Page 46 of His to Haunt

He cocks an eyebrow.

“What did you expect?”

I take a sip of wine.

“I don’t know. There’s so much talk about vampires in this town, it’s relieving to see a local eat real food,” I joke, trying to make light of the topic.

“I’m a half-breed, Leena. I do eat food. Though I enjoy blood, I’m not totally dependent on it.”

“Ha-ha.”

“You think I’m kidding,” he says with a wink.

“That sure is a running joke in this town, isn’t it?”

He nods, a thoughtful expression in his eyes.

“Due to the history.”

“My sister was interested in history,” I say.

“Of course, she was. All Byron’s are.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because…we have held onto it, identified with it.”

We go silent, finishing our dinner. He doesn’t refill the wine glasses. He stands.

“Go ahead and get comfy on the sofa.”

The man is all business.

I go to the sofa and repeat the same process as last time. He didn’t say anything about showing my legs, so I wore black leggings paired with my black lace bra. Rather than pull my blouse down to my waist, I take it off and tuck it behind me.

“Good,” he says, once again managing to make me feel comfortable by remaining professional, his eyes fixated on the canvas, only glancing periodically at me.

“I think that…Rachel felt isolated here at times,” I say, resuming the conversation.

“Probably. She wasn’t raised here. Close your eyes.”

The moment I close my eyes, his hand is on my face. Startled, my eyes shoot open to the sight of him studying my hair as he arranges it off my forehead and along my shoulder. His touch is cold, smooth, and methodical. His eyes flick to mine, and then he surprises me by kneeling down and looking at me with those deep-set eyes and that startlingly handsome face framed by long dark hair.

“What are you doing, Zand?”

“Will you allow me to look at you for a moment?”

The light in his pupils shifts as he studies me, making me feel like a fascinating object in a museum. I clear my throat, squirming on the inside, frozen on the outside.

“You said I look like her,” I mutter, wanting to pick his brain a bit and see what he’s thinking. “Did you mean Rachel?”

I can’t help but wonder what the artist thinks about his subject matter.

He shrugs, blinking as if I’ve distracted his thinking process.

The look in his eyes changes. He isn’t just studying me objectively now. His mouth parts as he looks into my eyes, seeming to read my thoughts before his gaze dips to my lips.

He leans in and reaches his hand to my face, plucking a strand of hair. I watch his handsome lips. His mouth is full, sullen, and forming a masculine line.

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