CW: references to trauma, domestic violence, abuse, sexual assault, and murder... all neatly wrapped together at the end with a dash of insinuated sexual content of the consensual variety.
Copyright © 2021 TSM. All rights reserved.
Chapter 21
Carte Blanche
If Frankie had known Dracula would have appeared unannounced in her private bedchambers as he just had, she wouldn't have tried on the stilettos she had left out earlier this evening on her vanity. It wasn't like Vlad to delay in answering a direct query, but the distraction in his face was evident. She couldn't help but smirk a little mischievously, knowing perfectly well the picture she was providing.
Tightening the sash of her robe around her waist so she'd be a little better covered, she stepped out of the shoes and bent down to pick them up.
"Let me guess," she continued, the sound of her voice visibly jarring him from his thoughts. "Vesper told you about the secret door?"
The offering of idle conversation was gratefully received as the man seemed to return to himself, though his attention on her every move never wavered.
"Yes," was all he said at first, continuing when she momentarily disappeared into her closet to put the pumps away. "I wanted to apologize."
"For what?" she called out.
"You seemed uncomfortable when Meirás pointed out how long we had been talking…"
"Not uncomfortable," she explained, returning from the closet. "A little embarrassed by his implication, but I enjoyed our conversation this evening and have no reason to regret it, whatever he may say on the matter."
"I enjoyed it as well," he admitted, pausing for a moment as he took a step forward, pretending to take in the surroundings of her room. "I was disappointed to have it cut off so abruptly."
"Was my diatribe on the hypocrisy surrounding the French Revolution really so riveting?" she teased, taking a seat on the edge of her bed. Although Frankie maintained a look of ease, she was watching him like a hawk as he slowly made his way over, stopping only to lean casually against one of the corner posts.
"I've always enjoyed hearing the first-hand accounts of those who experience history rather than merely study it," he explained, arms folded over his chest now. "Especially from one with your insight."
"You flatter me."
"I merely speak the truth."
Frankie smiled a little, amused by their current tête-à-tête, but also suspicious. Why was he really here?
"Tell me – Mr. Leinhart – you've lived for nearly a millennia now. What are some of the things you've seen?"
"Did you have something particular in mind?" he asked, boldly taking a seat on the other end of her bed. Though a little surprised by the action, she made no indication of being so.
"You and I have been acquainted for a while now, but I feel like there is still so much about you that I have yet to get to the heart of. I know so little about your life, who your family is – or was – where you come from, where you've been, let alone how you ended up working for Dracula…" That last item was delivered with a pointed look that suggested she knew better and though she never said as much, that unspoken understanding left the corner of his mouth twitching. "I wish to understand you. Will you help me?"
"That depends on what you'd like to know," Vlad answered cautiously, not quite sure if there was something more specific she had hoped to uncover.
"What if I made a deal with you?" she began, getting more comfortable on the bed. "While you and I are in this room, I propose that we grant one another carte blanche – you can ask or tell me anything that you desire, any question you've had about me or my past. Whatever it may be, I will answer as truthfully as I can, in as much or little detail as you prefer… but in return, you must grant me the same courtesy. Nothing is off limits and anything that is said within these four walls will stay between us. Agreed?"
The man considered her offer for a moment or two in contemplative silence.
It was quite the temptation.
Vladislaus' list of questions had only expanded since their paths had first crossed, and while he had managed to unearth a number of answers, especially in the last two weeks, there was still so much he had yet to learn, so much about her that he wished to understand. But her sudden curiosity made him a little nervous. Dracula was not accustomed to being an open book in any sense of the word and to risk exposure in this way, to make himself vulnerable… he had a difficult enough time being honest with Antón Bernardini, and the Italian had been his closest friend and confidant for centuries.
But Francesca had yet to turn him from the room, even with the sun on the brink of rising. Not only that, she was giving him the chance to ask her anything, to uncover all of those secrets that had been taunting him for a year now. If he declined her offer, would she rescind it entirely? If he walked away now, would he ever receive another chance?
