The Story of Son(3)
Author: J.R. Ward

He moaned and started sucking;

Her blood . . . he was. . . drinking her blood. And oh, God, it felt fantastic.

Claire, for the first time in her life, fainted.

When she woke up, she was in the bed, between the sheets, still wrapped in the robe. The pervading darkness made her whimper in a way she wouldn't have thought herself capable of, but there was nothing to ground her, no reality to grasp. She felt as if she were drowning in a dense, oily sea, her lungs stopped up with what she couldn't see through.

Anxiety tripped all kinds of wires in her head and she broke out in a cold sweat. She was going to go mad—

A candle flared next to her, illuminating the bedside table and the silver tray of food that was on it. A moment later another lit up on the other side of the huge bed. And so did another mounted high on the shelves beside the door. And another in what looked like a bathroom. And . . .

One by one they came on, lit by nobody. Which should have scared her, but she was too desperate to see to give a crap how the light came about.

The room was much larger than she'd expected, and the floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of that gray stone. The only major piece of furniture aside from the bed was a desk the size of a banquet table. Its smooth, glossy surface was covered with white papers and stacked high with black leather volumes. A thronelike chair was behind it, angled to the side as if someone had been sitting in it and had gotten up quickly.

Where was the man?

Her eyes went over to the one dark corner. And she knew he was there. Watching her. Waiting.

Claire remembered the feel of him pressing into her back and she put her hand to her neck. She felt. . . nothing. Well, not quite. There were two nearly imperceptible bumps. As if the biting had happened weeks and weeks ago.

"What did you do to me?" she demanded. Even though she knew. And oh, God . . . the implications were horrific.

"Forgive me." His lovely voice was strained. "I regret what I must take from an innocent. But I need to feed or I shall die and I have no choice. I am not permitted to leave my quarters."

Claire's vision took a little break and then came back with a checkerboard overlay—the kind of thing you got before you passed out. Holy . . . shit.

It was a long time before she could think straight and the cognitive vacuum was filled with visions from Hollywood: undead, white-skinned, evil. . . vampire.

Her body trembled badly enough to rattle her teeth and she curled up into herself, knees to chest. As she started rocking, she had the disassociative thought that she'd never been so terrified in her life.

This was a nightmare. Whether she was dreaming or not, this was a total nightmare.

"Am I infected?" she asked.

"Are you—do you mean, have I turned you into what I am? No. Not at all. No."

Fueled by the urge to flee, she shot off the bed and bee-lined in the direction of the door. She didn't make it far. The room swam in circles around her and she tripped over her own feet. Throwing her hand out, she caught herself against the books.

He caught her as well, so fast it was as if he'd dematerial-ized from where he'd been. His careful hands held her only as tightly as they had to. "You must eat."

She hung on to the shelf and noticed for no good reason that she was in front of a complete collection of George Eliot. Maybe that was why he talked like a Victorian. He'd been reading nineteenth-century books for however long he'd been in here.

"Please," that beautiful voice implored. "You must eat—"

"I have to go to the bathroom." She looked across the room at a marble enclave. "Tell me there is a toilet in there."

"Yes. You shall find there is no door, but I shall avert my eyes."

"You do that."

Claire broke free of him and lurched forward, too shellshocked and weak and freaked out to care about privacy. And because if he'd wanted to take advantage of her he could have any number of times up until now. And because honor was in every timbre of his voice. If he said he wouldn't look, he wouldn't.

Except, Christ, she was an idiot. Why the hell should she have faith in someone she didn't know? And was imprisoned with?

Although maybe that was part of it. He was stuck in here, too, evidently.

Unless he was lying.

The bathroom was tiled in cream marble from floor to ceiling and there was an old-fashioned claw-foot tub and a pedestal sink. It wasn't until she flushed and went over to wash up that she realized there was no mirror.

