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I lifted a silver candlestick from a sable-wooded table and walked back into the foyer with a nonexistent ceiling. The black-stoned stairs spiraled up and up and up into nothingness. My name rode the wind again. I followed, unable to do anything else.
Winding up the staircase, I stopped on the second floor, which had only one door—a mirror of the arched Gothic entry of this place. With no door handle, I flattened my palm to the wood. It opened without hesitation.
Crossing the threshold felt akin to stepping into a lion’s den, where the predator lurks in shadows. Though hidden, I knew he was there. Watching. Stalking.
Beyond the deep foreboding, an irresistible lure drew me farther in. I marveled at the bedchamber with its four-poster, king-size bed covered in white silk sheets fitted against the far wall to the right. Gold satin pillows piled high against the black lacquer headboard. Luxurious softness welcomed me, making me want to edge closer.
A fireplace equally as large as the one downstairs in the great hall breathed warmth with popping, lively flames tipped an unnatural blue.
A burgundy mantel framed the fireplace in an amorphous pattern, appearing to me like many-shaped eyes watching me. I stepped closer, feeling something tickle beneath my bare feet. A white fur carpet of some kind spread in front of the hearth.
I set my candlestick on the mantel, realizing I must’ve been mistaken, because the ornate design appeared only to be uniquely made in odd shapes. There were no eyes. Everything had a dreamlike quality, or rather like a nightmare, though I knew this was neither.
Standing in its own cozy niche, illuminated by varying-size candelabras, was a dining table. Fine white china, shining silverware and a pair of polished goblets were set for two in perfect alignment at the head of the long table. Lifting a silver goblet, I stared into the smooth surface seemingly too perfect to be real. My own reflection frowned back at me, a pale mirror of myself.
The ghostly vapor returned, wrapping me in a cold embrace. Misty coils materialized into bronzed, masculine arms wrapped around my waist. The solid form of a man pressed against me from behind. His head bent into my hair, his voice more concrete against my ear. Not an echo but so close I startled in surprise.
“Genevieve, you look so beautiful for me.”
My heart raced from fear, though my head tipped back, offering the vulnerable column of my throat.
Why did I do this?I didn’t want this.
“Oh yes, my sweet.”
A mouth that scorched like frost-burn sucked at the pulse in my neck. Cold fire lit me up inside. All the same, sensual pleasure doused the pain from second to second. One of his hands smoothed over the black silk, across my abdomen and pelvic bone, sliding down the side of my thigh, fingers inching up the fabric.
I tried to speak, to scream, but nothing happened. Thoughts of protest flitted from my mind, chased away by an icy wind. Why couldn’t I focus? I wanted him to stop.
“Skin like milk,” he whispered against my shoulder, sliding down the thin strap of my gown, planting another burning kiss.
Silky-smooth fingers found naked flesh under my hem, sliding across the curve of my upper thigh, sloping down. Something screamed inside.
“St-Stop!”
I whirled, panting heavily, skirting around the table to put something between us. A sharp pain stabbed me for that second of rebellion against his will.
He was so beautiful—a golden god with rainstorm eyes. In a crisp white button-down and black tailored slacks, with tousled hair, he seemed like a rich playboy, not a demon prince. He smiled crookedly as I lifted the strap back onto my shoulder, sidling closer to one of the place settings.
“You’re right, of course. Dinner before dessert. Come,” he said, gesturing to the place setting before him. “Sit.”
I shook my head, trying to keep my feet from moving, willing them to stay in place. For a moment, they did. His cold gaze fixed on me.
“Come,” he commanded. I gasped, for my body moved without my consent toward the chair he’d drawn out for me. “Sit.” And so I did, like a robot on remote command.
He seated himself at the head of the table to my left, smiling genially. “Now then. That’s better. Let us get better acquainted.”
He snapped open a white napkin and placed it on his lap. From a shadowed corner, a creature appeared I had not seen when I came into the room. I jumped in my seat.
“Don’t mind Claudius. He’s simply here to serve.”
Dressed in the livery of a Victorian footman, the gargantuan zombie-like creature poured red wine into silver goblets. I leaned away from him, feeling unexplainably terrified of the lumbering thing. His ashen skin caved in around the eyes and sagged in hollow grooves underneath the cheekbones.
I shuddered when his eyes fixed on me—pale yellow and full of misery like a hopeless caged animal. He set the bottle on the table, then slunk from the room.
“There now. Drink.”
Danté lifted his glass, took a swallow, and gestured for me to do the same. I still couldn’t find my voice, but I was able to shake my head.