He could already hear Antón in his head telling him to take the plunge, and so he did, praying to whatever deity would listen that this wouldn't backfire spectacularly on him down the road.
"I accept your terms," he answered with confidence.
"Excellent!" and she reached for one of the pillows at the head of her bed, using it to prop herself up as she got more comfortable. "You don't mind if I go first?"
"Be my guest," he said, waving his hand to encourage her, leaning against the bedpost.
"Have you ever been in love before?"
Admittedly taken off guard by her query, he smirked some, arms folding over his chest, a single brow arched up in suspicion.
"Really? That's what you've been itching to ask?"
"Don't mock me. I'm serious. So much of what I know of you is based off of secondary or tertiary sources. Besides, it's a perfectly valid question – given your reputation as a serial non-committer." She was teasing him of course, but he'd be lying if he said the accusation hadn't stung a little. "Let's start with Morene. I know you held an interest in her for a while there…"
"I was never romantically interested in Morene Khiliani," he quickly interjected, his tone controlled, but his body-language growing a little defensive. "Not remotely. I will concede that she possessed a sort of charm that some men might find appealing, but she was never anything more than a diversion."
"So cold and unfeeling, sir!"
His eyes narrowed a little at the mockery in her tone.
"I have standards."
She laughed openly that time.
"I don't doubt that."
"I will not be made to feel guilty for them."
"I'm not trying to make you feel guilty, I promise. While I do find your vanity amusing, I can't condemn you for it. That would make me a hypocrite."
"So why am I receiving the distinct impression that you're judging me? I know for a fact – from firsthand experience, I might add – that you are just as particular about who you take to your bed, if not more so."
"But we're not talking about me, we're talking about you," she reminded him. "And I wouldn't care so much had I not been privy to the specifics of Morene's departure."
"That was eight months ago. I thought we had resolved this issue already?"
"I know that you did the same thing to Alayna when she was giving you the tour that you did to Morene."
"Not the exact same thing," he defended, though he didn't really deny the accusation either.
"I can understand using compulsion to deflect unwanted advances, but what you did to Morene… why did you even keep her around in the first place if you weren't, by your own admission, even remotely interested? Seems rather cruel to string the girl along."
"Francesca…" he groaned, clearly not eager to have this conversation – especially if doing so could mean confessing his own current impotence, but she persisted.
"I just don't understand how someone like you could just discard the interest of women as beautiful and alluring as…"
"I'm sorry, but I cannot do this," he announced, standing suddenly.
"Why?" she called out as he turned, the man now retreating to the hidden door in the wall. "I made inquiries you know after you came back. You pride yourself on discretion, but I know for a fact that you weren't with anyone for the entire time you were away. Why?"
"Goodnight, Miss Case."
"Coward!"
The word brought him to an abrupt halt.
Frankie knew she had hit a nerve when she felt the air change between them, something dark and chilly as he turned slowly to look back at her. She was kneeling on the edge of the bed, her determined eyes fixed on his person.
"What did you call me?" he asked.
"You heard me," she said with boldness.
"Then say it again," he challenged her, facing her fully, daring her to test him.
It was a trap of course, but for some inexplicable reason, Francesca found herself possessed with the course in front of her.
She needed them to go down this road together. She needed to know for herself not only what he was capable of, but what his motives were. Although she was not entirely ready to acknowledge it openly, Frankie wanted to test the waters with him, to see if maybe – in spite of all that was working against them – just maybe they could make this work somehow. But she needed to better understand just what it was she was dealing with first, and in that present moment, the memories of the Dracul Sânge coupled with centuries of misinformation – things weren't aligning the way she wanted them to.
She wanted to trust him, and the ease of their conversation this evening had convinced her that maybe there was a chance. She had taken his sudden, uninvited appearance in her bedchambers as a kind of divine sign that maybe a leap of faith is what was needed.
