Blood Ecstasy (Blood Curse Series Book 8) (13 page)

Rebecca sighed.
 

What was done was done, and truth be told, she could not endure one more day, sitting on the floor, standing in the corner, or perching on the edge of the moss-rock fireplace, while Julien lounged in his oversized chair and stared at her, incessantly, with those moonstone eyes. And the opposite was equally alarming: Whenever Rebecca took the chair, Julien hovered in the corner. Hell, he practically stalked the rafters, loomed in the shadows, or perched on the hearth, haunting the entire great room like a six-foot-four, vampiric ghost.
 

No thank you.
 

The furniture was sorely needed.
 

Rebecca pointed to her left, toward an empty space beneath several high wooden beams, and tried to sound like she belonged there. “Why don’t you place it right there, with the left arm of the sofa facing the right arm of the chair, kind of perpendicular.”
 

The husky mover grunted beneath the weight of the sofa, and then he took an obvious, albeit inadvertent, second glance at Rebecca, sweeping his gaze over her face and her body with blatant appreciation.
 

Julien stirred in his chair.
 

He shifted his weight from side to side like a lazy jungle cat about to rise from its slumber, and leaned forward. A barely audible growl rose in his throat. It wasn’t all that loud, and it wasn’t particularly drawn out; but then, it didn’t have to be, to prove effective.
 

The sound was equal parts savage and commanding.
 

The furniture guy lost his grip on the couch, stumbled forward to catch it, and let out a grunt of pain as the massive end of the sofa slammed against his thighs. He quickly averted his eyes. “Right here?” he asked, ignoring the trickle of sweat that was dripping into his eyes.
 

“Two inches to the left,” Julien growled.

Rebecca held her breath.
 

What was the vampire doing now?
 

The delivery man was clearly about to drop the couch, and Julien was baiting him, almost as if he wanted to see him fail.
But for what purpose?
So he could fly from the chair, bite him in the neck, and proceed to drink his blood, right in front of his coworkers?
 

Right in front of Rebecca?
 

Oh,
hell no,
Rebecca did
not
want to witness some bestial show of dominance, right there in Julien’s great room. Seeing what he had done to that blond woman, the night of the Blood Moon, had been enough bestiality to last Rebecca a lifetime.
 

All at once, Julien shot her a harsh, sidelong glance, almost as if to say,
watch your P’s and Q’s
, and then, just as quickly, he looked away.
 

Rebecca pulled up short.

What the hell was that?

She hadn’t done anything to encourage the mover, and it wasn’t like she was waiting for an opportune moment to make a run for it. Still, she thought, wetting her lips, if she had entertained even a passing thought about signaling the movers for help, trying to scribble a note on the back of a receipt, or whispering “call 911” in a stranger’s ear,
the look on Julien’s face had just squashed it.
 

The lazy lion would probably eat the movers, and then he would turn his king-of-the-jungle attentions on her.

Rebecca was not an idiot.

She nodded, a brusque incline of her head, and took a cautious step back, pointing at the oblong coffee table, crafted from the trunk of a large aged tree. “Could you put that in the center of the room when you’re done with the sofa? Just set it evenly, kind of between the chairs and the couch.” She twiddled her fingers together in a childlike, nervous gesture.

A second mover nodded his head. “Sure thing.” His voice was a bit too ingratiating, and Julien slowly raised his hand, pointed it in Rebecca’s general direction, and gently crooked his fingers.
 

What the hell…now?

Did he want her to sit on his lap?

She shook her head
no
, and the tip of his sculpted nose twitched, ever so slightly, even as his lazy hand stiffened.
 

Rebecca gulped:
I’m fine where I am
. She spoke the words in her mind, knowing full well that he could hear her, clearly. In fact, from everything he had told her, he could glimpse her thoughts—or take them from her mind—any time he chose, although the practice was highly frowned upon in the house of Jadon: something to do with invading free will. And while she could
not
hear him, telepathically, at least not unless they were physically touching or until she was converted, he could intercept her telepathic messages now. It had something to do with the fact that he had taken her blood, although none of it made a lot of sense.
 

Julien cleared his deep, raspy throat, having heard her every word. “
Tu îmi apar
ț
ii mie
ș
oarec mic. Vino
.” He drawled the words in old-world Romanian, and Rebecca’s mouth nearly dropped open.
 

She knew exactly what that meant.

You belong to me, little mouse. Come.

Over the past three days, he had used the phrase quite often, like some medieval term of endearment. The joke, according to him, was based on the fact that she was like a busy little mouse, always scurrying around, trying to find a way to escape. And, of course, there was the comment she had made about the mouse trap, when he had offered her crackers and cheese. Somehow, the term had stuck.
 

As for the reference to belonging to him?
 

That
she couldn’t account for.
 

Just the same, she knew in her soul that if she defied him now—
and in front of the human movers?
—he would likely get out of the chair, stalk across the room, and toss her over his shoulders, carrying her back like a conquest. Julien wouldn’t hesitate to shock the human laborers and erase their memories, later.
 

Had she just said
humans
?

Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat, wiped her sweaty palms along the front of the faded blue jeans she had ordered from a next-day delivery catalogue, and made her way across the room slowly, trying to appear nonchalant. She sat on the arm of the chair, purposefully foregoing Julien’s lap, and his large powerful palm immediately found its way to the small of her back.

