Page 151 of Vampire so Virtuous
She’d felt safe with him beforehe’d been personally motivated for her wellbeing, in a life-or-death, got-her-own-vampire-bodyguard way.
And damn, but her robe was in the bathroom.
Cally cracked her door an inch, checking that he wasn’t standing outside her room, then dashed across the hallway into the bathroom, closing the door before he had a chance to see her naked.
She slid the lock into place—stiff from disuse, but it shifted in the end. Again, it wouldn’t hold him out. It was another reminder that he could take what he wanted whenever he wanted—and had done so. Three times.
It made her feel so furious, so helpless, and she hated him for that.
And yet…
She flicked the shower on to warm up, mulling over the ‘and yet.’
And yet what, Cally? What else is there?
Okay, so maybe there was something else about him taking what he wanted. Something primal. Something… rousing. Stimulating.
Just like when he fed on her.
Damn it, Cally, you’renotsupposed to like that!
She took a long time in the shower, thoroughly washing away all signs of her night with Belle. She did her hair twice, then rinsed out the conditioner. But these were basic tasks, ones that didn’t occupy her mind. Her thoughts kept returning to the man—vampire—sitting on her couch, reading her book.
Apparently here to stay.
Thirty-six – Cally
Cally threw her robe on, hair still damp and loose, and hesitated with her hand on the bathroom door.
She’d intended to walk back into her room and get dressed. But he’d strolled around in a dressing gown, so why couldn’t she?
It was her apartment, after all.
He wasn’t on the couch when she walked back in. He’d shifted to the armchair, and the reason was obvious: sunlight streamed in through the window, between the curtains, bathing the couch in soft rays. Instead of drawing the blinds, he’d moved.
He looked up as she walked in, his features brightening, as if he liked what he saw. There was no hunger in his eyes; he was just enjoying her. He breathed in deliberately, mouth closed, chest rising and swelling, as if savoring the air and the scent.
She shot him a glare before padding into the kitchen and filling the kettle.
Maybe he didn’t deserve all those glares. Or did he? The jury was still out on that one.
“Do you drink coffee?” she asked, her back to him.
“No,ma chérie.” His voice was soft and calm. “It would be a little like you eating grass—it wouldn’t harm me, but it brings no nutritional value, and it is difficult to digest. Also, alas, it no longer tastes pleasant.”
“You drank coffee… before?”
“Before Belle turned me? Yes. Coffee was popular in France, even then. There were many cafés.” He sounded poignant, and it added to his sense of humanity.
She turned to face him, leaning against the counter. “You miss it, don’t you? Your country?”
“France has a way of digging its claws into your heart and never letting go.No doubt anyone could say the same of their own country”—he waved a hand in a distinctly Gallic gesture, likely without realizing it—“but France was so sophisticated, so beautiful, and soalive.”
“How long since you were last there?”
“Two hundred and seventy-four years.”
Four lifetimes.A staggering reminder of his immortality.