She rinsed her face off and dried it with one of a stack of white towels. Then she cupped her hands under the rush of water and drank. Her stomach settled a little and she was willing to bet food would help even more, but she wasn't ingesting a thing she was offered. She'd done that once with a cup of tea and look where the hell she'd ended up.

Back out in the bedroom, she stared at the darkened corner. "I want to see your face. Now."

There was no additional risk in that. She already knew she was on the Leeds estate and she knew who he was—Miss Leeds's son. She had enough on them so that if they were going to kill her to keep her from making identification, they had plenty to go on already.

"You will show me your face. Now."

There was a long silence. Then she heard the chains and he stepped into the light.

Claire gasped, her hand fluttering to her mouth. He was as beautiful as his voice, as beautiful as his scent, as beautiful as an angel. . . and he looked no older than thirty.

His six-foot-five frame was dressed in a red silk robe that fell to the floor and was tied with an embroidered sash. His hair was as black as night and pulled off his face, falling down in vast waves to . . . God, probably the small of his back. And his face . . . The perfection of it was stunning, with his square jaw, thick lips, and straight nose the pinnacle of male magnificence.

She couldn't see his eyes, however. They were downcast, to the floor.

"My . . . God," she whispered. "You are unreal."

He shrank back into the shadows. "Please, eat. I will have to . . . come to you again. Soon."

Claire imagined him biting her. . . sucking at her neck . . . swallowing what was in her veins. And had to remind herself that it was a violation. And she was a prisoner against her will being used by . . . a monster.

She glanced down. Part of the chain that moved with him was still in the light. The thing was as thick as her wrist and she guessed that it was locked onto his ankle.

He was definitely a prisoner, too. "Why are you chained down here?"

"I am a danger to others. Now, eat. I beg of you."

"Who keeps you like this?"

There was only silence. Then, "The food. You must eat the food."

"Sorry. Not going to touch the stuff."

"It has not been tampered with."

"That's what I thought about your mother's Earl Grey."

The chains rattled as he came back out into the light.

Yes, they were locked on his ankle. The left one.

He walked across the room, staying as far away from her as possible and not looking at her. His stride was lithe and graceful as an animal's, his shoulders rolling as his legs carried him over the stone floor. The power in him was . . . frightening. And erotic. And sad.

He was like a gorgeous beast in a zoo.

He sat down where she had lain and reached out to the silver tray of food. Lifting the lid off the plate, he set it aside on the table and she smelled a wonderful blend of rosemary and lemon. He unrolled a linen napkin, took out a heavy silver fork, and sampled the lamb, the rice, and the green beans. Then he wiped his mouth with the damask folds, cleaned the fork off, and put the lid back on.

He rested his hands on his knees, keeping his head down. His hair was gorgeous, so thick and shiny, spilling over his shoulders, the curling ends brushing against the velvet duvet and his thighs. Actually, the locks were of two colors, a wine red and a black so dense it was close to blue.

She'd never seen that color combination before. At least not as it naturally grew out of someone's head. And she was damn sure his mother from hell wasn't sending a beautician down here every month to give him a foil job.

"We will wait," he said. "And you shall see the food is not tampered with."

She stared at him. Even though he was huge, he was so still and contained and modest, she wasn't scared of him. Of course, the logical part of her brain reminded her that she should be terrified. But then she thought of the way he'd subdued her without hurting her the first time she'd woken up. And the fact that he seemed frightened of her.

Except then she glanced at the chain and told herself to back up the brain train. That thing was on there for a reason.

"What is your name?" she asked.

His brows flicked down.

God, the light falling on his face turned it into something positively ethereal. And yet the thrusts of bone were all male, hard and uncompromising.

"Tell me."

"I don't have one," he said.

"What do you mean you don't have a name? What do people call you?"

"Fletcher does not call me anything. Mother used to call me Son. So I suppose that is my name. Son."

"Son."

His palms rubbed up and down on his thighs, the red silk of his robe moving with them.

"How long have you been down here?"

"What year is it?" When she told him, he said, "Fifty-six years."

