Page 5 of Ophelia's Vampire

I’d taken the racing of her heart and the flush of her cheeks and the hungry, pupils-blown-wide way she looked at me as interest, as an echo of everything I’d felt when I looked at her. Instinctual, irrational, undeniable, a pull of bone and sinew and soul, a tug like I’d never felt before.

Foolish. So completely, utterly foolish.

How determined she was to see this through, to push past whatever fear or nerves or conscience she felt and join me here on the roof.

Not that such a thing is entirely unexpected.

She wouldn’t be the first human to have looked at a vampire’s bloodbond as a means to long life, regardless of the vampire it comes from. And I wouldn’t have been the first to be tempted, to be taken by a beautiful face and a fang-tingling scent.

On both accounts, she’s more exquisite than anyone I’ve ever met.

Beautiful, with her slim curves and deep brown eyes and soft waves of mahogany hair. A lovely face that captured me from the first moment I saw it, and a scent that could seduce me from all the way across a room as it drew me in like a siren’s song.

But I’ve certainly lived enough centuries to know how to resist such temptation.

“I am no means and no end, sweet Ophelia. I am no thing to be used, even for a creature so beautiful as you.”

“Casimir,” she breathes. “I didn’t—”

I don’t like the sound of my name on her lips. Not tonight. Not like this.

“If it’s a bloodbond you’re after, I would suggest looking elsewhere.”

“That isn’t—I’m not—” Ophelia stumbles over her words, chokes on the lie she won’t admit to.

“Then what, may I ask, so enthralled you about dear Marcus? I can’t imagine it was his sparkling conversation and wit.”

I’ve known the brute for four centuries, and can’t imagine a single thing about him that would have drawn sweet Ophelia in, beyond what he might give her with his bite and blood.

But what do I know? Perhaps she likes them muscled and arrogant, even bigger fools than I am.

“I can explain.”

I don’t particularly care to hear her explanation. Not now, as steeped in self-loathing and disappointment as I am.

Gods, I didn’t know I was still capable of such emotions. After all these long years, it’s a bitter, unwelcome surprise to know I can still feel the sharp sting of hopes dashed.

“I do not blame you, Ophelia. And I commend you on the valiant effort.”

The words are biting, indulgent, cruel. Beneath me. And by the flash of indignation in Ophelia’s rich brown eyes, I know they’ve found their mark.

Magnificent, her anger, in its oh-so-human way. Blazing and razor sharp, I watch as she girds herself with it. Arms crossed, eyes bright with righteous ire, I imagine her as she might have been in centuries past.

A warrior queen, perhaps. A beautiful, brilliant, courageous saint. A heroine for the ages.

But here, tonight, she’s simply a woman. Ayoungwoman who’s meddled where she shouldn’t have, stepped right to the edge of a darkness she can’t even begin to understand.

And I was the careless fool who met her there.

“I never meant to—”

“Use me?” I supply, ready to be done with the conversation, deliver her safely back to the club, and retreat home to tend my wounded pride in solitude.

“I didn’t.” Ophelia’s voice is thin now, brittle, liable to crack and shatter with the next stiff breeze. “That was never my intention.”

How I wish I could believe her.

But I spoke true. I will never be used. Never again. Not even for so great a temptation as Ophelia, with her blood scented asrich as the finest vintage of deep red wine, and her fierce, defiant spirit.

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