Emory
The question lingers in the air between us as I stare into King Kane’s eyes, trying to figure out why he’s followed me to my bedroom. It doesn’t make any sense. Isn’t he expected to still be at dinner with the rest of his guests?
If anyone from dinner were to follow me, I would’ve assumed it would have been Rainer. But it’s not his blue eyes I’m staring into as the king leans against my door jamb.
He clears his throat, a moment of hesitation that is out of character for him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay,” he says.
“Oh.” I take a deep breath and step back once, almost tripping over my discarded shoes. I catch myself, seeing an eyebrow arch in concern. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” He doesn’t come into my room, and I’m assuming that’s probably because I haven’t invited him in. But he is leaning further in than he was before. “Opal can be such a… bitch.”
I want to agree with him, and I also want to demand to know why he never mentioned to me that he had a fiancée. I found out that another princess was present in the castle just before dinner, and I even got the feeling there was something going on between the two of them, something I probably didn’t want to know about. But no one had told me they were getting married, and the hadn’t made its rounds to my pack lands through the usual gossip circuit.
“I’m fine,” I tell him again. “I’m just really tired.” I try to smile, but it’s hard, so I give up.
He nods sympathetically. “I’m sure you are. It’s been a long day. Tomorrow will be better.” He is quite a bit taller than me, and now that I am barefoot. I feel that even more as I look up at him. How did I get back over here, so close to him? He is still using the doorway as support, one arm cradled against it as he casually hovers there. So… I must have moved toward him, which isn’t too surprising.
I seem to be drawn to him in a way I can’t explain and probably don’t want to admit.
He says tomorrow will be better, but from my perspective, I’m not sure how that will be true. It’s just one more day away from everything I’ve ever known. The first day that I won’t see Lola at all. Likely, the first day I will fulfill my new role—as a feeder.
Is that why he’s here? Didn’t he get enough blood at dinner? My bottom lip quivers thinking about it.
I haven’t spent too much time thinking about what it will be like to feed the king, though I was trying my best not to imagine feeding anyone else, like those assholes in the dungeon. But feeding him… that would be different than feeding anyone else. He’s the king, after all.
My eyes drop from his piercing gaze to his lips. Soft, pink, warm… I can only imagine what it would be like to have them on my body. I assume, he’d drink from my wrist, but what if his mouth found its way to my neck? Would it hurt when his teeth pierced my flesh, or would other sensations override the pain?
He stands up straight, and I realize he’s about to leave. I don’t want him to. Despite my exhaustion, I feel like the moment he walks away, the world will come crashing down on me again. At least, while he is here, I have enough of a shelter to protect me from the splintering explosion that is my life.
“Do you need anything before I go?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.
My first instinct is to shake my head no. I don’t want to be a bother. But then, I remember there is one thing I need. I can’t ask him, though. He’s the king.
He sees that I’m not being completely honest with him before my head even stops moving. “What is it?”
“Oh, uh… my dress,” I admit. “The zipper is stuck. But… I’ll find one of my maids.”
He glances around the room. “They’re not here?”
“No. They probably didn’t expect me back yet.” I shrug. “It’s not that big of a deal. I’m used to taking care of myself. I just happen to have a persnickety zipper.”
“Nellie and Helga’s room is right through there.” He gestures at a door I didn’t notice before. “But I’ll get it.”
My mouth drops open at his last sentence. “You, uh, you… don’t have to.”
Without me inviting him, he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. I suppose he doesn’t need my permission to come into any room in his own castle; and he does own me, too, after all.
“I know I don’t have to,” he says, taking me gently by the shoulders and turning me around. “But if the dress is ripped, this way, it’ll be my fault, and who would dare get mad at me for such a thing?” he asks with a chuckle.
His touch is a bit colder than what I am used to as his fingertips graze my shoulders through the fabric of the gown. The way he has turned me, I am looking into a mirror. I don’t think he’s noticed.
I remember reading a book when I was younger that said vampires won’t show up in reflective surfaces because they don’t have souls. Well, that’s clearly not true.