Less fear, more faith – that's what Mariella had told her in that dream, to believe in the prophecy, to believe in Vladislaus.
But Francesca Chase, even in the face of her own rebellion, maintained a degree pragmatism. It's what kept her anchored. And where this prophecy was concerned, the roles she and his majesty were supposed to play – she wasn't so sure she could live by faith alone; not when what she really desired was certainty.
"Coward," she said again, answering his challenge.
In the blink of an eye, he had moved from one end of the room to the edge of her bed, standing in front of her, the pair now eye-level. He said nothing, of course; the weight of his stare and the tension created by his nearness response enough, but she never shrank – something he silently admired.
"We are equals, or we are nothing," Frankie continued, voice even, despite the way the intensity of his gaze sent the faintest of tremors through her sex. That man could undo her with a single look if he wanted to, and that silent acknowledgement frightened her a little. She could not show weakness – not with him. "If you want to forever remain as casual and indifferent acquaintances, I can do that, but it is not what I want."
"And what do you want?"
"To know you," she replied, the words coming out a little more emphatic than she had intended, changing the mood between them.
"Why?" he asked, hoping she would finally acknowledge who he truly was, the connection between them, their shared destiny, but for some inexplicable reason she continued to insist on this façade and he nearly rolled his eyes in agitation.
"Because we agreed to be friends."
Friends.
How he detested that word!
What he was feeling in that moment was anything but friendly.
The two of them had been dancing like this for weeks – around one another, watching, waiting, teasing, tempting… one step closer and then another farther away. Nothing but looks, never touching. The distance, as great or small as it may have been, it had only grown more poignant to him, and he found that in this moment his fingers were aching to close that space. He had to stretch them once before balling his hands into tight fists to rein himself in.
It would have been so easy to lean forward, to kiss her, to touch her, to grab her thighs and flip her back onto the bed so he could pin her beneath him and prove to her that he was anything but a coward.
But despite those dark temptations whispering in his ear, his sense of restraint held firm.
She wanted carte blanche? She wanted truth? Very well, he thought to himself. He would give her truth and let her see if she likes the consequences that follow.
"It's true, I did use Morene," Vlad said at last.
"Why?"
"At first, because being in her good graces brought me closer to your brother through her association with Lily."
"But you continued in the charade even after you had secured him. Why lead her on like that? And why did you dispose of her so abruptly at the end?"
"Because I needed to keep Rémy off my scent. Your brother is very protective."
"Of what?"
"Of you."
His gaze – if it was even possible – had grown in intensity, heating her skin and sending every nerve-ending prickling in awareness. But it was the softening of his features, the truth in words and in his eyes that brought her to silence.
"My only regret in associating with the likes of Morene Khiliani is that in pretending to be with her, your view of me has been tainted – from my admittedly punitive and somewhat degrading dismissal of her, to the events that transpired the night of our first meeting."
He paused, eagerly awaiting her reaction, but all he was granted was an increase in tension. He watched as her eyes darted back and forth between his gaze and his lips. He almost smiled when he noticed, knowing all too well what it was she wanted, what she was considering, but would she make the first move?
To his eternal chagrin, once more Francesca's resiliency proved extraordinary as she blinked twice and then slipped off the bed to step away from him, making her way over to the nightstand on the other side of the mattress.
"You were rather horrible in the beginning," she admitted after breaking eye contact with him. "But my behavior at the time was just as unpardonable – if not more so."
"You certainly know how to make an impression."
His frankness only added weight to the atmosphere in the room, leaving Frankie to silently wonder if she had made a mistake, inviting his candor. She had been busily retrieving something from the small cabinet by her bed only to pause at his confession, but she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge it. It made him want to sneer.
Who is the coward now?
He exhaled before continuing a little more casually, deciding to relent,
"Very well, I'll play along. In answer to your original question – yes, I have been in love once or twice."
Grateful for the change in topic, she dared to sigh just a little in relief before straightening.
