Page 92 of Red Masquerade

Flora laughed and was happy to oblige.

When I awoke, Vince lay beside me, naked under the sheets.

The house was silent, the sun streaming through the windows at a midday peak. I slept the morning away again. I didn’t think I’d fallen asleep until the sun started peeking over the horizon that early morning, until birds began chirping in the trees, heralding another new day.

I stretched my arms above my head, the sheets falling to my waist, trying to relieve the soreness of my muscles.

Vince hardly stirred, only turning his head on the plush pillow. He was beautiful, an angelic quality to the way his hair fell on the pillow, the serene relaxation of his face, his sharp teeth hidden behind those pink lips. I touched him, feeling the cool skin of his cheek, the stubble there, the fullness of his lip. I realized he was paler than he’d been as Adam, maybe just barely, almost imperceptibly. But the muscles of his shoulders and chest were leaner, stronger, more defined. He had an energy, a vigor, he hadn’t had before.

Before.

It was as though my life was divided into two:BeforeandAfter.

I had to watch for many moments before I saw his chest rise and sink, hardly an inch. If I felt his neck, I knew his pulse would be faint, slow as though he were on the brink of death.

I stood out of bed, grabbing his discarded robe to cover me from the chill of the morning. As I slipped my arms through the sleeves, I saw on the tea table a range of morning papers, a steaming teapot, and a small dish of toast, butter, and jelly. A servant had come in while we slumbered.

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten at all last night—only drank, and then danced it all away.

I sat upon the couch, pulling my feet up, and relaxed into a pillow as I sipped on the tea. And I hardly read the papers, the politics all too confusing for me, but this morning, I picked up the neighborhood daily, like some greater force was pushing me to read it, controlling my movements.

The teacup nearly slipped from my fingers when I read: “Quintrell daughter’s disappearance.” My eyes skimmed the page, jumping over words. I knew this was Lucas, knew he was trying to control the story. Because of course my absence was noticed, or if it wasn’t yet, he wanted to get a handle on the news before people began to realize I was missing.

Lucas Quintrell, head of the Quintrell Company, happily writes that his sister, the inimitable Helena Quintrell, is away from town, caring for an aunt, before she spends some time taking a tour of the Continent. He and their mother thank all neighbors for their concern and well-wishes.

The paper went on to say more about crimes reported, announcements of birth, of death.

I crumpled the paper in my fist, my teeth grinding. I should’ve expected it.

Of course they’d rather lie and save face—they had no idea where I was, but heaven forbid word got out that I truly was missing. That he had no idea where I was. What would society think of us then? It stung, realizing no one was that concerned—if they were, they would’ve sent the police looking by now, would’ve told everyone to keep an eye out for me.

It was all Lucas.

I stood and threw the papers into the fire.

Thirty-One

“You can go out in the sun. You still have a reflection. What about iron? Wooden stakes?”

I had been peppering the afternoon with questions—how could I not when I had a creature, another species, in the flesh, resting between my legs? In between kisses, when he was able to take his mouth off of me, when I was able to catch my breath, reality would creep in and I’d remember that he was no longer human, and it would settle into me, deep and heavy, an impossibility that had somehow become the truth.

And I didn’t know how to feel about that.

This particular question earned me a laugh. His eyes gleamed.

“My atoms don’t suddenly defy physics.” He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. “Besides, anyone getting stabbed in the chest with a sharp piece of wood would probably die.”

I curled a lock of his hair around my finger. “I’ve read the fairytales.”

“Honestly, I didn’t realize how much you knew about vampires.” He sounded amused, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer. His body was still warm with the aftermath of our morning and afternoon. But he just held me, keeping me close, his head cradled against my chest, like he was listening in on my heart.

His auburn hair shone in the soft sunlight coming in through the windows. I never thought I’d be able to run my fingers through his hair again.

His shoulders were broad, wider than they had been when he left. He’d grown into his adult body, and the thought only made me mourn that we had beenkidswhen he’d been threatened, separated. A young man, little more than a teenager, punished for falling in with a rich girl, and sent off to die.

My hands flitted across his shoulders. There was strength in his muscles, a rigidness that couldn’t be hidden by clothes.

He lifted a finger to my chin, bringing me back to him. “I am as real as ever,” he said, like he knew what I was thinking. He always had a habit of that. Our minds must have been intrinsically linked. “I haven’t changedthatmuch.”