Page 17 of Luna

On the second viewing, I notice that he has pissed himself and I have to fight the urge to laugh.

On the third viewing, I start to wonder how in the world I ever found him so terrifying.

How did he have so much control over me for so long? How did this man – this pathetic specimen of humanity – systematically destroy every flicker of joy and replace it with darkness?

Insecurity?

Doubt?

Anxiety?

Pain?

“I’ve seen enough.” I turn the screen off and sit back in my chair.

Lucien takes his hands from my shoulders, and I instantly miss his touch. He puts the screen back in the desk drawer, then leans on the edge and folds his arms in front of his chest.

“Are you waiting for me to thank you?”

He shrugs. “If you feel thanks is appropriate, I welcome it, but I did what I did because he deserved it. Not because I was seeking your approval.”

“So, this isn’t some kind of weird vampire mating ritual? Kill off the boyfriend? Mail his body parts to the woman you’re trying to seduce?”

For a moment, Lucien frowns at me, but then he chuckles again. It is so unexpected, it makes me smile. Dark, and delicious, his laugh is like liquid sin.

I feel myself blushing again and angle my body away from the fire as though it is the flames that are making me warm.

“I can honestly say, this is a first for me,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “And I can’t imagine it’s something I will be doing again.”

“You’ve never cut off someone’s penis and put it in a box before?”

Lucien tilts his head. “Oh, I’ve cut off all kinds of body parts. But the box was new.” He taps his foot on the wooden floor. “I wanted you to know there was someone looking after you.”

“You wanted me to know you were looking after me?”

“Not true,” he says. “I did not intend for you to find out it was me, but the evening’s events got away from me.”

I reach for my whiskey. I have always hated whiskey, but it is cleaning the taste of the vomit from my mouth, and calming my nerves, and I need something to do with my hands.

A thick, stubborn ache is nestling between my bones, and I feel suddenly exhausted.

As if he can tell, Thornfield looks me up and down and his expression changes. “You should rest,” he says firmly. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

“Rest?” I almost laugh; he expects me to rest? Here? In his house?

“There are chambers you can use tonight. You’ll be comfortable.”

“Chambers?” This time, I do laugh. “Mansions don’t have bedrooms?”

Thornfield doesn’t seem to get the joke or, at least, doesn’t respond to it. Instead, he stands and holds out his hand for mine.

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “And if I don’t want to stay?”

“That would be unfortunate because it really is best that you do.”

“I want to go.” I stand up, deliberately not taking his hand. Instead, I down the rest of my drink then put the glass down firmly on the coffee table.

“I would advise you not to.”