The Story of Son(4)
Author: J.R. Ward

Fear had her heart going like a bat out of hell. Fear and . . . oh, God, please let that rush not be partially about anticipation.

"Wait!" She sat up. "How do you know you won't . . . take too much?"

"I can sense your blood pressure and I am very careful. I couldn't bear to hurt you." He stood from the desk. More candles were extinguished.

"Please, not the whole darkness," she said when only the one on the bedside table was left. "I can't handle it."

"It will be better that way—"

"No! God, no . . . it really won't. You don't know what it feels like on my end. The darkness terrifies me."

"Then we shall do this in the light."

As he came to the bed, she heard the chains first; then his shadow emerged out of the blackness.

"Perhaps you would stand?" he said. "So I may do it from behind again? That way you wouldn't have to see me. It shall take a little longer this time."

Claire exhaled, her body heating, her blood running hot. She wanted to tease out the whys of her dangerous lack of self-preservation, but what did they matter? She was where she was. "I think . . . I think I want to see you."

He hesitated. "Are you sure? Because once I begin, it is difficult to stop in the middle. . . ."

God, they sounded like two solicitous Victorians talking about sex.

"I need to see."

He took a deep breath, as if he were nervous and girding himself to get through the anxiety. "Perhaps you would sit on the edge of the bed then? That way I may kneel before you."

Claire shifted so her legs were dangling off the mattress. He lowered a little, bending at the knees, then shook his head.

"No," he murmured. "I shall have to sit beside you."

He sat with his back to the candle, so his face was in darkness. "May I ask you to turn toward me?"

She changed her position and looked up. The light of the flame formed a halo around his head and she wished she could see his face. Craved the beauty in him.

"Michael," she whispered. "You should have been named Michael. After the archangel."

His hand came up and moved her hair back. Then it planted into the mattress as he leaned into her.

"I like that name," he said softly.

She felt his lips against her throat first, a light caress of skin brushing skin. Then his mouth drew back and she knew it was parting, revealing fangs. The bite happened quickly and decisively and she jumped, much more aware this time. The pain was greater, but so was the sweetness that followed.

Claire moaned as heat swept through her body and the pull of his sucking started, his mouth finding a rhythm. She wasn't exactly sure when she touched him. It just happened. Her palms went up to his shoulders.

He was the one who jerked now and as he pulled back, the light hit part of his face. He was breathing hard, his lips parted, the tips of his fangs just barely showing. He was hungry, but shocked.

She ran her hands down his arms. The muscles were thick and cut.

"I can't stop," he said in a distorted voice.

"I just. . . want to touch you."

"I can't stop."

"I know. And I want to touch you." "Why?"

"I want to feel you." She couldn't believe it, but she tilted her head to the side, exposing her throat. "Take what you need. And I'll do the same."

This time he lunged at her, clamping a hand on the opposite side of her throat and biting her with power. Her body surged, her br**sts making contact with the hard wall of his chest, his scent roaring. Gripping his heavy upper arms, she fell backward onto the pillows and he came with her.

Michael's body was now solidly on hers, the weight of him pushing her down on the mattress. He was blocking out the candlelight so she couldn't see anything clearly, though the glow behind him grounded her against infinity. Somehow it was okay, although for a dangerous reason: The darkness made the sensations of him at her neck all the more vivid, from the wet cup of his warm mouth to the tugging draw of his swallows to the sexual current between them.

God help her, she liked what he was doing to her.

Claire searched out and found his hair. With a groan of satisfaction, she tangled her hands in the silken thickness, balling up huge chunks of it, feeling her way to his scalp.

As he froze, she fell still and felt the trembling that went through him. She waited to see if he would continue and he did. When the drinking started up again, the room began to spin, but she didn't care. She had him to hold on to.

At least until he pulled back quickly and left her on the bed. Retreating into the dark corner, with his chains to mark his movement, he all but disappeared on her.

