“We get to The Feast, pet, you aren’t outside touching distance from me unless I specifically allow it. Am I understood?”
Oh my God.
He was taking me to A Feast. I wasn’t ready for A Feast, I was pretty sure.
“You’re understood,” I mumbled regardless of my newfound terror, making an attempt to instill in my tone the reverence Breed used, thinking this would annoy him greatly.
Apparently, it worked. His head turned sharply to the side and his fingers dug into the flesh around my elbow painfully.
When I looked up to him, forcing my face into what I hoped was innocence mixed with eagerness (Wats and Breed had given me a great idea), I saw his eyes narrow and his mouth grow tight.
He, and thus I, remained silent as we descended the first staircase. And the second. And the third.
At the end of the fourth, Lucien guided me into my first Feast.
I saw immediately there was a reason Wats and Breed weren’t down here. The place was a crush of beautiful people. Not thin. Not gaunt. Not heavy. Not ill-kept.
Perfect.
I didn’t know where the vampires ended and the mortals began.
And all of them were dressed impeccably. The men in tuxedos or well-cut suits, the women in evening gowns. There was no one there that looked hopeful and desperate to be chosen. No overabundance of jewels and finery. The people here were too cool, too elegant, too polished to exhibit themselves in a way that would cry for attention.
The people were the only thing about the place that was elegant.
It looked like it was made out of cement, all of it, including the bar that ran along the length of one side. The shelves at the back were glass however, covered in bottles of liquor and different shaped glasses, backlit with red lights as was the rest of the place, all of it illuminated by very dim, red lights.
The music was loud. Not rock ‘n’ roll but slow, throbbing and seductive.
As unassuming as it was, the room seemed alive as a hum of conversation ran low under the music. People were standing and talking or moving gracefully between the tightly packed bodies.
There was what amounted to a dance floor but the dancers weren’t exactly dancing. I found my attention riveted to them as I watched the bodies move, pressed tight, swaying against each other suggestively, hands moving, reaching, touching. Faces tucked into necks, lips and, even from my distance I saw a few glistening tongues gliding along jaws, cheekbones, temples, shoulders, other lips. It didn’t seem there were couples but like the group was one, a whole, anyone who joined it would be pulled into what amounted to mass foreplay.
No wonder Edwina, who thought of her girls as good girls, didn’t want them to come here.
I couldn’t believe Lucien brought me here.
Not that I had any problem with this kind of thing, it just wasn’t my scene.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if this was also part of my punishment when he dropped my arm, caught my hand in his and he drove forward, propelling us through the bodies.
His grip was sure and strong as he pulled me through.
I saw people turn to him and nod acknowledgement. A few mouthed greetings.
I also saw people studying me, faces impassive, eyes scanning, too sophisticated to be overt but still betraying their curiosity.
Lucien stopped at the bar and, with a tug on my hand, yanked me through the final throng. In a tiny patch of free space, he curled his arm, whirling me so my back was plastered to his front, his arm tight around my waist, his hand still in mine and he didn’t let me go.
“What are you drinking tonight, pet?” he asked, his mouth bent to my ear and it pissed me off his deep voice sounding against my skin made me shiver.
I twisted my head and his came up to give it room to move.
I got up on tiptoes and sought his ear where I answered, “What do you want me to drink?”
Reflexively his arm tightened at my waist as his head shot up and his eyes scanned my face in the red light.
Then he looked away, clearly angry and jerked his chin at the bartender.
It was then I decided maybe I was laying it on a bit thick.
He looked back down at me, dipping his face close, his forehead touching mine, his mouth a breath away.
“I like you best when you’re drunk on vodka,” he declared. His words invoking a memory that made my stomach pitch in a way that wasn’t sickening but it hurt all the same.
I didn’t know what came over me the night before.
That wasn’t entirely true. I did.
I was drunk and my inhibitions were swept away.
They said you act most honestly when you’re drunk which gave me something else to spend my day fretting and getting angry at myself about. And last night, for the first time, I enjoyed my time with him before the bloodletting not to mention the bloodletting itself, which was, I couldn’t deny it, unbelievable.
By the time I’d drunk my last martini, I’d listened to both Edwina and Stephanie talking about what a great man he was, how generous he was with his concubines when they were with him and after he released them. Apparently, he not only took care of them, he still saw most of them, even the ones who were now old and frail. It didn’t hurt that the evidence of his colossal generosity was scattered around me, the clothes, the house, the housekeeper.
Sometime during the fashion parade, I’d forgotten my Why I Hate Lucien Vault and instead only remembered the good parts about him. The way a smile tugged at his mouth. The way his eyes went hooded when he knew I was watching him and I liked what I saw. The way he thought my worst traits were amusing. The way he could sometimes be gentle and patient. The way he kissed.
Good parts he showed upon arriving home, cementing in my inebriated mind that I’d been wrong about him.
Until he proved me right, that was.
His face pulled away, wrenching me from my thoughts.
I watched him glance again to the bar and order, “Two martinis, vodka, olives.”
After this, Lucien was silent and motionless until our drinks arrived. Once they did he passed a bill to the bartender. I took my drink and he repositioned us. Lucien with mostly his side but also his back to the bar. Me turned to the room, my back still tight to his front, my body snugly, possessively, even protectively held in the curve of his arm.
His mouth came back to my ear and, apropos of nothing, he murmured, “Breed and Wats are hangers.”
I hadn’t asked but I was curious to know. I turned my head to face him and when I did I saw his expression was guarded and watchful.
Yes, I’d taken it too far.
Damn.
While doing my hair for the night (Edwina wanted to do it but I put my foot down this time), I’d come up with my plan.