Page 70 of Wicked Chains
Lucien
"So," Rose says, her fidgeting hands telling me she is, in fact, nowhere near as nonchalant as she wants to appear. "Now what?"
The frog, Hank, whose memory I suspect will one day outlive even me, has fallen asleep in my lap, a fact that makes the whole tableau more than a little surreal. In all my years on this earth, I can honestly say I did not expect to be gently holding a frog named Hank in my lap, as if it were a tiny child. I lift it with care and place it on the desk.
Rose watches me do this with interest. Vampires are not known for their gentle care. The paradox is not lost on me. But then, I have never known a man who was purely one thing or another, no matter how well he convinced himself otherwise.
I remain seated. She stands, arms folded. Her posture is pure performance, but I notice the tremor in her legs, the rapid throb of her pulse visible just beneath the delicate skin of her neck. I fixate on this. I cannot help myself.
"I can leave as well, if that's what you wish."
"You want to go?"
"Not particularly," I say. "But I will not impose my company. You have had quite enough of impositions lately."
A smile, small as it is. "So polite. Where is the Lucien who once threatened to ruin me?"
I meet her eyes, letting her see it, the hunger that never quite recedes. "He is here," I say. "He is always here. I am simply giving you a choice."
She considers this. I see the moment she decides to test me, to press until she finds the edge of my restraint.
"Come here," she says.
So I do. I move to her, slowly and deliberately, enjoying every inch of the distance closing between us. I tower over her, and I watch her throat as she swallows.
I edge her chin up, forcing her to look at me. Alive. So alive.
"What are you afraid of?" I ask.
A laugh. "You want the truth?"
"I do."
She inhales, as if preparing herself for what she’s about to tell me. "I'm scared of myself. Of what I do when I'm with you."
I consider this, the admission. "And what do you do, Rose Smith?"
She licks her lips. "I forget that I'm supposed to be fighting you. That I'm supposed to hate you for what you've done."
I do not know what happens next. I suspect neither of us does.
Then I kiss her. Rose responds with her entire body, fists grabbing my shirt as she drags me closer, lips parting to invite my tongue inside.
I walk her backwards to her bed, and she sits, pulling me down with her.
When I pull away to look at her, her lips are already bruised and swollen.
"You never do anything halfway," I say.
"Neither do you." She starts working open the buttons of my shirt, but her hands are shaking, and after a moment she gives up and simply yanks, sending buttons skittering across the floor.
"Impatient," I murmur, shrugging off the ruined shirt. "That was bespoke."
"Then you shouldn't have worn it," she says, and attacks my mouth again.
Her own clothing is next. The hoodie goes first, then the T-shirt beneath. I take a moment, just a moment, to appreciate the sight of her.
"See something you like?" she asks, lifting her arms so I can pull the shirt over her head.
