Page 8 of King of the Damned
He contemplates in silence for a moment, and I watch as his eyes trace down my face to my neck then back up again.
“I shall allow you a suite of your own and protection from the other vampires here in exchange for three things. One, you may not leave this palace without an escort–meaningme. Two, you will keep yourself modest and covered at all times.”
I look down, ashamed. I understand what he means. He finds my scar grotesque just as everyone else does, and does not wish to see it again.
“Three, you shall dance for me, and only me, during your time here.”
I swallow. “And…how long will that be?”
In response, he simply gives me a sneer and an upturn of his chin before walking away, taking the light of the braziers with him.
Our deal sits heavy in my gut like a rock as I dress. It’s been two days since I’ve seen Kaius. True to his word, not one vampire has bothered me. I’ve seen not one soul. My meals are delivered to my room, and the one who delivers them is always gone before I open the door, even if I open it as soon as I hear a knock.
I’ve had no courage to leave my suite yet.
Yesterday when I woke, the wardrobe was filled with clothing: ornate and beautiful dresses, nightgowns and robes, leotards and tights, trousers and tunics and corsets. Shoes and underthings. Anything I could possibly wish to dress in is freely available to me, including a deep red ballet costume with a tutu decorated in delicately sewn lace and magnificent crystals.
I supposed that costume was meant to be worn as I danced for him tonight as part of our arrangement. I have no intention of humoring this man with dazzling costumes. He stole me from my home. If I have to dance to survive, then I will, but I won’t embellish it with costumes and smiles to make him feel better about himself for what he’s done to me.
Instead, I’ve chosen to wear a simple black leotard with a turtleneck and long sleeves, with a long romantic skirt in a shade of deep purple tulle.
When I arrive in the main hall, where Kaius requested I meet him, he’s sitting on his throne atop a raised platform. A staircase of four narrow black marble steps is all that separates us when I come to a stop. His white hair glows a soft shade of yellow from the braziers that line the room. In his hand is a silver goblet. When he takes a sip, his lips are tinted deep red, and that tells me all I need to know about what’s in that goblet before he licks it away with his tongue.
He silently lets his gaze travel down my body, though the gesture doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m used to others looking at me with critical eyes, always looking for a hair out of place, a sliver of weight gain, or a run in my tights.
Everyone has always been so determined to find a flaw in me when all I’ve ever wanted to do is dance.
“Your hair,” he says, causing me to subconsciously touch the bun at the base of my skull.
“What about my hair?”
“Take it down.”
“Why?” I ask, utterly confused.
“I’d like you to let your hair free.” I give him a look of irritation. He sighs and rolls his eyes. “I’d like to see you unbound. Not so rigid and perfect.”
“It’s not about rigidity,” I spit. “It’s precision. If you wished to see something more sensual and wild, then perhaps you should have kidnapped a different dancer.”
He chuckles. “I am not the one who kidnapped you.”
“And yet you’re now my captor.”
“Captors don’t let their captives roam freely,” he replies curtly. “Though if you don’t appreciate that freedom, perhaps you’d prefer I treat you as a bitch on a leash?”
He conjures exactly that around my throat, tugging it hard enough to force me to fall to my knees. He gives me a sardonic laugh before he makes it disappear.
“I’m not an animal!” I say through gritted teeth as I stand again. I will not allow this man the pleasure of seeing me on my knees in front of him.
“You’re a human.”
“So?”
“I see no difference,” he quips, his chin raised in challenge. My mouth falls open in shock. “Do you know what we call the silly humans that wander into our stronghold? The ones we keep for ourselves to feed on?” He pauses, but I say nothing, and his mouth twists upward into a wicked sneer, showing off his fangs. “Cattle.”
Furious, I stomp up the narrow staircase. My dance shoes make loud clacks against the marble as I do. When I reach him atop the platform, I raise a hand and smack him as hard as I can. So hard that my wrist and palm hurt after the impact. “You’re a monster,” I mutter in disgust.
He smiles again before sipping his wine. “Little girls should be scared of monsters.”