Claire sat up. When she felt wetness between her br**sts, she looked down. Blood was running down her chest and getting absorbed by the white robe. She barked out a curse and scrambled to cover the puncture marks he'd made.

Instantly, Michael was in front of her, peeling her hands back. "I'm sorry, I didn't finish it properly. Wait, no, don't fight me. I need to finish it. Let me finish it so I can stop the bleeding."

He captured her hands in one of his, moved her hair back, and put his mouth on her throat. His tongue came out and stroked over her skin. And stroked again. And again.

It wasn't long before she'd forgotten all about bleeding to death.

Michael let go of her hands and cradled her in his arms. With abandonment, she let her head fall back as he lapped at her and nuzzled her.

He slowed. Then stopped. "You should sleep now," he whispered.

"I'm not tired." Which was a lie.

She felt herself get repositioned against the pillow, the curtain of his hair falling forward as he made her comfortable.

When he would have pulled away, she took his hands. "Your eyes. You're going to show me. If you're going to do what you just did to me for the next two days, you owe me this."

After a long moment, he pushed his hair back and lifted his lids slowly. His irises were brilliant blue and bright as neon; in fact, they glowed. And around their outer edge, there was a black line. His lashes were thick and long.

His stare was hypnotic. Otherworldly. Extraordinary . . . just like the rest of him.

His head lowered. "Sleep. I shall probably come to you before breakfast."

"What about you? Do you sleep?"

"Yes." When she glanced at the other side of the bed, he murmured, "Not here tonight. Worry not."

"Then where?"

"Worry not."

He left suddenly, disappearing into the darkness. Left alone in the candlelight, she felt as though she were floating on the vast bed, at sea in what was both a luscious dream and a horrid nightmare.

4

Claire woke up when she heard the shower go on. Pushing herself off the pillows, she put her feet to the floor and decided to do some exploring while Michael was busy. Picking up the candle, she walked in the direction of the desk. Or at least where she thought the damn thing was.

Her shin found it first, banging into a stout leg. With a curse, she bent over and rubbed at what was no doubt going to be a hell of a bruise. Damn candles. Moving more carefully, she felt around for the chair he had sat in and lowered the mostly useless light at what he'd been working on.

"Oh, my God," she whispered.

It was a portrait of her. A stunningly deft and frankly sensual portrait of her staring straight out of the page. Except he never looked at her. How did he know— "Step away from that, please," Michael said from the bathroom.

"It's beautiful." She leaned farther over the table, taking in a wealth of different drawings, all of which looked very modern in execution. Which surprised her. "They're all beautiful."

There were forests and flowers that were distorted. Vistas of the Leedses' house and grounds that were surreal. Depictions of the rooms inside the mansion that were all a little off, but still visually arresting. That he was a modernist was a shock, given how formally he spoke and his old-fashioned manners—

With a chill, she looked back at the drawing of her. It was a classic portrait. With classic realism.

His other work wasn't a style, was it. The depictions were skewed because he hadn't seen what he was drawing in over fifty years. It was all from a memory that hadn't been refreshed for decades.

She picked up the portrait. It was lovingly executed, carefully rendered. A tribute to her.

"I wish you wouldn't look at any of that," he said, right into her ear.

She gasped and wheeled around. As her heart settled, she thought, damn, he smelled good. "Why don't you want me to see it?"

"It's private."

There was a pause as something occurred to her. "Did you draw the other women?"

"You should go back to bed."

"Did you?"

"No.""

That was a relief. For reasons she didn't enjoy. "Why not?"

"They did not. . . please my eye."

Without thinking, she asked, "Were you with any of them? Did you have sex with them?"

He'd left the shower on and the raining water on marble filled the silence.

"Tell me."

"No."

"You said you won't have sex with me. Is it because you aren't. . . able to be with humans?"

"It is a matter of honor."

"So vampires. . . have sex? I mean, you can, right?" Okay, why was she going down this road? Shut up, Claire—

"I am capable of arousal. And I can . . . take myself to conclusion."