"Just once or twice? In over seven-hundred years? Your standards must be astronomically high." With a tray of crystal glasses and a decanter of what appeared to be bourbon in her hand, she climbed onto the bed, taking a seat somewhere in the center of the mattress.
"They are not so wholly unrealistic," he defended. "Being a man in my position, entanglements are already risky ventures on their own, but to open myself up in that manner…"
He accepted her offer of a filled glass, and while he did not rejoin her on the bed, he remained near it, pacing a little.
"Emotional vulnerability comes easier to some men than it does for others," she offered sympathetically. "Although practice certainly helps. But I can't fault you for being cautious. Personally speaking, while I've certainly loved more than one or two persons in my lifetime, I can appreciate your desire to err on the side of caution."
"In my experience, just sex is usually far less complicated anyway."
"Though perhaps a lot less fulfilling in the long-term?"
"In some respects, yes. I suppose that's true," he conceded.
"So who was she? Your first love? … Or he. I don't discriminate."
Dracula paused for a moment as if to rally his courage before answering,
"She," he replied. "And it was Antón's sister, Veronica."
"Bernardini has a sister?"
"Had," he corrected, downing the rest of the amber liquid in a single breath before handing his glass back to her, silently requesting another helping. "She died a long time ago."
Frankie grew a little pensive at this announcement as she refilled his glass, though she did not seem wholly surprised. "I'm sorry."
"It was centuries ago," he assured her, but said nothing more as a familiar heaviness settled in the center of his chest. A part of her wondered how long it had been since he had talked about this woman.
"Did he introduce you to her or was it the other way around?" Frankie gently nudged him. She empathized with his resistance, but remained persistent.
"She made the introductions. Our paths crossed at the turn of the fifteenth century in Italy. I ended up living with them for almost three years following."
"That's quite a long time. How did you and Veronica meet?"
"She was a Venetian courtesan – talented, brilliant, highly cultured… and bloody expensive."
"The best ones usually are," Frankie replied with a faint smirk. Her tone suggested she was speaking from experience, and while it made him curious, he continued with his story.
"Women of her caliber were a rarity at that time – I had never known anyone quite her equal at that point in my life."
"What? Talented, brilliant, and highly cultured? Or just exceptionally gifted in the sexual department? I assume that's why she cost you such a pretty penny," she teased, and though he smiled, there was something in his eyes that made her curious.
"She was headstrong and fiercely independent… fearless, empathetic, exceptional," and he sent her a meaningful look that seemed to say she was all those things too, and it would have made her blush had she noticed it. Her eyes, however, were on the glass in her hand in shy distraction. "Antón has often accused me of having a weakness for difficult, strong-willed women – and Veronica was all of that and then some. She was so much of what I needed at that point in my life."
"Because she was a challenge?"
"In part, but it had more to do with the fact that my transition about two centuries prior had been so… unpleasant," he explained with some deliberation. "My mortal life had been defined by adversity and bloodshed, but as one of the undead, I had become consumed by the hunger. I was more vengeful than I had ever been in life – more blood-thirsty, unfeeling, quick to anger, arrogant, entitled…"
"And her influence softened you?" Frankie guessed. The understanding in her eyes bewildered him a little, but he was grateful for it.
"I suppose she tamed me in a way, though for years I was rather loathed to admit it," he said, voice hushed and in a tone that was almost reverent. "When I became a vampire – as it is with most of our kind – there was a darkness that awoke in me. For most, they learn to control it, the sway of hell. But for me, for decades, I had felt it slowly swallowing me whole, a little at a time."
Frankie shifted when he said that. She knew perfectly well of what he spoke; not only from her own firsthand experience with her own inner demons, but also because his account mirrored that of Zeke's memories, memories which she was presently filing through in her mind, aligning them with the timeline of Vlad's story as if it were instinct, creating a more comprehensive picture.
"After three months of coming to her nearly every night, Veronica finally introduced me to her brother, insisting that if anyone could help me conquer my demons, it was him."
"So she knew what you were by that point?"
