“Why?” she asked, still in a breathy, stunned voice.
Why did Lucien do anything? Because Lucien wanted to, that was why.
“He just did,” I answered.
“I don’t… he never…” She stopped then pivoted jerkily and walked briskly to the windows, throwing open the curtains as she wittered on. “This is unheard of, unprecedented. I don’t know what to say. I can’t even –”
“Edwina,” I cut her off.
She turned again and the minute her eyes hit me they grew so big, they nearly popped out of her head and she gasped. Loudly.
At the same time her hand flew to her mouth.
I knew I’d passed out before I’d been able to pull a comb through my hair and take off my heavy makeup but even what I knew was the sight of me the morning after her fervid ministrations couldn’t induce that response.
“What?” I asked in a frightened voice.
“Your throat,” she whispered from behind her hand.
My hand flew to my throat. It still felt that weird numb and Edwina’s horrified stare was making me strangely embarrassed.
I covered the area Lucien fed from last night and pushed up from the bed. I was still lightheaded but I fought it, put my feet on the floor, got up and headed to the bathroom.
My bedroom…
No. Strike that.
Lucien’s bedroom (I wasn’t going to claim anything he gave me) was the biggest bedroom I’d ever had. Painted a warm blush it had a king-sized bed covered in a decadent, fluffy, down comforter with a slightly darker blush, cotton-sateen cover with beautiful embroidery heavy at the bottom of the coverlet and snaking to lighter up the bed. Stacks of downy pillows of all sizes from king, to European to standard in cases and shams that ranged from the deepest to the most delicate blush adorned its head, some of them smooth, some of the embroidered. There was a chaise lounge in a corner covered in cream velvet, edged with gleaming dark, intricately carved wood. Positioned strategically next to its only arm was a small, ornate, circular table. Matching stately but comfy-looking armchairs, each with their own tall, plush, round, tassel-bottomed, button-topped ottomans were arranged in another corner. The chairs shared a carved wood table. A charming writing desk with a laptop computer and stylish desk accessories faced the room from the opposite corner to the chairs.
I didn’t see any of this.
Yesterday afternoon after I’d arrived, I’d inspected the entirety of the lavish cage Lucien had provided for me. I perused the six-bedroom house from top to bottom. Why he thought I’d need six bedrooms with a gigantic kitchen including breakfast nook and comfy seating area, a formal dining room, a sitting room, a living room, a family room, a study, four and a half baths… the list went on… I’d never know.
At that moment I didn’t want to know. All I could think about was my throat.
I went into the bathroom. Another huge room with two sinks, a big mirror, a large, blush-marbled tub set in a platform, under a stained glass window (if you can believe), separate shower cubicle with multiple heads (some on the walls) and the toilet had its own room.
I turned to the mirror and slowly, wincing slightly to prepare myself for the mutilation I’d see, took my hand from my throat.
Then I blinked.
There was only an insignificant, inch long, slightly glistening, pinkish scar.
“What on earth?” I whispered.
“I know,” Edwina said, materializing behind me. “Can you believe it?”
“No,” I gaped at the non-wound, remembering the tearing sensation last night, the pain, the powerful suction from Lucien’s mouth, “I can’t believe it.”
“I can’t believe it hasn’t healed,” Edwina breathed.
My eyes flew to hers in the mirror. “What?”
“It hasn’t healed. How can that be? They always heal before morning. Usually sooner.”
My mouth dropped open.
I snapped it shut moments before asking, “Are you joking?”