Page 77 of Marked By Moonlight

Everything was different. She was different. The woman Gideon made love to wasn’t the real Claire Morgan. That conclusion soured the sweet memories as nothing else could. What would happen if the curse were broken? If she returned to her old self? A shadow everyone overlooked? A shadow Gideon would overlook? No. Her hand curled into a fist at her side. She would hang on to this new Claire… while ridding herself of the curse.

Stepping into the shower, she let the water pound against her skin. She sniffed the salon shampoo before applying it to her hair and working it into a thick lather. Time vanished as she stood beneath the water’s spray, letting the liquid warmth permeate her body.

Shutting the water off, she stepped out and wrapped herself in one of the fluffy white towels. She grabbed a second one off therack and rubbed her hair. It took a moment to realize the jacket and chenille throw were missing. Gone. Someone had entered the bathroom while she showered and taken them.

A sexy little black number hung from a hanger on the back of the door. On the counter sat a tiny pile of black lace. With two fingers, she lifted the impossibly small panties. G-string. Briefly, she considered rebelling and not wearing the clothes left for her. But then she reconsidered. Why not look her best and use her wiles to get what she wanted from Darius? It might go a long way in convincing him to help her.

She slipped into the lingerie and black dress, towel-drying her hair before using the mousse on the counter to tame her locks. She availed herself of the cosmetics displayed on a glass tray. Stepping back, she assessed herself, pleased with the smokiness of her eyes and glossy pout to her lips.

Minutes later the door opened and Claire couldn’t help wondering if Helen had been listening for the water to stop.

Helen’s gaze flitted over her, narrowing in displeasure. Claire guessed she hadn’t been in charge of her wardrobe. “This way” was all she muttered.

Claire followed her downstairs to a large dining room and a linen-covered table set for two. Darius stood with his back to her, the profile of his coldly handsome face gazing emotionlessly out a set of French doors overlooking a garden. Claire felt a stab of relief. Here was her chance to reason with him.

He turned, his frosty gaze skimming her in approval. “Thank you, Helen,” he said softly. “That will be all.”

Helen nodded and departed.

“Do you like the dress?” Darius asked, approaching her with his panther-like gait, his broad chest and shoulders rippling against his black shirt. “I chose it especially for you. You look beautiful.” He held out her chair for her.

She stared at where his broad hands rested on the back of her chair, noticing they were marked with several scars—clearly from his previous life. His life before he became a lycan. She moved and lowered herself into the seat. Swallowing, she opened her mouth and began. “I want you to let me go.”

He settled into his chair. “To return to your lycan hunter?” Uncorking a bottle of wine, he reached for her glass. “He will kill you, you know.”

“He was trying to help me.”

Darius lifted a dark brow skeptically. “Is that what he was doing when I found you and saved you?”

She flushed. “He could have killed me long ago.”

“I’m certain,” he smoothly cut in, adding, “and taking you to his bed is all part of his plan to save you.”

Claire reached for her wineglass, suddenly needing to do something with her hands. “What I chose to do is none of your business.”

He chuckled softly. “But it is. We’re bonded, Claire. Linked in a way that you will soon understand.”

She sipped the dark, sweet red wine. It was good and she was thirsty. She had to stop herself from gulping the entire glass down. She needed her wits tonight if she was going to convince Darius to let her go.

He set his glass back down and covered the top of her hand with his own. “Lycan agents kill lycans. They don’t save them. They don’t bend. Has it occurred to you that he might be toying with you?”

“No.” Despite the denial, she felt doubt sink in. She slid her hand from beneath his.

Sighing, he stood and removed a gleaming silver lid from the serving platter to reveal a roasted rack of lamb.

“Let’s consider your chances,” he said as he served her, hismovements elegant and smooth. “The lycan who infected you is dead.”

She stabbed a succulent-looking new potato with her fork without answering.

“Any idea who infected him? What pack he belonged to? The alpha of his pack?”

She shook her head.

“Then how is it you think this lycan hunter can save you?”

She hated his even, placating tone, as if he were trying to prove something logical to a child who failed to see reason.

“What other hope do I have?”

---