"Yes – she knew from the beginning."
"I assume it was the fangs and insatiable lust for blood that gave it away?" she said with a wry grin. He smiled at that.
"More the former than the latter. And being completely devoid of hair from chin to toe during that time period only added to her suspicions. I'll never forget her expression when she first saw me."
Frankie chuckled softly, accepting his empty glass once again and refilling it.
"I remember being rather stunned myself at that particular change the night I was turned. Waking up as bald as a babe and slick as polished marble. It was unsettling, for sure." She handed him his third helping of alcohol and smiled a little to herself when he didn't go to drink it right away. He was finally getting comfortable – thank god. "So I assume then that her wanting you to meet with the Signore means that Antón was a talented therapist even back then?"
"He has always been an excellent listener, very observant and wise – far beyond his own time. From the conversations Veronica and I had shared, she knew I needed help, but the kind I needed was beyond her level of expertise, so she directed me to her brother."
"Did you and the Signore get along well from the start?"
"No, not really. He knew what I was and had assumed that I had put his sister under some kind of spell, but he was also too afraid to deny her requests to help me. Whereas I, I had no desire to make myself even more vulnerable than I already had – and to another mortal no less. But, over time, he and I found a rhythm of conversation that worked well for both of us and gradually, he became more than just a sounding board. We held much of the same interests, similar philosophical and socio-political beliefs, but when we did disagree, he was always respectful when delivering counter-arguments."
"He does love to play devil's advocate, doesn't he?"
"He has a talent for empathizing with multiple sides of an issue," Vlad explained, nodding in agreement. "And it was that understanding that brought us so close together. There were things about my life and my character at the time that he understood, whereas Veronica, for all her virtues, could not quite fathom."
"Such as?"
"Antón knew firsthand the horrors of war and the damage that a constant exposure to violence and extreme stress can have on a person. He could not only comprehend the existence of my demons, but, even more important – he possessed the courage to hold me accountable for my indulgence in them."
"Your demons? You mean…" she paused, hesitant to believe, "You mean you suffered from blood-rage?"
He nodded in confirmation.
"I was not being hyperbolic when I said the circumstances surrounding my transition had been unpleasant," he continued. "In many ways, they were borderline-traumatic. The experiences that followed, being alone – isolated, even – during my adjustment period when what I had needed most was someone to not only guide but to check me, and then just being in possession of all this power – as intoxicating as it was, it was frightening how easy it was to lose control over myself. That struggle to maintain a certain degree of balance had caused something in me to sever. Veronica could only do so much to tame the beast, if you will, but in her wisdom to send me to someone who could help…"
"You were able to heal the bond – between yourself and the hunger," Frankie finished, seeming amazed by this revelation. "How did he do it?"
"Years of work and the kind of patience that would warrant him candidacy for sainthood," he answered simply. "But, more importantly, there needed to be a certain willingness to change on my part – something that was by no means simple and it took decades, centuries even, to not only break my bad habits, but to create new ones, some I still struggle to maintain. The truth is, I hated how vulnerable the entire process made me feel, being so exposed..."
"So how did you cope?"
"Veronica understood that if I was ever to get better, I needed to feel like I had some semblance of control over my own existence, and so after spending hours at work with Antón, she was always there at the end of the evening to balance me out again."
"Through sex, I assume?"
"It was her forté, after all," he replied with a mischievous smirk. "And while I do admittedly have standards I like to keep, I'm not the sort of man to readily decline the offer of a tumble. Unless I have a good reason to do so. Besides, I learned a great deal from my time with her."
Frankie chuckled, her smile demure but her eyes sparkling almost deviously.
"Any skills in particular?"
Her flirting made his grin almost dark.
"All things that are better shown than described, dragă," he purred. "But let's just say that even the greatest and most experienced of lovers have to begin somewhere. Someone has to teach them."
"And a mortal courtesan from Venice taught you?"
"She taught me many things, yes… just as your Spanish devil taught you," he countered without missing a beat.
