The kiss was long enough that it caught at her breath, so that when he released her, she had to drag in a deep gulp of air. It had been a lovely, perfect melding of lips and tease of tongue, rife with the promise of much more to come.
And, of course, it had been Sebastian’s clear message to James Lacy that Victoria was spoken for.
Seventeen
Wherein the Smell of Roses Portends an Unpleasant Evening
Victoria realized, of course, that she still hadn’t identified the daytime vampire . . . and that the man sitting next to her in the scraped-up, creaking curricle could very well be the undead in question.
It could also be George, Sara, or any one or all of them.
She didn’t really believe it was Max, but he’d taught her to consider all possibilities.
Oh God. Max.
Victoria realized she was curling her fingernails into her palms. She didn’t like to imagine the way he’d look at her the next time she saw him—if indeed she ever did. When she’d made the decision to give him the salvi, it had been a single-minded, tunneled response to a very simple, real fear.
She could not bear for Lilith to have him again. Victoria had never been able to erase the memory, seeing him—always so powerful, so arrogant and in control— under that creature’s domination. Bare-chested, kneeling at Lilith’s side, a submissive Max with empty eyes and no will of his own . . . then the way he had jerked helplessly, convulsing, his torso shuddering as the vampire queen bent to sink her teeth into his neck. And drink.
The image haunted her.
And now, he was free—free of a hold Victoria knew she couldn’t begin to comprehend. Even though he was still brusque and arrogant and commanding, she’d noticed an easing in his face, a lessening of the darkness in his eyes. A few more smiles, even. Being released from the vampire queen’s thrall had—not softened him; that wasn’t the word. Max wasn’t soft in any sense of the word.
He’d become . . . easier. Just a bit easier.
“Would you like a rose?”
James’s voice broke into Victoria’s thoughts, and she realized the carriage had traveled from the park and was now rolling along the street. Other vehicles filled the thoroughfare, and ladies and gentlemen walked along arm in arm, likely returning from Vauxhall or Covent Gardens.
There was a young woman hawking roses on the corner. Victoria had never noticed street vendors about at night—although orange sellers and the like were thick in this area during the day. But how enterprising of the woman to take advantage of couples out for an evening in the Gardens, or other less innocent assignations.
James hadn’t waited for her response; he guided the curricle over to the side of the street. The young woman stood under a lantern, where its light gleamed over her blonde hair. Victoria might have been worried for her safety, there on the street by herself, despite the number of other people about. But when she noticed the hulking silhouette of a man propped against a building behind her, her fears eased.
“Which one would you like, my lady?” asked the girl, thrusting the bunch of roses in her face.
As Victoria leaned forward to select one of the blooms, two things happened: she realized that the back of her neck had chilled, and something sprayed in her face from the midst of the flowers.
She groped for her stake, but it was too late. The sickly sweet smell that had been atomized into her face filled her nostrils and seared the inside of her mouth and throat. She coughed, shaking her head, feeling the increased chill at the back of her neck, struggled to keep her fingers around the stake . . . saw the dark figure from the building move into the lantern light . . . and then everything went black.
Max forced himself to sit, unmoving. If he dared rise again, he feared what he’d do—to the room, to the furnishings, to the locked and barred door, to himself.
He kept his mind focused on inane things—counting the lines in the wood-planked floor, the number of neat pleats on the ruffles around the pillow on the bed that had been made so bloody comfortable for him.
A prisoner.
Every time he allowed his thoughts even to start in that direction, his stomach tightened and dangerous bile burned the back of his throat. He couldn’t let himself think about why she’d done it . . . or even the fact that she had.
Locked him here. A prisoner.
He knew why.
Oh, he knew why, and the fact that he did made it all the more disgusting and loathsome.
Bad enough that she’d broken his trust . . . but even worse—so damned much worse—was that she’d felt the need to do it.
He forced his attention to the pattern of rosebud wallpaper on the wall and began to count the blooms.
The salvi had not completely relinquished its hold on him, or so it seemed . . . for he began to feel heavy-lidded in the eyes and weary in the muscles.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the bed.
And Wayren was there.
She stood in the small room, tall and serene. Her beautiful elfin face bore traces of concern and also a hint of challenge. Thick silver-blonde hair hung, for once, unfettered by small braids or leather thongs. Simple, straight, melding into the pale gold of her gown, which seemed almost to glow. Her whole person seemed almost to glow. “Why do you fight it, Max?”
He sat up, still exhausted. “Get me out of here.”
“I can’t do that.”
“The hell you can’t. I’ve seen what you can do, Wayren.” His head was splitting and pounding at the same time; it was a wonder he could form words.
She smiled, but there was a trace of sadness there. “You deserve happiness after so many years of darkness and self-recrimination.”
“I can’t.”
“You refuse to, Max. Let it all go and stop thinking about it. Stop denying yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“She loves you.”
“She loves Vioget.”
Wayren nodded briefly. “Yes, she does.”
Max closed his eyes. When he opened them, she was gone.
“Get me out of here!” he said to the empty room.
“You must do that on your own.” Wayren’s voice penetrated . . . from somewhere.
And then Max woke up.
Victoria opened her eyes.
Her first impression was of a warm room, filled with dancing red and orange lights. Smelling of roses. The back of her neck was unbearably frigid and the stone wall close to her nose was immediately recognizable to her. She was in the subterranean abbey Sebastian had shown her, lying in the exact place she’d found Briyani’s body.