The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) (11 page)

“Dear Goddess, no!” I exclaim, facing him.
It’s then that I realize he’s teasing me.

“Mr. Underwood, earlier, told me if I
consume black ink, I’ll transform into a cuttlefish. I’m not too
inclined to trust him on this matter.”

“An exciting thought,” I say dryly as Roland
lifts the tube to his face to inspect it, “but I’ve no intention of
turning you into a—”

His face changes!
I must be imagining
things. The glow of the lamp and my delirious state have me seeing
things. My heart hammers so hard, it’s trying to punch out of my
chest.

“What?” he asks, none the wiser to what just
transpired, though he looks at me in an odd fashion, as if he’s
trying to decipher my expression.

It’s the Roland from my dreams. His handsome
face. And, briefly, at least as long as he holds it near his face,
his skin is flawless.

“Give it back to me,” I instruct, my voice
high, shaky. Roland looks at me curiously, but he hands it over.
“Move into the light.”

I can’t breathe because I’m holding my
breath. I’m holding my breath because I dare not dream that it
actually works. I turn up the lamp’s brightness.

“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly becoming
frustrated with me. “What exactly are you hoping to see?” Even
though I’ve seen him, tasted him, and even
licked
his scars,
he still doesn’t want me to see his face. I can tell he’s beginning
to think I’m crazy, wondering:
how on earth can this little tube
do what I’ve hired you to do?

“I’m hoping to see
you
,” I say in the
barest whisper.

Roland doesn’t know what happened this
morning to the service robot’s arm; how the earlier prototype
seemed to
want
to transform that little robot. Now, with
Roland’s blood and The Pale Waters added, anything is possible.

Everything
is possible.

Finally, Roland moves around the bed. His
eyes stalk me, warn me, and heat me up. I lift the tube to the
scarred side of his face.

An eyebrow arches at me as I suck in a
breath.

Oh, Goddess, it works.

TWENTY-TWO

SMOOTH SKIN, A CLEAR JAW, KISSABLE lips, and
a clean-cut hairstyle. Not a blemish in sight. Roland’s intelligent
green eyes study me. He’s the prince he was always meant to be.
Strong. Handsome. Powerful. Seductive. Sociable.

It’s as if he has never known a scar in his
life. He doesn’t look like a different person; he looks like
himself, like his
earlier
self, before the scars. The way
everyone
thinks
he looks.

I’m nearly beside myself, jumping up and
down. Roland sees something in my expression, my demeanor, that
alerts him to the change.
Calm down
, I tell myself. Act like
a damn professional, not some raving lunatic.

“Do you notice a difference? Do I look like
a cuttlefish?”

“Oh, shut up, you lug,” I say without
malice. “I need to experiment, first.”

He is surprisingly patient. Perhaps my
enthusiasm is contagious. Roland smiles at me, and my heart beats
faster. I hold the prototype up to his face, and the change is
still present. My Goddess, he is gorgeous.

He is everything I’ve dreamt about.

I take a series of steps
away
from
him to determine its radius of effect, much like a radio
transceiver, and after four steps, Roland’s face alters. The skin
appears to ripple, like a gently crumpled silk scarf. Distinct
reddish scar lines reform over his neck, jaw, lips, and up over his
ear and into his temple.

The effect isn’t instantaneous, perhaps a
few seconds went by, but it’s just enough time to observe someone,
look down and, hoping to see that charming, handsome face again,
look up to find that you were mistaken.

I return to his side, place the prototype
into his shirt pocket as the smooth skin returns. I force him to
turn around. I have to see just
how much
of him this little
prototype changes.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Be quiet.”

Pulling the shirt out of his trousers, I
inspect his backside. It is clear and smooth. But what if I touch
the affected area? I glide my fingertips down his side and I feel
him shiver. The scars are definitely there. Raised, bumpy, smooth.
I just don’t
see
them.

“It works,” I tell him once I turn him back
around. “Keep it within four feet of you. Do you have a
mirror?”

“No.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

“I wish you could see it. It’s amazing. Do I
look different at all? Do you see cuts on my face?”

