Page 26 of Dark Flame
Gritting my teeth, I lift up my arms for him to clasp the metal around. He opens the cuffs and lowers them beneath my wrists, but stops suddenly, his gaze intent on the white scars.
He snatches my right arm, lifting it for closer inspection. “I noticed them in your room. Where did these come from?”
“Not sure.” I’ve had them for as long as I can remember. I assumed they were some witchy birthmark or something, but Mom and Dad denied that, and said they didn’t fully know either. That they appeared one day. Not the first unusual thing to happen to a witch and won’t be the last.
“Lying won’t help your case, Sinclair.” His finger drags over the largest one on my underside. His pad is smooth, and nearly as distracting as his touch. “Did you do this to yourself?”
“No.” I yank against his impossible hold. “I’m serious. I’ve always had them.”
He looks up, black storms clashing with my face. “The bit I recall from my human life, people aren’t born with scars like these. Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know! I don’t care, and neither should you.”
My words seem to register because, after a long pause, he drops my arms. “You’re right, I don’t care.” He clasps the cuffs around my wrists before gesturing to the dais. “Sit.”
I do, my body feeling as though it’s no longer present. Careful not to trip over the dress as I walk up the platform, I situate myself on the top step, only a foot or so from the base of the throne. The vampire steps by me, but I’m no longer paying him attention.
Too busy studying the cuffs on my arms.
And the way the scars match up almost perfectly to the edge of the metal.
Eleven
ALEC
Sinclair takesher seat on the dais, looking exactly what she’s supposed to be portraying: a broken captive, saddened by her new life.
Her head’s low, and she’s staring at the cuffs with a strange intensity. If she had her magick, I’d be convinced she was working to get them off. And maybe, I’d think that was the case—that she was hoping it’d return now and help her get free—until she strokes over one of the scars that interestingly line up with the cuff’s edge.
Like she’s been cuffed before.
Arguably, there’d be numerous suitable reasons for her to have been in handcuffs in the past, but none of them should have been so lasting that scars formed. The scars are…concerning. Not sure why, but they are. She’s been hurt before, and either she’s doing a damn good job at lying to protect the bastard or she truly doesn’t remember.
Knowing what I do about humans, trauma is one of the worst forms of ongoing pain a person can survive through. Being cuffed long enough to leave lasting scars would surely result in a kind of trauma one doesn’t simply forget.
Something else is going on, and I vow to figure it out. Why…because I must know all about my little captive. For her own safety, of course, which in turn is for my benefit. If someone out there wishes to harm her, they’ll have a bitch of a time getting to her. I’ve found her, claimed her, and she’ll be protected from anyone else.
Lost in thought, I miss the moment the others begin showing up. Most walk straight to me, bowing deeply as they use the appropriate greetings, but their eyes remain on the witch. She stiffens under the attention and subtly shifts closer to me, making me smirk. Despite her hatred of me, I’m the safest killer in the room. At least, to her.
A short while later, the ballroom is full of vampires in their finest, eager for the first party in a century I’ve put on. After so long of hosting them, they’ve grown tiresome and boring, but tonight, it’s serving another purpose.
After all, no investor will provide money without seeing the goods. I don’t even need to show the witch off; she’s doing it all on her own by simply being here.
The Sinclairs have always hidden themselves away so well, and time for vampires is fleeting. For some of them, the last time they thought to seek out the cure may have been during a previous generation. When they failed, they disappeared for what felt like a couple years, but decades passed, and they began their quest all over to find the current living Sinclair. Vampires are, unfortunately, so easily deterred.
Most of them. Not me.
Age. Personality during our human lives. So much can decide how we act as an immortal.
I snap my fingers at Sinclair. She twists with a glare, and I snap again, this time pointing by my feet. “Here.”
She doesn’t move at first, her lips pursing. She seems to be in debate with herself and, after a quick glance toward the crowd, most of who are raptly watching, she scoots herself backwards. It becomes a complicated laughing matter, the dress bunching beneath her and getting tangled.
Finally, she makes it beside me, muttering, “Dick.”
I reach down to pet her hair, aware of the hundreds of interested eyes drilling into us. They can all smell her blood and the cure it holds, and by tonight, I anticipate the number of eager vampires who are ready to end their immortal lives to be high.
Interestingly, she doesn’t flinch, playing the part I need her to well. I lean close to murmur, “Continue being good, and I may be satisfied enough to hand over my name. The audience is very captivated by you.”
