Page 82 of Ensnared

Ilook down at the highlighted words. “Iam longing to be with you.”

Longingseems too soft a word for all the thingsIwant.

Iplace the book on my bedside table and make my way toJasper’sroom.

* * *

“Comein,Eden.”

Myhand pauses where it’s raised ready to knock onJasper’sdoor, then drops to press against my stomach.Iglance around the hall for a camera but can’t see one.PerhapsJasper’slatest book delivery was a hint, a telling clue that he trulyisn’thuman, but rather some kind of ancient, beautiful vampire lying in wait for his unsuspecting prey.

Only,I’mmore than a little suspicious ofJasper.

AndIonly feel about sixty percent like prey.

Steelingmyself,Iopen the door.

Large, elegant, and understated.Jasper’sroom is decorated thoughtfully, and surprisingly cozily.There’sa lovely picture of him with an older couple whoIassume must be his parents in front of a beautiful palace, and a hand-knitted blanket is draped over one of the armchairs.Thechessboard is set up on an artful table by a toasty-looking heater, and delicate classical music wends through the room.Softlight turns the rich colors misty.Romantic.

Thereare no whips, or chains, or bloodied nail marks on the walls.

Ifhe’s a vampire, he’s a very tidy one.

Idecide it’s safe to step inside.

Jasperstands beside a small kitchenette, pouring from a teapot that seems to be fused by veins of gold.Thelines at the corners of his eyes seem more pronounced today, and there’s an exhausted drag to his movements, like his limbs are falling asleep before his brain has agreed it’s time.

Thefamiliar scent of chamomile soothes me... though the cream sweater he’s wearing riles my insides back into instant, passionate riot.Itlooks gloriously soft, andIhave the absurd urge to bury my face in him.

It.

Init.

“IthinkI’veread about that,”Ioffer into the lengthening silence, hoping he doesn’t notice how flusteredIam.Whenhe looks up at me from under sinfully sooty lashes, my mouth goes dry, and it takes me a moment to gesture at the teapot he’s holding. “It’sbroken pottery, isn’t it?Mendedwith gold and lacquer?”

“Kintsugi,” he says, setting it down. “It’saJapaneseart form.”

Hehands me a cup and saucer.Ourfingers don’t brush, butItrack the near miss with obsessive focus.

“Toshow that sometimes the greatest beauty lies in our flaws.Themost strength, in the ways we break.”

They’repretty words, but they ring hollow, and his expression is so carefully still,Iknow he’s hiding something.

Again.

“Talktogether freely,” my sweet behind.

Ibite the corner of my lip, then bury my face in my cup.

“Whatwas that?”Jaspermuses, andIlift my eyes over the rim to see him taking me in with those sharp, sharp eyes.

Thehot liquid burns my tongue asIswallow too fast. “P-pardon?”

“Ifyou have a concern,Eden,Iwould prefer you voiced it.”Hislips compress unhappily.

“I—I’msorry.Ijust...”

WhyamIalways on the wrong foot with him?Willhe turn me over his knee ifImake him unhappy enough?Thatwas whatLuckysaid, right?UnlikeLucky, though,I’mnot sure my body “wants the pain.”

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