Much of what I know about vampires isn’t true….
Especially this one.
I can see him; I can most definitely see the tall, dark haired man with the features of a god as he stands behind me, his lose hair moving slightly around his shoulders as his fingers graze my skin above the zipper. He gives it a slight tug, moving it down just a bit before he carefully lowers it to the small of my back where I will be able to reach it myself. Again, his hands touch me only in passing as the zipper is moved, but I feel his essence lingering on my skin, even after he has released me.
My eyes lock onto his in the mirror, and I can’t help but bite my bottom lip. He feels this, too, doesn’t he? This… chemical reaction, this longing I can’t quite quantify, this… whatever it is that has my knees wanting to fold in on one another and a tightness in my core radiating down into a dampness I’ve never experienced before.
His hand is back on my shoulder, but this time, the material has slid down enough that nothing separates his skin from mine. His eyes move away from my reflection as he leans toward me, and my eyes fall closed. I turn my head slightly, not to put space between us but to give him access, my body betraying my desire.
His breath is warmer than expected as it fans across my skin. His thumb slips to the back of my neck, his fingers cradling around my throat. I want to feel his mouth on me. I want to give him whatever he wants, whatever he needs. Whether it’s the hot liquid spilling through my veins or the slickness I feel between my legs, I want him to command me.
It isn’t his mouth I feel on me, though. When he finally brings his head down, he is resting his forehead on my shoulder, and his hand slides down my arm to my waist as he holds me close to him. I lean back into a solid wall of muscle that is surprisingly more flesh-like than I would’ve thought as he seems to be contemplating a world of perplexing choices beyond my comprehension.
Is it Opal?
Is that why he hasn’t put his mouth on me? Is he afraid that he will do more than feed from me if his lips touch my skin?
I have no way of knowing, and I cannot ask, but the strength of his arm around me, of being pressed against him, allows me to feel safe for the first time since before I left home early this morning.
My hands can’t help but reach for him. I want to feel him, too. I want to caress his skin and hold him, but I can’t be too forward, too presumptuous. I lift a hand to place on top of the one he has cradled around my waist, and just as before, when he took my hand in the dungeon, the sensation of a thousand electric pin pricks dance up my arm. It nearly takes my breath away.
His other hand slides around my hips, and he pulls me even tighter into his grasp. A sigh escapes my lips as I feel his need pressed to my back. So I’m not imagining any of this—the connection is there. I lean my head against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of bergamot and a few spices I cannot name that I have already come to associate with him.
Of its own accord, my other hand lifts to touch him. Silky black strands run through my fingers as I discover his hair is as smooth as it looks. His cheeks is like porcelain, though a bit cold, and when I turn my head and our faces meet for the first time, all I can think about is how good it would feel for him to brush his lips against mine.
He stays unmoving though, and I realize he’s barely breathing. I don’t think he needs oxygen to stay alive, so that’s not too surprising, but I can’t figure out why he is so very still. His hand at my waist is so very close to my breastbone, the longing for him to slide it up only a few inches, to touch me in places no one ever has before, has a gasp leaving my lips. I have to bite down again to keep from moaning, and he hasn’t even kissed me.
After a moment, his countenance changes. He stands up, moving his hands around my body in a more controlling, yet careful, way. He turns me to face him, his hands on my shoulders now. I grasp the top of my dress to keep it from sliding down as my straps are useless now, hanging loosely around my elbows.
“Emory.” The way he says my name has me longing to reach for him, but it’s clear to me now that whatever spell he was under a moment ago has dissipated, and I am the one left with her head spinning in the clouds. “Forgive me. I’ve gotten carried away. It won’t happen again.”
He swallows hard, his eyes still on my face, and then, he is gone, out the door, erased from my room as if he was never even here.
I am left standing in a draping gown, feeling much colder without his touch than with it, wondering what happens now.
Why would I need to forgive him for touching me when I wanted it to?
And… what if I want it to happen again?