She had to close her eyes as she pictured him on the bed gloriously nak*d, his hair let loose all around him. She saw one of those long lean hands wrapped around himself, stroking up and down his shaft until he arched off the mattress and—

She heard him inhale sharply and he said, "Why does that entice you?"

Jesus, his senses were acute. And how could it not?

Although it wasn't as if he needed to know the ins and outs of her arousal. "Have you ever been with a woman?"

His lowered head went back and forth. "Most of them have been terrified of me and rightfully so. They have shrunk back from me. Especially as I. . . fed from them."

She tried to imagine what it would be like to only have contact with people who thought you were horrific. No wonder he was so self-contained and ashamed.

"Those who didn't find me . . . repugnant," he said, "those who got used to my presence, who would not have denied me . . . I found that I lacked the will. I did not find them comely."

"You have never kissed someone?"

"No. Now answer the question I asked. Why does the idea of me . . . relieving the ache arouse you?"

"Because I would like to . . ." Watch. "I think you must look beautiful when you do that. I think you . . . are beautiful."

He gasped.

When there was nothing but shower sounds for a long while, she said, "I'm sorry if I shocked you."

"You find me pleasing to your eye?"

"Yes."

"Truly?" he whispered. "Yes."

"I am blessed." The chains rolled across the floor as he turned away and walked back to the bathroom.

"Michael?"

The metal links just kept going.

She went over to the bed and sat at the end of it, holding the candle with both her palms as he took his time. When the water was switched off and he finally came out from the bathroom, she said, "I'd like a shower, too."

"Avail yourself." The water came back on as if he'd willed it. "I assure you of your privacy."

She went into the bathroom and put the candle on the counter. The air was warm and moist from his shower, scented with milled soap and his dark spices. Dropping her robe and her underwear, she stepped under the spray, the water pouring over her body and soaking into her hair and cleansing her skin.

She was appalled by the lack of compassion he'd received over the last five decades. By the cruelty that his only companions were stolen for him, their rights violated so that he could survive. By his imprisonment that had persisted and would continue unless he was freed. By the fact that he didn't even know he was beautiful.

She hated that he had lived alone for all his life.

Getting out of the shower, she dried off, put the robe back on, and tucked her panties and her bra in the pocket.

When she was out in the bedroom, she said, "Michael, where are you?"

She went farther into the room. "Michael?"

"I am at the desk."

"Will you turn on some lights?"

Candles flared instantly.

"Thank you." She stared at him as he shuffled to hide what he'd been drawing. "I am taking you with me," she said.

His head lifted and for once so did his eyes. God, they were amazing the way they glowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"When Fletcher comes for me, I'm going to make it so you get out." Most likely by beaning the butler with the very candleholder in her hands. "I'm going to take care of him."

"No!" Michael jumped to his feet. "You must not interfere. You shall leave as you came, without violence."

"The hell I will. This is wrong. All of it. It's wrong for the women and for you and it's your mother's fault. Fletcher's, too."

And would that she could take things to their right and proper conclusion. That woman and her thug butler needed to be put behind bars: Claire didn't care how old they were. Unfortunately, turning them into the police because they'd kept a vampire chained in the basement wasn't exactly what you wanted to lead with when you were trying to have one of Caldwell's most prominent citizens arrested.

That would be one hell of a hard sell. So freeing him was the best course.

"I cannot let you resist," he said.

"Don't you want to get out of here?"

"They will hurt you." His eyes were grave. "I would rather be imprisoned herein for all my days than have you harmed."

She thought about Fletcher's uncanny strength given his age. And the fact that he and Miss Leeds had been stealing women for fifty years and getting away with it. If Claire disappeared because they killed her, it would be a pain to justify, but bodies could be dealt with. Sure, her assistant knew where she'd gone, but Miss Leeds and Fletcher were no doubt smooth enough to play dumb. Plus they had Claire's car keys and the signed will. They could get rid of the car and maintain Claire had come and left and whatever bad things had happened had nothing to do with them.