Page 74 of Red Masquerade

I nodded, and he slipped his fingers through mine. When my feet met solid ground, I nearly felt my knees buckle underneath me. My muscles jelly, used and tired.

He quickly wrapped his arm around me, steadying me.

The servants continued to look forward, not acknowledging me. I knew they’d seen worse. They must know of the strange parties that went on upstairs, the bloodletting, the amount ofrelationsthat must have happened on the grounds every time there was a party. Human and monster alike.

Vince ushered me inside, and the roof of the devilish foyer seemed so much higher when it was just the two of us in the room. Like we were ants at the Vatican. The grand staircase was vacant, the large ballroom empty, our footsteps echoing against the marble floors. No ribbons decorated the space. It was as if the parties never happened.

How could onelivein such a big house alone?

Especially with the demons and angels watching every move.

It was like a dream as he led me up the stairs, nearly sweeping me off my feet, showing me the manor, the nearcastlehe lived in. I hadn’t noticed so much detail in the wainscoting, in the portraits on the walls, in the wallpaper and gilded sconces that lined the halls. It was a modern house, though whoever had fitted the church into a residence had kept many of the gothic features.

He grinned at me, but I saw the emotion clouding his eyes.

“This was all for you,” he said, pulling me to a stop amidst the maze of halls, in front of a set of mahogany doors. The carvings in these doors were that of sentinels standing at guard.

His words made me dizzy. “You’re lying.” I let a laugh slip out, but I knew he was not a liar, never had been before.

But he had been waiting for me, looking for me.

He held me in his arms, his hair still messy, his shirt absolutely untucked, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He cradled me, his other hand caressing my cheek. I leaned into the feeling before his lips met mine.

It was a chaste kiss, quick. But it was disorienting all the same.

“You wanted me to call you Vince,” I said, looking up into his eyes. My voice was breathy.

“That’s who I am,” he replied. “Adam Vering died. Vince Thornton lived.”

And before I could say anything else, he pushed open his bedroom doors and shut them behind us, and though it was dark, I knew I was at the heart of this den of blood-sucking creatures, his eyes reflecting whatever light they picked up in a flash, before he lunged and was upon me.

Twenty-Five

When my eyes opened the next morning, the canopy of a bed hung over me. Large, vaulted ceilings, bathed in sunlight which streamed through sheer white curtains. The windows were cracked, letting in a slight breeze, which cooled me, pebbling my skin.

It was the room of a king.

And not mine.

Not my room.

The realization of what I’d done, what decision I’d made the night before, suddenly came back to me.

My mother—Lucas—Wright Highsmith—

I bolted upright.

Vince lay next to me, his arm splayed above his head, and we were both naked, tangled in the silky maroon sheetsof his bed, the duvet discarded at the foot of the bed. My slip lay forgotten in the middle of the floor.

I had let him take me.

No, I had run away. Iwantedto come.

In only my underwear, no less.

My whole body flushed with embarrassment, remembering the pleasure he had brought me the night before, the absolutely sinful act we had committed in thecar. The love-making we did afterward.

My whole body ached. Between my thighs, a lingering dampness remained, a soreness that spread from my thighs to my navel. We had been frenzied, holding back nothing between each other, accepting every part of each other.