“Thank you,
iubito
.”
 

Baby.
 

She struggled not to shudder.
 

Rather, she turned her attention back to the movers and watched as they unpacked the last of the furniture, began to collect their empty boxes, and searched the floor for a missing clipboard—more than likely, they were looking for the final bill.
 

Despite the commotion and the odd situation, Rebecca’s mind began to wander. She couldn’t help but wonder what her support group was doing now: The women would be gathering in Sheila’s comfortable loft, sharing stories about the passing week, and offering encouragement to one another in an effort to allay any lingering fears. And Rebecca would not be there to participate. She would not be there to lead her own meeting. It was all happening without her.
 

Rebecca’s heart sank in her chest.
 

Over the last several days, Julien had strongly encouraged her to call home—okay, so that was captive-speak for the male had aggressively insisted that Rebecca leave a message on the VOSU answering machine, explaining her curious absence and the fact that she would not
be attending the next three or four meetings.
He had
strongly suggested
that she relay some story about staying in Dark Moon Vale for
an indeterminate amount of time, explaining that the valley had been so peaceful, so beautiful—it had felt so incredibly safe—that Rebecca had decided to extend her visit for as long as she could pull it off, financially.
 

Yeah, right.

Because that wasn’t completely out of character.
 

Just the same, Julien had somehow embedded a soft, unspoken compulsion in the messages—whatever that actually meant—and he had assured her that her friends would not question her honesty or her sincerity.

And then he had
gently encouraged
her to leave the same message with all her friends and family.
 

And just like that…

Rebecca’s absence had been explained.

None would be the wiser, and no one would come looking…

A tall, skinny mover with a horrible case of acne finally found the clipboard beneath a pile of Styrofoam, picked it up, and flipped through the anchored pages. Coming to the last page, he took a step in Julien’s direction, eyed the menacing vampire suspiciously, and stopped dead in his tracks. He bent over and set the invoice on the end table instead, taking a generous step back in the interest of self-preservation. “Ah-hem,” he cleared his throat. “That’ll be three thousand eighty-nine dollars.” His eyes darted anxiously around the room, fixing on everything
but
Julien.
 

Julien reached into his pocket, retrieved a time-worn wallet, and thumbed through the leather, extracting a platinum credit card. He flicked it onto the end table—apparently, he didn’t have any interest in approaching the human, either—and waited while the nervous laborer ran the card through his portable machine.
 

The guy held out the final printed receipt, along with a pen. “If you would just sign, right here, on the dotted line—” He stopped abruptly and slid the pen back into the top of the clipboard. “Um, never mind. We’re good.”

Julien shrugged his shoulders and waited in silence as the men gathered the remaining trash and began to head for the door, and Rebecca’s heart sank in her chest: Even though she knew she could not call out for help, the moment was still alarming…unsettling. Once again, a potential rescuer—a potential group of rescuers—was walking out the door and leaving her behind.

“Hold up,” Julien called, making his way into the foyer behind them. He reached into his wallet, retrieved a hundred-dollar bill, and placed it in the tall, skinny mover’s trembling hand. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, watching as they scampered out the door.
 

Rebecca sighed in both frustration and appreciation.

Well, at least the savage had a few good manners.
 

And at least he hadn’t slaughtered the delivery crew.

A half hour later, in the master bedroom, Julien took a brazen step forward, pressed his rock-hard chest against Rebecca’s back, and glanced over her shoulder in order to gaze into the overstuffed duffle bag. “I don’t think anything else is going to fit in there,” he said, teasing. “You really know how to shop.” He lowered his angular jaw until his warm breath wafted along the lobe of her ear, and then he nuzzled his chin in her hair. “Do I need to fetch a second suitcase, little mouse?”

Rebecca stiffened and leaned forward toward the bed, forward toward the duffle bag. “I can’t breathe when you’re that close. What are you doing?”

Julien chuckled, a rich, deep sound. “We can stop by your apartment when we get to Denver, pick up the rest of your personal things, those items you can’t replace.”

Rebecca held her breath.
 

Okay.
 

That sounded just fine, but why was he pressing up against her like that, whispering in her ear like they had been lovers for many years? “Would you mind backing up?” she squeaked.

He smiled.
 

She knew because she
felt
his lips curve along her neck.
 

“I would,” he drawled. “Mind, that is.”

She anchored both palms against the bed in an effort to keep from bending over any further. It was one thing to lean forward, out of his way. It was another to offer him her backside, like a prostitute. She cringed. “Julien, we’re not—”
 

He pressed a kiss against the back of her neck, just below her hairline. “Not what?”

“Not that.”

He chuckled again. “And what is
that
?” Before she could answer, he slid a huge, splayed hand over her waist, then down, to her lower stomach, and pulled her back against him.

She gasped in surprise and alarm.

“Your heart is racing, Rebecca.”

She snorted. “You’re scaring the shit out of me.”

His voice vibrated in her ear. “Mm. And that is why your palms are sweating, your knees are growing weak, and your scent is changing in response to my touch?”

She placed both palms over his wrist to keep his hand from straying in any…untoward direction. “Julien…”

“
Tu îmi apar
ț
i mie
ș
oarec mic.
” He repeated the infuriating phrase—
you belong to me, little mouse
. “Say it.”