Beloved Vampire (24 page)

She’d had only one goal with Raithe—survive each night, pray for dawn. And she did it day by day. She had to do the same thing here. Create short, manageable tasks, bite-sized pieces of life. Prove she could handle herself, handle her own life. Then, if Mason could convince the Council not to summarily execute her, he would let her go. If he lived up to his promises . . .

She worked her way back to Coman’s haunches, brushing vigorously. Oh, and she needed to stay away from explosive climaxes that resulted in psychotic meltdowns.

Easy enough. After all, she’d been defiled enough to last most women ten lifetimes. But that sex had been all about violence, torment, humiliation. What had happened in the ballroom . . . it had been a fantasy come to life.

Jess stopped with a snarl at herself that had Coman’s head swinging around, the white of his eye showing as he rolled it in her direction. She pressed her hands to her forehead, willing the thoughts to go away. She couldn’t afford fantasies. Her fragile mind

was having enough difficulty managing reality.

No. It was getting late. She needed to finish grooming Coman, help with the feeding, then she’d go inside, eat dinner, read a book .

. .

019

Enrique turned from the window, from which he could see Jessica Tyson sitting by the horse fountain in the upper-tier garden, her favorite place. Though night had come, the area fell inside a wash of light from the windows of the staff leisure area. The girl obviously had an aversion to darkness, though they’d all noticed it wasn’t the night itself she feared. She was more apprehensive of dark rooms, or the darkness that lay outside a room, which turned windows and doors into openings into her private Hell.

A vampire household had odd hours. While he and Amara often slept in the afternoons in preparation for the evening, most of the staff, like the maintenance and stable help, had gone to bed by now. However, he noted they’d left the back lights on, for her specifically. She spoke little, but was often close to one or more of them during the day, as if she yearned for human contact but could not bear for it to be too direct. A vampire’s staff tended to be sensitive to undercurrents, so they’d stayed accessible if she needed anything, but were never overt in their attentions. Jorge in particular was growing very fond of the girl.

Enrique was sure she was oblivious to how many of the staff were taking a personal interest in her progress. He was also certain she didn’t have a clue how deep the interest of the lord of the household ran, enough to eclipse the interest and concerns of all the other staff members combined, to a multiple of ten. If she knew, it would probably scare her to death.

Suppressing his worry with effort, Enrique looked toward Mason. The disturbing darkness simmering in his gaze had been there in greater or lesser degrees since Jessica had become hysterical on the balcony. Tonight, as on past nights, Mason had been conferenc ing with several trusted contacts close to the Council. From his expression as he cut the connection, his efforts on Jessica’s behalf were still on the fence. But they now knew he had her, for he’d taken the leap and told Lord Uthe, second-in-command of the Council, that she was in his care.

“They will allow me to keep her here, until I come and speak to them about her situation.” Mason put the cell phone down on the desk. “We’ve made an appointment to do so. They wanted me to bring her, but I indicated she was in no condition for that.”

“It will take time, my lord,” Enrique said quietly. And he meant not only the Council efforts. “This kind of trauma can take months to heal, even years. It’s a miracle she’s functioning as well as she is, after only a handful of weeks.”

In fact, Enrique suspected they’d not yet seen her worst breaks. She was still too busy protecting herself, and her defensiveness was likely her mind’s best glue right now. When she truly realized her ordeal was over, he was certain it would dissolve, and her memories would turn on her in a far more drastic manner. Her ambition to live independently might be far down the road. Or possibly never.

“She doesn’t have that kind of time.” Mason spun the cell phone in circles. From his moody stare at a Rodin bronze on his desk, Enrique knew his Master might have heard his discomfiting thoughts. The amber gaze lifted, locked with the Frenchman’s. “It’s a chicken and egg dilemma, Enrique. In order to fully heal, she needs to be away from anything remotely connected to vampires. But I can’t let her go, not only until I get this cleared up with the Council, but until I know she’s safe from herself. She spends too damn much time crafting her own manageable reality. She can’t face down her demons and regain herself again.” With a frustrated sound, he rose from the chair, paced to the window and stared down as well, though Enrique noticed he stood to the far right of the window, where she wouldn’t see him if she looked up.

“Are you certain, my lord? She may be able to heal fully in this environment, if she learned to trust it. Is it possible her pain is clouding your judgment?”

Mason’s attention cut sharply to him and Enrique shrugged. “Forgive me, my lord, but her torment appears to be drawing you back into some dark memories. When you’ve helped women in the past, it’s been clear you haven’t been doing it out of some misguided notion that you are saving Farida. It is to honor her memory. But there is a tie with this girl, something that has the potential to become an obsession. There is too much in common.”

When Mason only stared back down into the garden, Enrique pushed on. “Is it possible that what happened the other night is a good thing? Maybe she needs more of it. She needs to know she can lose control and be safe. It’s like an infection that needs to be split open and drained, over and over, until it starts to heal.”

Mason shook his head. “It hurts her too much.”

“Her, or you?” When the vampire cut him a warning look, Enrique locked gazes with him. It was not a privilege Mason always granted, but when they spoke, male to male, Enrique knew the line could waver. “We worry whether or not you can handle the agony of watching her go through that, and what it may do to you.”

