Boot soles scraped across wood. Even in the dark, the vampires could see her every movement. Her expressions. Her nakedness.
If only she could conjure Mr. Swift or Lord Sommersby to her side now as easily as she did in her dreams.
“Don’t come near me!” She tried to wrench back. It was impossible. Clanks and rattles answered her frantic motions as the chains slapped the surface.
A third male spoke. “Light a candle. Mon dieu, the lady is at a disadvantage.”
And in response, yet more men laughed.
Her heart stopped for dizzying moments. How many could there be?
Fury and frustration and fear rushed through her. All she’d wanted was to find Dracul’s journal—she’d believed it had been worth risking her life for.
What a fool she’d been.
She fought rising panic—otherwise she had no hope of escape. Vampires behaved like a wolf pack. They would obey their leader. She’d been a governess, she’d dealt with undisciplined boys. She must pretend these dangerous demons were merely naughty schoolboys.
One of the vampires was still at her side, she realized. Even though he stood motionless, silent, she knew he was there. She knew his hands were above her face. There was no light, not even a hint of it at a draped window, and her eyes had not become accustomed. The room was hot, completely black, and that cloying, pungent scent filled her head…
She would have guessed the smell was solange…
When the oil of the solange flower was burned, the fumes would capture a vampire in a trancelike state. The undead would not burn solange. It was too dangerous for them. This must be a drug, an Eastern drug.
Or had they burned it because they sensed she was a vampire?
Even as the horrifying thought gripped her, Serena pushed it away. Why would they risk destroying themselves to subdue her?
The floor creaked, cloth whispered, and she turned toward the sound, staring into blackness. Air brushed her face. He was going to touch her!
“My name is Roman.” It was the owner of the first voice, the darkly sensual baritone. A sharp fingernail rasped along her lower lip, and she froze. Her lip tingled at the touch, the sensation horrifyingly erotic. Desperate to escape it, she turned her head, but his hand followed. The nail gently punctured, and she gasped at the shock of pain. Warm wetness touched her lip. A droplet of blood. She flicked it away with her tongue. Quickly. Hopelessly.
The taste exploded upon her tongue, coppery and tart.
Delight flooded her at the taste. No! It was disgusting. …deliberately wound her finger, and delight in suckling the blood from her flesh… Mrs. Bridgewater’s damning words floated into her head. Surely she hadn’t done that. She didn’t remember doing that.
The nail brushed again, and Serena held herself rigid, afraid he would deeply slice her lip this time. Yet she wanted to lift her face to him. She wanted the prick of pain. Wanted more of the taste of her blood—
Roman’s clawlike nails traced her skin again, and a jolt of pleasure and pain arced through her. Was he compelling her to want this or did hot need race through her blood because she was a vampire?
“Stop, Roman.” It was the Italian. “She belongs to the master.”
All her breath left her chest as Roman did lift his hands away. She heard his hiss of anger. She had a reprieve, but for how long? Minutes? Hours? Roman served a master—only a powerful demon could control a pack of vampires. A master’s disciples would not dare disobey him.
Deep and mocking, Roman’s voice vibrated through the dark. “Just a caress, Leonardo. A taste of perfection. Lukos would not condemn me for a touch.”
Lukos? She now knew the name of his master. Lukos, the Greek word for wolf.
Fear sliced through her.
A spot of light flared, then flamed high. The scent of burning wax overwhelmed the drifting odor of the drug. Tallow. Strong. The candle sputtered, the glow radiated.
She blinked until her eyes stopped watering. Her lashes were wet, glued together by tears. The first things she saw were Roman’s hands, resting on a band of polished wood. She lay on green fabric. Something clicked over in her mind.
She was chained to a billiard table.
A soft male voice seemed to whisper in her mind, a charming Irish voice. “Such a lovely lass—her skin is the color of pale champagne.”
Serena jerked toward the voice. She saw the others in the light now. Candle glow touched the pale, austere faces of two men sprawled on a sofa and two who lounged in club chairs. White shirts and cravats gleamed, and the light sparkled at the tips of long, sharp fangs. Their eyes—their dark, soulless, eyes—were shadowed and hidden to her.
She was the captive of six vampires.
“You are wondering why we haven’t drunk from you, aren’t you?” Roman asked, his voice so compelling she couldn’t help but turn to him.
He was shirtless, his chest as pale as marble even in the golden light. Dark hair dusted smooth, powerful muscle. His hair fell in long, thick, black waves. She looked up higher, caught her breath. He was smirking down at her, impudent, confident, but the innocence in his face shocked her. He looked barely twenty years of age and beautiful, with a full-lipped, lush mouth, high cheekbones, straight white teeth, large mirror-like eyes of silvery blue. But he was not innocent.
“Unlock me!” she demanded. “You have fallen into a trap.”
“A trap, my dear?” Roman crossed his arms across his chest. His biceps bulged, solid and enormous.
Never once had she successfully bluffed her charges as a governess, but she couldn’t give in now. She watched Roman stalk along the length of the table toward her bound feet. She knew her eyes were wide, dilated, like those of mesmerized prey, but she replied, “Of course,” with the lazy disdain the male vampire hunters used.
Low, throaty, damning, Roman’s laugh washed over her.
He touched the chain securing her right foot, running his fingertips along the taut links. The cuff vibrated against her ankle. I know you are here alone, my dear. His voice resonated inside her mind.
She should try to block out his voice in her head—but she had to listen, had to know what he planned to do. So she could outthink him.
She saw the swift movement of Roman’s hand, the blur of it in the corner of her eye. He cupped her right ankle just above the cuff. His caress was gentle against the frail silk of her stocking. Serena swallowed a cry of surprise so abruptly she almost choked.
Wrenching her leg, she tried to pull away from his hand, but the chains restrained her. Her skin tingled beneath the web of silk as he traced his finger over her ankle and up along her calf.
“Roman, release her.”
The command came from the second vampire—the one named Leonardo. He prowled toward her. She stared helplessly at his tousled dark curls, almond shaped eyes of deep black, and cupid’s bow lips. He possessed the beautiful, symmetrical features of an Old Master’s portrait, but she knew he was a ruthless predator. A cape shrouded him; the black collar points grazed the deep hollows beneath high cheekbones.
A hazy memory returned. She remembered looking into that face in the brothel—he had stepped out of a doorway and grabbed her as she’d reached the hallway that took her to the basement staircase. His triumphant laugh echoed in her memories. There’d been a sharp pain in her neck, then blackness—had one of them bitten her to make her faint?
Such beautiful legs, Roman murmured. I would love to have your ankles wrapped around my neck.
“Don’t touch me!”