The pair then raised their respective glasses in a silent toast before the conversation continued.
"So what happened to her? Did you ever turn her?"
Her query changed the air between them as his gaze fell briefly.
"No," he admitted. "And I regretted it for years after. Their elder brother – Angelo was his name – he was a man of the cloth; worked closely not only with the Vatican, but we discovered a little too late that he had also been inducted into the Knights of the Holy Order."
"I remember being warned about the Knights when my family took refuge in Italy shortly after we were turned. I take it you were driven from the country or something of that sort?"
"If only it had been that simple. No, I fear their retribution extended far beyond myself." Dracula paused, leaning against one of the posts at the corner of the bed, eyes cast downward. "The Bernardini's were already a family tainted by scandal – Veronica for being an infamous prostitute and Antón for defecting from the army… and organized religion in general. Her fortune and Angelo's influence had been able to protect them, but when our association had been revealed, Angelo chose his loyalty to the Pope over his own blood. His siblings were branded as heretics worthy of the stake, and Angelo, accompanied by a handful of the faith militant, arrived at the house one day at high noon…"
"The time when our kind are at our weakest," Frankie whispered in rapt horror.
"And because we were all ignorant of his treachery until it was too late, I had retired for the day beneath the house and Antón had departed for the city of Verona on business, leaving Veronica utterly defenseless. And, of course, to make matters even worse than they already were…"
"They figured out that the two of you hadn't just shared a bed, but that she was in love with you, and you with her?"
He only nodded.
"When I awoke that evening, she was gone. Antón and I searched for weeks before finally learning that they had taken her to some remote island off the coast of a port city called Livorno, near Tuscany. But by the time we got to her, it was too late. She had been dead for days."
Dracula, who had been studying the remaining amber liquid in his glass, finally raised it up to his lips to knock back the entirety of its contents, the burn of the alcohol offering him little comfort.
"How did she die?"
"It was difficult to tell from what was left of her. But her body had sustained some kind of damage prior to burning. She had suffered – that much I know."
Frankie shivered before offering to refill his glass once more, which he quietly accepted, holding it out for her.
"I am sorry," she said softly. The man may have worn a mask of general indifference, but there was a grief in his eyes that she recognized all too well. "What did you do after you discovered her body?"
"What do you think I did?" he asked, sending her a meaningful look and her attention fell for a moment. It didn't take much imagination to comprehend just what it was he was capable of. "Antón and I made a pact of vengeance that was sealed with blood. After I turned him, we took our revenge together."
"And you've been just as close ever since," she finished. "I suppose friends that kill together really do stay together." He smiled some at her attempt to lighten the mood, but that old sorrow of his continued to linger.
"Something like that." He finished the drink in his hand before finally placing the empty glass down on the tray between them. "The women that followed Veronica I always made sure to keep at a certain distance. Losing her had been excruciating and I was determined to avoid experiencing that kind of suffering again if I possibly could."
"Did anyone ever manage to break through those walls of yours?"
"A few over the centuries, in varying degrees, though admittedly not without difficulty," he confessed before breaking his study of the rug to look into her eyes.
"On their part or yours?" she asked, moving the tray out of the way as some kind of unspoken invitation for him to rejoin her on the bed when he was ready.
"Both. I've never trusted easily, not that the deceitful natures of others hasn't given me ample motivation to change in that respect. Nothing is as abhorrent to me as dishonesty, especially in those situations where trust is paramount. I've spent so much of my existence dealing with fraudulent, self-serving men and women willing to do and say whatever they think will please to get ahead in the world," and he took a seat on the edge of the mattress. "I suppose it's why my circle of trusted friends and advisors has always been so small, and even then, there isn't a single person on that list who I trust implicitly."
"Not even Bernardini?"
"Not even him," he confessed. "That's not to say that I believe he would ever do anything to betray me, but I'm not so wholly naïve as to believe that he doesn't keep things from me, or that he has plans or agendas of his own."
