly, like the first wind of a brewing summer storm, he comes to life.

His extremities shift first, moving hesitantly, testing. Then he inhales. Exhales. The sense of comfort, which I begin to recognize as deep familiarity, washes over me like a sun-warmed sea. I watch his every move like I’m trying to memorize him.

And then his eyes alight, and he blinks, turning slowly to look at me.

The world falls away.

For an instant, I feel like I’m tumbling from the top of this skyscraper, rain-lashed and free, until the world opens up and a silent blackness envelopes me, welcoming me home.

And then the feeling goes as abruptly as it came. I’m lost for words, for understanding. What the fuck is this Pleasurebot doing to me?

---