She stopped breathing. "You're fifty-six?"

"No. I was brought down here when I was twelve."

"Dear Lord . . ." Okay, clearly they had different life expectancies. "Why were you put in this cell?"

"My nature began to assert itself. Mother said it was safer for everyone this way."

"You've been down here for all this time?" He must be going insane, she thought. She couldn't imagine being by herself for decades. No wonder he couldn't meet her eyes. He wasn't used to interacting with anyone. "Down here alone?"

"I have my books. And my illustrations. I am not alone. Besides, I am safe from the sun here."

Claire's voice hardened as she remembered nice, little old Miss Leeds drugging her and throwing her down in this cell with him.

"How often does she bring you women?"

"Once a year."

"What, as some kind of birthday present?"

"It is as long as I can go without my hunger becoming too strong. If I wait, I become . . . difficult to handle." His voice was impossibly small. Ashamed.

Claire could feel herself getting viciously angry, the flush blooming up the skin of her throat. Man, Miss Leeds had not been matchmaking with a kind heart as she'd talked about her son up in her bedroom. The woman had seen Claire as food and her son as an animal.

"When was the last time you saw your mother?"

"The day she put me down here."

God, to be twelve and imprisoned and left. . .

"Will you eat now?" he asked. "You can see I am unharmed."

Her stomach growled. "How long have I been here?"

"For dinner, only. So not long. There will be two breakfasts, one lunch, and one more dinner and then you will be free."

She glanced around and saw there were no clocks. So he'd adapted by telling time through meals. Jesus. . . Christ.

"Will you show me your eyes?" she asked, taking a step toward him. "Please."

He stood up, a towering force draped in red silk. "I will leave you to eat."

He walked by her, his head turned away, the chain dragging over the floor. When he got to the desk, he turned the chair around so it faced away from her and sat down. Picking up an artist's pencil, his hand paused over a piece of thick white paper. A moment later, the lead began stroking across the page. The sound it made was as soft as a child's breath.

Claire stared at him and made up her mind. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the food. She had to eat. If she was going to get them both out of here, she was going to need her strength.

3

Claire finished everything that was on the tray, and as she ate, the silence in the room was oddly unstrained considering the situation.

After she put her napkin down, she shifted her legs up onto the bed and leaned back against the pillows, tired, though not in a drugged way. As she glanced at the tray, she had an absurd thought that she couldn't remember when she'd last let herself actually finish a meal. She always dieted, leaving herself a little hungry. It helped keep up her aggression level, made her sharp, focused.

Now, she felt a little fuzzy. And . . . was she yawning?

"I won't remember this?" she asked his back.

His head shook, that mane of hair waving, nearly brushing the floor. The red and black combination was stunning.

"Why not?"

"I will take the memories from you before you leave." "How?"

He shrugged. "I know not. I just. . . find them among your thoughts and bury them."

She pulled the duvet over her legs. She had a feeling that if she pressed him for more details, he would have none to give—as if he didn't understand himself or his nature all that well. Interesting. Miss Leeds was human as far as Claire could tell. So clearly the father had been . . .

Shit, was she actually taking this seriously?

Claire put her hand up to her neck and felt the faded bite mark. Yes . . . yes, she was. And though her brain cramped at the idea that vampires existed, she had irrefutable proof, didn't she.

Fletcher came to mind. He was something different, too, wasn't he. She didn't know what, but that odd strength coupled with his obvious age . . . Not right.

Silence stretched out, the minutes fluid, passing through the room, draining into infinity. Had an hour passed? Or half of one? Or three?

Strangely, she loved the sound of his pencil's soft strokes over the paper.

"What are you working on?" she asked.

He paused. "Why did you want to see my eyes?"

"Why wouldn't I? It will complete the picture of you."

He put the pencil down. As his hand came up to push his hair off his shoulder, it was shaking. "I need to . . . come to you, now."

The candles began to extinguish one by one.