Roland shakes his head.

“No. You look like you did earlier today,
just sootier.” He trails a finger over my cheek and it comes away
with a black smudge.

“Interesting. Yes, well, it only seems to
correct the visual appearance of flaws, not the actual flaws
themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that I do not
see
your
scars, but when I touch you,” I caress his face to illustrate,
tracing a scar’s outline, “I still
feel
them.” He flinches
away from my hands. A darkness invades his eyes.

“How long will it last?” he asks.

Why isn’t he more excited?

“I have no idea. I’ll need to do further
research, of course.” I move around him, thinking. “I’ll need to
observe you until the prototype expires. So whatever you do this
evening, I must be with you.”

Roland closes the distance between us.

“For research?” he asks somewhat darkly,
though part of his tone is seductive, erotic. Being near Roland
and
his bed isn’t a good idea. It makes my mind swim with
the possibilities.

“I believe that’s why you hired me as your
research assistant. For
research
.”

His voice rumbles into a soft laugh. His
fingers capture my chin for a brief second.

“Are we still going with that lie?” he asks
mockingly. His voice is rough, gritty. His green eyes are like
frozen ice chips. “Though,” he adds, “I particularly like the word
assistant
. As you conduct your research, I will require your
assistance.”

“What type of assistance?” I wonder if he’s
referring to whatever’s happening in The Gardens tonight.

He grins. His face is perfect.

“The type that requires my assistant to be
clean.”

***

He pops the first few buttons on my
shirt.

“I doubt anyone will notice or care,” I say
quietly. I do not pull away from him. I don’t want to fight it.

“Obviously, I noticed, Rahda, or I wouldn’t
be removing your clothing right now.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I noticed that, too. Fairly early on,
actually. Besides, you don’t want me to stop, do you?” he
whispers.

He peels the shirt off me, over my
shoulders, and tosses it to the floor. I feel a coolness against my
skin.

“Beautiful,” he says as his fingers skim
down my breastbone, stomach, and latch onto my trouser buttons. “No
markings?” I shake my head.
No, no markings.
“Shall I keep
going?”

I swallow. “Aren’t you going to be late for
something?” His fingers scorch me, leaving little burning
sensations all over me. My tummy flips and I feel it
there
.
The heat. The lust. The urgency.

“I take that to mean you want me to hurry,”
his husky voice answers.

The button snaps open. Roland bends down
and, with both hands, he lowers my pants. I step out one foot at a
time. I wear no undergarments. He stays in the crouched position,
the top of his head near my sex, and looks at me. Eyes like
fire.

“You have no idea of what you do to me,
Rahda. The way I’ve always wanted you, needed you, waited for
you.”

“You speak nonsense.”

“Probably. Your love will ruin me, consume
me, burn me.”

“What do you want from me?” I moan, whether
from anticipation or frustration, I know not. He hasn’t moved.
Roland could easily touch me, lick me, own me, and I’d be lost
forever. I might even forget my own name, if so. But he just stays
there, crouched down, looking up at me with eyes filled with secret
longing and darkness. Like he’s of two minds, hearts, souls.

“I want you to do what you are meant to do,”
he says.

His hands are on my hips, his fingers
kneading softly, exploring the skin on the sides of my thighs,
hips, and butt. His thumbs slide wide, skimming, and soon I realize
I’m leaning against the edge of his bed and his thumbs are hovering
over my hairless sex.

“What am I meant to do?” I croak in between
heavy breaths as his head moves back and forth, as if he’s
conflicted over what to do next. Should he touch me? Should he not
touch me? I wonder what makes him hesitate, if there’s more than
attraction brewing here, or if he’s deliberately messing with my
head. Deliberate or not, it completely disorients me.

Instead of answering me, he pushes himself
away from me, stands, and kisses my forehead.

“You are right,” he says calmly, his face
smooth and scar-free. He consults his wristwatch and then looks at
the door. “I
will
be late for something. Use my bathroom to
clean yourself up. I’ll find something for you to wear, but Cat
will have to assist you. I am expected in The Gardens in fifteen
minutes.”