Mason’s gaze narrowed. “You should leave the meddlesome advice to Amara. I’m less likely to take a strip of her hide for it.”

When Enrique’s jaw hardened, a flash of temper in his gaze, it reminded Mason that, though his servant had the male tendency not to analyze or question the actions of another male in the way a woman might do—the way his well-meaning wife did—it was therefore far more significant when Enrique did choose to speak. He was doing what he’d done since Mason had met him—told him the truth of his mind, and the Frenchman had damnably good intuition.

With a sigh, Mason reached out, gripped the man’s shoulder, though in truth he felt more like ripping something limb from limb right

now. “I know you are both concerned, and I appreciate the love you show me. But do not worry yourself further. I know what I’m doing. Go to your wife. She misses you.”

He had no need to placate either servant. They served him, after all, but he couldn’t have their worry pressing in on him while he was fighting his own demons. As Enrique slipped out of the room, Mason was already back in his head, remembering Jess’s thoughts that night on the balcony. She’d wanted him to stay with her, share her bed. Until then, he’d been Farida’s Mason, the fantasy in which she could lose herself, hide from what she was, reconcile it with what Raithe had done to her. But in that moment, she’d been herself, seeing him for what he was, what she wanted. While it was progress, he also suspected it was what had sent her into a catastrophic spiral.

The next time she was that aroused, he would be with her, every step of the journey. She needed someone physically with her who could straddle the line between her nightmares and fantasies and bring her back into a pleasurable reality. Unfortunately, he was so linked to her fantasy, he couldn’t fault Amara and Enrique for their suggestion that he needed to step back.

But damn it, that wasn’t what his gut told him. It was more than what Enrique implied, a cold hand reaching through three hundred years to remind him of the worst memory of his life, a memory that had directed so much of his life ever since.

By Allah, he was tired of thinking about it. He’d done nothing but brood the past few days. Glancing back down, he saw Jessica had left the fountain. Even as he searched for her through his mind, he knew she’d gone to the workout room. She went there daily to rebuild her muscles and practice sparring techniques.

Mason knew Raithe had sculpted her hatred like an artist, letting her train, letting her believe she could devise ways to fight him.

He’d never believed he would have a vulnerable moment when her relentless training would kick in and serve her at last.

Both Enrique and Amara were combat-trained. Amara had been more reluctant at first, as it went against her perception of herself, but Mason and Enrique saw to it. For though Mason knew his servants had little chance against vampires, his world had other, human opportunities for peril. No matter where her journey would take her, he approved of Jess having skills to defend herself and the brain to use them.

Another woman would have given up in despair. Would have stopped practicing the defensive and offensive techniques, or trying to resist Raithe’s mind. Eleven stripes on her back documented how long it had taken her to give up on simple escape. But she hadn’t really given up, had she? Or Raithe would not be dead.

He’d never seen such a fighter. Or a female more desperately responsive to a Master’s touch. It was too intoxicating for him to stay away.

020

The staff ’s workout room would rival an urban center’s most up-to-date gym. Weight machines and hand weights, as well as mats to keep from slipping or damaging the polished wooden floor. Various weapons were displayed on a rack—nunchakus, quarterstaffs, swords. A row of mirrors hung on the back wall to study her form. When Jess looked in them, she saw a cautious-eyed woman staring back, wearing a black cotton tank and stretch leggings to allow the full range of movement. Her feet were bare.

She liked the rows of tall windows that didn’t open to the night, but one touch of the curtain control allowed a panorama of the nighttime shore. Usually she’d see the lingering colors of the setting sun, but she’d stayed out by the fountain too long. It was full night, and the room was unpopulated. She told herself she preferred it that way. None of the staff was intrusive, but she often felt their scrutiny, and didn’t want to be curious about what they were thinking, or feel tempted to talk to them.

She’d use music for company instead. Going to the sound system, she scrolled through the vast number of playlists and digital music selections. This system was as high tech as the one in the ballroom. Whatever he’d done to get his money—Berber raider, strip dancer in Vegas—Mason must have been successful at it.
Very
successful.

While the music selections were likely staff choices, it amused her to think of Mason with an account at a music download site. Did he visit chat groups? What would his call name be? ISuckBlood46? Fangboy24?

Actually, I considered Vladimir666, but it seemed cliché.

She hated the fact that her heart leaped at the sound of his voice.
Don’t you have better things to do than invade my head?

There was no reply to that, but she didn’t expect any. He had stayed out of her head, for the most part, since that night on the balcony, but occasionally she’d hear a short comment like that, smoothly inserted into her thought process so it didn’t startle her.

Here, then gone.
She should be grateful he spoke to her so little, shouldn’t desire contact with him at all.

As she seated herself on a bench and listlessly began to do triceps pulls, she knew what the problem was. Okay, she had myriad problems, given the peanut brittle state of her brain, but her overriding issue was lack of focus. Making the journey to Farida’s tomb, expecting to die there, had been like running a marathon, pushing the body past its endurance to reach that twenty-sixth mile and cross the finish line. Everything disappeared except that finish line, the heart exploding in the chest, head pounding, legs trembling. But now that finish line had disappeared, and not only was she uncertain in which direction the race lay, she wasn’t sure she had the energy left to continue running it.