Page 38 of Entombed By Blood
Because apparently the underwear of this century is meant to exposeeverything.
How anyone keeps warm in winter without drawers and petticoats is beyond me.
Draven hooks the first one on, then repeats the slow, sensual caress on the other cheek with the second ribbon. Somehow, he manages to complete the entire task without his nimble fingers ever touching me.
When I’m done, he steps back and smirks.
“If you ask very nicely, I’ll even help you take them off.”
It might be a tempting offer, if the bond between us weren’t just as blank as before. I take a deep breath and do my best to banish the desire lingering in my body. As much as my body might be interested in such an arrangement, anything beyond feeding from these men is a terrible idea.
I give him a withering look. “I’m not foolish enough to get emotionally involved with any of you. You’re all wasting your time.”
His grin only widens. “Good luck with that, doll.” He leans a little closer. “Besides, who said anything about emotions?”
I don’t bother responding, instead I turn, take a dress from the rail and frown. It was a while since I last wore this, but I’m certain it was once a wrap dress. This one is similar, but the two sides are stitched together.
Is part of Cain’s plan to keep me on my toes by tampering with my clothing to make it impossible to wear? This kind of ploy seems beneath him.
Draven reaches past me, grabbing the back of the dress in his long, graceful fingers. He pulls on a small metal tag, ripping it down until the back falls open into two neat halves.
“It’s called a zipper. They started putting them in clothes in the early nineteen hundreds.”
He’s talking about it as if the entire notion of not tying and pinning my clothes together isn’t completely world changing.
“Convenient,” I mutter.
I slip it over my head and wait patiently as he brushes my hair out of the way with a featherlight touch. For a second, as his skin glances over mine, I sense the slightest change in our bond. Then it’s gone. He pulls the zipper back up slowly, as if savouring the motion, but whatever ripple was there has vanished.
A sound that doesn’t belong echoes through the apartment. A chime trills through the space—loud enough that it demands the attention of everyone nearby—and the steady heartbeat that I’ve been listening to stutters in response.
Draven’s shutdown is immediate. I thought he was cold before but, at the noise, ice takes over his expression until even his eyes are frozen and stiff.
“Your sire is here.” His voice is clipped; the opposite of the lazy indulgence of before. Nothing to hint at the man who so leisurely secured my stockings.
“Come, he’ll be expecting you,”
I barely hide my grimace, tugging out the flat, flexible shoes which are all that I’ve been provided.
Dancing shoes. Meant to mock the warrior in me.
Cain is waiting in the living area where I was freed from my coffin. He reclines against the cushions of the sofa like a god of Olympus with a wineglass of blood in one hand. The rest of my thralls stand to attention along the wall, and Draven joins the others with the slightest bow in Cain’s general direction. I barely notice. No. My eyes are on the second glass of blood, the one on the low table in front of my sire.
The one which reeks of silver.
My sire’s metallic grey eyes meet mine, and I cower inside at the hatred there. Instinct has me lowering my whole body to the floor. I sink to my knees and press my head to the carpet without daring to look up again.
I’m shaking, the tremor so fine no one else would notice it. Yet I know Cain will. Seeking out weakness is one of his greatest talents.
“Sire,” I whisper. “I beg your forgiveness. If you permit me a second chance, I will serve you without ever faltering again. I will never put another over my duty to you, I swear it.”
The whole room is silent. I don’t even dare to breathe.
“Leave us.” Cain’s voice hasn’t changed; it’s still aristocratic, smooth and deadly.
Without a word, my thralls file from the room. The door swings shut behind them, sealing me in with him.
His footsteps are soft—almost inaudible—as he crosses the room to stand before me. His spidery fingers reach down and pull me up by my chin.
