Taken by a Vampire (Vampire Queen) - By Joey W. Hill Page 0,44

so many second-marked servants, she’d often had to initiate useful activity for herself. She’d started documenting some of the things she learned, thinking it might be useful to him, the history of different vampires with whom he’d interacted politically. She supposed the Vampire Council had confiscated her handwritten logs when they ransacked his home for any clues to his whereabouts.

She’d sketched out Niall’s lower torso bare, massaging the paint into thigh and buttock, but now she added a dark kilt, one that slid up to his thighs as he sat in his bent-legged position. The knife driven into the ground next to him said he was ready for defense or dinner. His fingers lay light and ready on it, like how they felt on her skin.

It was rough, but her sketch practice had served her well. As she studied it, she realized Evan was standing there again, looking at her work.

“Not too bad,” he said, with an approval that warmed her. “If you enjoy it, you can continue painting while you’re here, whenever you wish.”

At this time of night, his gray irises were like the silhouettes of the mountains, illuminated by the moon and stars. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let it interfere with my assigned duties. Whatever they will be.”

He cocked his head. “Was that a push to give you duties?”

She bit her lip. “I am here to serve you, however you need, sir. I merely want you to be certain of my willingness to do so.”

“It’s bugging the hell out of her that you havenae given her a detailed list. That was her very polite way of nagging you for one.” By now, Niall had broken the branch and whittled it into three sharp stakes.

Her lips tightened. “It’s my duty to serve,” she said. “Not to be insolent.”

“You’re right. That’s my job.”

Obviously. She bit back the word before it crossed her lips, but from Niall’s bland look, that touch of coolness again, he’d caught it. Why did she keep responding to him like this? Yes, he was mocking everything she was, but that shouldn’t matter. She knew better than this.

“My apologies.” She nodded toward Niall stiffly, then Evan. “I was not intending to insult your servant, sir. Or you.”

Evan touched her chin, drawing her gaze back to him. “I haven’t given you any specific duties beyond supporting Niall’s efforts because I expect you’ll see where and how you might be useful even better than I would. Trust me; if I need something specific from you, you’ll know it. Like right now. Take off your clothes.”

Despite the fact that his words brought the confusion in her head to an abrupt stop, he maintained the same relaxed tone. That bare hesitation was all she allowed herself before she obeyed, reaching for the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head, the braid falling loose against her bare back and bra strap, teasing the waistband of her trousers.

“Stop.” Evan tapped her shoulder with the tip of his brush. It was cool and damp from his last cleaning of it. “Move out in front of the canvas, toward that patch of grass where Niall is. Then I want you to take your time removing the rest. Do it as it feels right.”

“Do you wish a striptease, Master? I am trained for that.”

“No. Focus on the view, the moon and stars. The night air, the sounds. Not me. I’m not here. Neither is Niall.”

Uncertain, she shifted to the spot he wanted, her hand resting on the slim belt of the cargo pants, fiddling with the button. He’d gone silent, giving her time to think over his words. Lifting her arms, she pulled the braid loose, began to unravel it. She dropped to one knee to do it, bowing her head as she combed the strands with her fingers. She’d liked how it felt when he did that, so it seemed a good way to find the track of what he was seeking.

Most women feel a primal connection to the moon, if they give themselves the time and exposure to feel it. Feel its light on your bare back, every exposed inch of your flesh. Feel the elements around you, the trees, the breeze, the temperature. The aroma of the forest. It’s all around you, like the paint that creates a full picture.

“You can paint the wind? The smells?” She whispered it.

“If I do it right, yes. The mind creates the picture, with all the senses at its command. In the end,