Death Game: Supernatural Battle (Vampire Towers #3) - Kelly St. Clare Page 0,47

his neck.

He dipped his head down. “You had a suggestion.”

I frowned up at him. “Yes.”

“What was it, my beauty?”

It was…

Oh, yeah.

I took a breath. “Last time, I didn’t like that others saw me during the thrall. It’s normal for Vissimo, but it embarrassed me to be seen like that by your sisters.”

His face hardened. “You can’t be left alone, Basilia. I won’t be able to handle that.”

“If you listened, you’d realise that’s not what I’m saying,” I said, glaring at him.

Kyros quirked a brow. “You just stomped on my foot.”

Not my problem. I’d given up on getting rid of the petulant stomp. I drove a golf cart around my estate now. Maybe I’d just embrace the hair toss and the hands on hips, too, like the brat I had enough money to be.

“You deserve it for kissing me and ditching.”

His voice deepened, and the dreamy haze entered his eyes. “Your nipples are still hard.”

And they’d probably stay that way until tonight. “I’m showering.”

He latched onto my wrist. “What were you going to say?”

I tugged it free. “I was going to ask if you could stay with me during the thrall, but I’ve changed my mind.”

Kyros’s shock radiated through me, the searing blast soothed by his overwhelming want.

Slamming the bathroom door on him, I tore off my camisole and sleep shorts, setting the shower to lukewarm. I stepped in and grabbed my body wash left over from the last thrall. I refused to bring any clothing here, electing to bring a bag each time I stayed, so the toiletries were my only possessions in the lair.

Kyros hadn’t said anything, but I knew he was bursting to demand I fill up one of the drawers in his dresser.

Lathering the lemon myrtle wash over my skin, I picked up my razor and set to work checking for body hair and ensuring my skin was smooth. Making quick work of my hair, I dried and moisturised my body in record time.

Towel wrapped tight around my frame, I marched back into the room and grabbed my clothes from the night before.

“You can borrow some of my sweats,” he said, eyeing the pantsuit.

I had an understanding with Safina, and a deal was a deal. Plus, I didn’t want to go down the boyfriend and girlfriend sharing clothes route.

Disappearing back into the bathroom, I dressed, and towel-dried my hair.

“Laurel is waiting to take you to Green,” he said.

I looked at him for the first time.

Whoa.

Double whoa.

He wore a burnt-red blazer over a white shirt. Dark blue trousers and a belt that matched the blazer completed the smart-casual look. The sight of him dressed like that made my toes curl.

“Going somewhere?” I said hoarsely.

“To Frannie’s fashion show,” he said. “Pissing me off by putting my mate on the catwalk is pointless if I don’t attend.”

True.

“And if other men get to see you walking in a fashion show, I’m sure as fuck making sure they know you’re taken.”

I bit my lip. “Jealous, are we?”

“With you, always. Jealous of the time you’re not with me. Jealous of the conversations you share with others. Jealous of the way you let your butler do everything for you but won’t let me serve you a plate of food.”

The words were delivered without a trace of bitterness. What was I meant to say to that? I hovered uncertainly.

“Everyone will be there,” he said, continuing on as if he hadn’t admitted to being jealous of Fred running around after me.

I licked my lips. “When you say everyone…”

“My parents too.”

I ran my hand through my hair. “Great.”

“I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Kyros said as I grabbed my phone and walked to the door. Still shaken, I waved overhead in response.

The vampire called after me. “Basilia?”

Wrenching to a halt, I peered back at him. “Yeah?”

He bowed low. “I would be honoured to join you during your thrall.”

Heat filled my cheeks as he straightened and fixed me with a smouldering look that I immediately titled Ovary Magnet.

“Okay. Good then,” I said breathlessly.

Dammit.

His lips curled.

“Bye,” I blurted, turning to run down the stairs as fast as my suddenly feather-light body could carry me.

My butter-blonde hair was dead straight, falling to just below my breasts.

Maybe it would cover whatever garish outfit Francesca put me in. As soon as I’d entered the main tent on the cordoned-off main street in Green, she’d marched me to a director’s seat in make-up and disappeared.

I’d done a few catwalks for charity during my final years in high school. And some of