My mouth gapes open as he walks away,
leaving me with an avalanche of mixed emotions.

TWENTY-THREE

I EMERGE FROM ROLAND’S SHOWER CLEAN but
conflicted. I get the sense that he cannot make up his mind about
me. It’s possible his statements are meant to disorient and confuse
me.

Can he see me wavering? Or worse: can he see
how much I love him?

I cannot forget what he told me last night
about how I am not unique, how he’ll pretend I don’t have another
agenda, and how he won’t care about whatever fate awaits me when he
discards me. Which completely contradicts what he said a few
moments ago to Cat.

It’s amazing to me the amount of emotions
that I’ve felt over the last twenty-four hours.

I use a plush white towel to dry my hair and
body, wrap it around me, and step into Roland’s bedroom. Instantly,
I spot something on the bed: a formal sterling silver fabriskin
robe encrusted with black diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. I touch
it, expecting it to be hard, stiff, and cold; yet the sterling
silver is crafted in such as way that it feels like the softest,
most pliable silk.

“It will look glorious on you, Rahda,” a
throaty voice says from the doorway to my right.

Cat Evinas.

She always shows up when I least expect her.
I wonder where Roland is, but I won’t ask. Not her. Not when I’m
not sure of my own emotions.

Tonight, Cat’s black fabriskin robe is a
series of braided black diamonds sewn into silky threads that, with
the slightest touch, might suddenly burst into a million sparkly
bits. Her silver-gray hair is pulled high, braided and threaded
with the same black diamonds and twisted into a bun. In her arms,
she holds her communicator tablet. Always the chief of staff.
Always ready to serve Roland, even if it means taking out the
trash, or, as the case tonight might be, getting me ready in time
for the event in The Gardens.

“I cannot possibly wear this,” I say to her.
“What if I…”

“Ruin it?” She says in a voice that clearly
indicates she believes it is entirely probable.
Ruin
… the
word seems to be very popular these last few hours. “We do not have
much time for debate. I will help you dress.”

“I can manage on my own.”

“Doubtful.” She clucks her tongue, places
the communicator tablet on Roland’s bed with such ease that I get
the feeling she’s used to being in here, and pries the towel out of
my hands.

Inspecting me, she makes a small remark
about the cuts on my face. Her eyes move lower. Her gaze makes me
feel warm.

“No markings?” she asks in reference to my
lack of tattoos.

“I am not
branded
,” I hiss, but then
I immediately regret my choice of words. Cat, with the tattoos on
the back of her neck and around her breasts, was undeniably marked
by someone, bound to them for life through their visual
identifications. Most hid their markings. Cat does not; she proudly
displays her tattoos through her sheer fabriskin robes, but she
visibly flinches at my statement.

“I am not ashamed of my past,” she declares.
“Can you say the same?”

I could have said anything. I could have
been defensive. I could have kept quiet, but I say the one thing
that she doesn’t expect me to say.

“I’m sorry, Cat.”

She searches my face intently, and I get the
feeling she can read my mind. “Yes, I can see that you are. Now,
let me assist you. Roland will not appreciate our tardiness.” Cat,
standing in front of me, mere inches away, directs her hands to my
wet hair, whips it around, and expertly crafts it into a
sophisticated bun without the aid of any pins. “Lovely,” she states
warmly. Her breath reminds me of brandy and her earthy, exotic
floral scent intoxicates me.

I sway into her.

She knows what she’s doing to me.

Her spiky fingernails trail down the side of
my neck, over my clavicle, and down my breastbone. Almost the same
path that Roland’s fingers explored before removing my trousers.
She draws little circles there. I quiver at her touch. It aches and
burns. I inhale her scent.

Cat leans in and her lips gently brush
against mine. It isn’t passionate or intense. Her kiss seems to be
more of an action she cannot stop herself from doing.

I suck in a frenzied breath. Then her hand
goes lower.

***

My legs weaken and virtually go out on me. I
collapse to the bed. Cat is on me in a flash; the diamonds on her
fabriskin robe scratch me.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks.