Page 71 of Auctioned for Her Blood
Sighing, she clings to me more tightly. “Where’s Ryker?”
“I do not know.” That is the truth.
Based on my conversation, Octavia thinks that Ryker himself is the Illuminator, and I’m not sure what she’ll do to test that theory. But I cannot concern myself with him, even if I am responsible for his capture. All my concern lies with Ember.
Turning into a narrower corridor, I spot doors and kick one open. Inside, a group of vampires are copulating and feeding, writhing over a bed of Persian rugs, furs and silk sheets.
Ember stiffens in my arms, pulling in tighter against me.
Spotting us, one of the vampires beckons. We could hide safely here for a time, but there will be questions once they realize she is human, and although they are feeding from each other, some might also crave human blood, and I cannot allow any of them to taste her.
I turn away, pulling the door shut behind us.
“I wish you had not seen that,” I say softly. “Not all vampires behave in such a hedonistic, animalistic manner.” Over the years, I have learned to tame the baser instincts which are common among vampires, such as the raging need for copulation whenever we feed from each other.
“Were thoseallvampires?” she asks, her voice rough.
I must find her some water. “Yes. I believe so. I did not sense other species in that room.”
“You cansensevampires?” she asks, pulling back to look into my eyes as I carry her.
I nod. “All vampires can.”
“How? To me, you and Ryker look normal—I mean, like humans.”
I kick open another door and this room is similarly furnished to the last, but unoccupied. A large, irregularly shaped mattress, more like a massive cushion, fills the center of the room, and it’s covered in furs and silks woven into velvet and satin. Around its sides sit several pieces of furniture—benches, sofas and chairs—some plushly upholstered, some clearly meant for rougher and deviant sexual activities. My cock twitches, but I ignore it.
Mind over urges. I can control myself.
Carrying her inside, I kick the door closed behind us.
“It’s so dark,” she says, her voice revealing fear. “What…why did you bring me in here?” Her body shifts as if she’s trying to escape my arms.
I set her down on a down-filled sofa covered in black velvet, and her hands frantically explore her surroundings, her gaze darting around in the dark, her expression confused.
“Vampires have night vision,” I tell her. “There does not appear to be any electrical lighting in here, but I will ignite one of the torches so you can see your surroundings.”
Calming slightly, she leans her back into the soft sofa and pulls her legs up into her chest, wrapping her arms over her shins as if she wants to hide herself from danger—from me.
Using the flint striker I find next to it, I light a torch, and the room fills with light.
Ember’s shoulders relax, just slightly, and then a look of determination comes over her face. Letting go of her legs, she straightens her back, shifting forward on the soft cushions. But as strong as she is trying to appear, the effort of her movement visibly drains her.
“Where are we?” she asks, her voice scratchy. “What’s going on? Where is Ryker? You were in Rittenhouse Square when we were attacked. What’s going on? I need answers.” Her voice breaks, so hoarse from dehydration.
“I must find you some water.” I scan the room, hoping to find something liquid in here she can safely drink.
“Answer me!” she croaks.
My head snaps toward her, surprised by her fierce tone and pleased she has so much fight inside of her, especially given the circumstances. She will need that fight, until I can alert DEFTA management to the security team’s error.
I approach her, and her body tightens and retracts, pulling away from me. But the movement is small. She’s fighting to hide her reaction. She wants to appear strong and fearless, and I admire her for that.
“May I sit?” I gesture toward the cushions beside her.
She nods, stiffly, and I sink into the opposite corner of the sofa, turning toward her. She shifts to sit cross-legged, her back against the arm of the sofa, facing me, waiting for answers to her questions.
There is no way I can answer them all. I do not know the answer to some of her queries, and the ones to others will implicate me in her capture. I must withhold the truth, not for my self-interests, but to protect her. The less she knows about the circumstances of her detention, the more chance she will trust me, and she must trust me if I am to keep her safe.
