“It’s different.”
“How?”
Lucien sighed before explaining, “They don’t want me to be me. They want me to be whatever their twisted notion is of a vampire, superhuman creature of the night, romanticized or demonized in their minds. They think they’re playing with fire or living a novel. They don’t accept me for being what I am. They’re takers, users, all of them. You see it as them giving me something but it’s not, they’re taking. I may be feeding off their blood but they’re feeding as well. What I do is natural, giving my body what it needs. What they do is selfish and greedy. Not once from the likes of Breed and Wats or anyone at A Feast have I ever met a single mortal soul who knows what I am who’s given one whit about me. Asked me about my day. Wondered aloud at my mood. Wished to discuss a book. Five hundred years, Leah, and not once. I’m not human to them. I don’t exist outside whatever fantasy they’ve created about me. I’m their tool to manipulate to an orgasm or whatever the f**k they get from me.”
As he spoke he noticed her face soften before sorrow filled her gaze. Sorrow mixed with tenderness, a look so bleak yet intensely compassionate, it shook him.
Her hand drifted up his chest, lifted and he held his breath because he thought she was actually going to touch his face in an act of affection.
Instead, disappointingly, she thought better of it and her hand floated down to rest lightly on his shoulder.
Regardless of his disappointment, his fingers captured a lock of her hair and started twisting
“Concubines aren’t like that,” he continued quietly when she made no reply. “Concubines understand and accept who we are, what we need and they give us more. Not just blood. A safe harbor where we can be who we are. You,” his voice dropped to a whisper and his face moved closer to hers, “are part of my life, my real life, not some romance novel or horror film. This is a relationship, sweetling, one in my world as it is today that is essential to me. Without it, I’d go mad.”
The sorrow left her gaze, the compassion remained and he felt her body melt into his.
Thank f**king God.
Finally, he was getting somewhere.
“Lucien –” she murmured.
He didn’t let her continue, feeling the time was ripe to make his point. “I don’t want a whore, Leah. I want you to accept who I am and what we are to each other.”
“I accept you,” she whispered and the way she did it he believed her.
Without hesitation he asked, “Do you accept what we are to each other?”
She bit her lip in indecision.
“Do you?” he pressed.
“What, um,” she paused then went on, “exactly are we to each other?”
“I’d like us to be lovers.”
Oddly, her eyes turned hopeful. “Lovers?”
Not certain of the reasons behind her hope, he replied cautiously, “Lovers.”
“Just lovers?” she repeated.
His sense of caution escalated. “Perhaps you should describe to me what ‘just lovers’ means.”
“Perhaps you should describe to me what you think ‘lovers’ means.”
“I’ve made that clear,” he told her.
“You want me to trust you.”
“That and more.”
Her pliant body stiffened.
“What else?” she asked.
He studied her for a moment wondering if she was genuinely obtuse or stubbornly so. He decided the latter.