His Captive Mortal A Vampire Romance - Renee Rose Page 0,28
To use on you, of course.”
She lifts it to hurl at me but seems to reconsider, perhaps knowing I’ll use it on her. Tossing the flogger back in the box, she changes the subject. “Which book should I start with?”
I shrug. “You’re the fairy—call it to you.”
Her jaw goes slack. “How, exactly, do I do that?”
I don’t answer but return her gaze steadily, daring her to try it. I don’t know how fairies or witches do what they do, but I spent enough time around Anka to know it’s what she would have done.
She turns slowly back to the box and peers inside. A glow appears around one of the books.
“There! Do you see it?” I grin, pointing.
She whips her head around to look at me, confusion on her face. She looks back to the box and stares at it. The book remains lit up from my view. “Can’t you see?”
I suppose as an immortal, I have the capability of seeing things ordinary humans don’t. Like the bubble of protection she used when I first saw her.
After a long moment, she picks out the glowing one and holds it up. “This one?” Doubt laces her voice.
I smile so wide my cheeks stretch, a surge of—is it pride?— running through me. “Brilliant girl. Clever little fairy,” I praise. “I knew you’d be a quick study.”
I love the wonder in her expression. She really doesn’t know how powerful she is.
“You read the book, I’ll tidy up around here.” I’m feeling downright magnanimous. When her eyes widen, I add, “Just this once. I shall expect you to keep a neater house going forward.” I throw a wink because my vampire master thing is honestly just a big game for me. I could care less if she keeps a neat house or not.
She flips me the bird and turns to the book, opening it with curiosity on her lovely face.
I arrange her clutter into neat piles and begin to make dinner. Despite my edict that she cook, I actually enjoy preparing food. Some vampires choose not to eat at all, preferring to take all their sustenance from blood. I love food, the years I spent in France providing me with a discerning palate.
I met Anka in Paris, where she owned a bordello. The raven-haired madame had seemed as immortal as I, her magic giving her the appearance of eternal youth. She had flawless olive skin, almond-shaped black eyes with thick, curling lashes.
She had a French aristocrat for a father but was born to his mistress, a former prostitute, from whom she inherited the gift of sight and healing. At age fourteen, her father died and the stipend she and her mother lived on disappeared. Anke found her way to Paris to make her living first as a prostitute and later as the proprietor of one of the most expensive brothels.
Thinking of Anka now doesn’t bring up the usual seething. I almost pity her. Alone, with no one to help her, she had to use every bit of magic, every manipulation she knew to get ahead. Using me had been out of habit. The fact that she cursed me showed she truly cared. Else she never would’ve minded my finally walking away. I open the refrigerator and take out the steak to marinate. I also grab a few potatoes and set them to boil in a pot of milk and crushed garlic. I have a hankering for gratin dauphinois.
I haven’t thought so much about Anka as I have in the last two days. The possibility of ridding myself of her curse brings the memories to the forefront of my consciousness.
As I work on the food preparation, I catch Aurelia stealing looks at me from under her lashes. She appears to have a mystical intelligence, as if she sees beyond my self-centered vampiric existence straight into my blackened heart, where she sifts through my flexible morals to determine whether there’s anything left to redeem. An old soul, it would seem. Descended from the Fae.
I have to admit parts of me I presumed dead have come to life in the past two days. Something about this little mortal soothes my spirit, makes me feel human again.
Her cell phone rings, and she picks it up. “Hey, Gwen, what’s up?” She looks over at me. “Tonight? I can’t…” She twirls a piece of hair between her fingers and looks at me again before walking toward her room. “I met a guy,” she says in an undertone.
I smile. My little