"But it is the same with you, is it not?" she offered.
"Yes. I suppose I do keep secrets from him, but they are trivialities at best, and most of the time he's proven to be so observant or well-informed, it almost negates the need for discussion in the first place."
"That may be true, but wouldn't it be more beneficial for your relationship with him – or with anyone, for that matter – if you opted for candor instead of operating so often under assumption? It's not like you ever shy away from being frank." He smiled a little at that, but said nothing. "I believe that open communication is key to the health and success of any relationship – platonic or otherwise."
"And what else do you think marks the health and success of a relationship, Francesca?" he inquired thoughtfully, moving a little closer to her on the bed, though still keeping a safe distance as to not crowd her.
"Fidelity. If two people are in a committed relationship and expectations have been set…"
"You can't possibly look me in the eye and tell me that the infamous la sirène hasn't been in the center of an affair or two," he interrupted. "Or several dozen. In fact, if the rumors are to be believed, you single-handedly destroyed a good number of marriages in your first century as a vampire."
"I am not proud of my actions," she replied, "although in my defense, any marriages I did bring to an end had already eroded from within. I only helped them along."
"That is some excellent rationalization," he teased.
"The men and women I took to bed… their relationships had already failed," she insisted. "At the time, I considered it a no-harm, no-foul. Although, now that I think of it, there were those rare occasions where I would feel some remorse for the implications of my actions. But then on the other hand, sometimes a seduction was exactly what was needed to rejuvenate the union between a husband and his wife. Of course, in those cases, it was usually because both parties were involved."
Dracula couldn't help the almost gleeful smile that was now tugging at the corners of his mouth. The mere thought of this woman amorously tangled between members of both sexes appealed to him tremendously, though that went without saying.
"Weren't you moments ago giving me a hard time for using Morene?" he asked instead, brow arched.
"I haven't been a home-wrecker in a very, very long time. And I have no plans to being one again any time soon," she maintained, eyes idly studying the duvet as if she were trying to muster the courage to ask him something else. "Back to the conversation of Bernardini, I've been meaning to ask – have you and the Signore, ever…"
The way she was looking at him communicated her train of thought perfectly and Dracula choked back a laugh.
"Definitely not. For starters, he and I have never once possessed even the slightest curiosity," he explained. "Not to mention, he's been faithfully married for the majority of the time I've known him, the very embodiment of fidelity when he was with Mariella. Of course, now I have to ask who put that idea into your head."
"No one did – you two are just very close and he seems to understand and care about you in a way that is quite rare in my experience. There's an intimacy there – I was just curious if it had extended to the physical."
"While I will readily admit to the occasional dalliance with members of my sex, I've always held a preference for the ladies."
"Why am I not surprised?" Her eyes sparkled with mirth.
"They are my weakness," he replied with a playful wink and a subtle movement, drawing him closer to her on the bed. "And what about you, Francesca? I've heard the rumors, of course, but they don't at all mirror the woman sitting before me. What changed? What made you go from infamous libertine to…"
"A serial monogamist?" she guessed. "The short answer – Eduardo. Much of my more laissez-faire sensibilities in those days were a direct result of his influence. He oversaw every aspect of my education as a vampire and as la sirène. In fact, most of what he taught me was heavily rooted in using my sexuality as a weapon. Sex had little to do with emotional intimacy with him. It was all about pleasure and power. After a while, I came to suspect that he was using sex to do to me what I was doing to others – to manipulate. He knew how starved I was for not just intimacy, but control – over myself and men in particular, especially after what happened with Alphonse."
"How does that old adage go? Everything is about sex, except sex," he quoted.
"Sex is about power," she finished for him. "Yes. As loathed as I am to admit it, even with my more romantic sensibilities, I can concede that there's some truth there. But I would also argue that motives play an important role."
"I suppose."
There was a natural pause in their conversation, an ease of silence that lingered as they both privately digested their recently shared revelations. The sun had since risen, and while Frankie was accustomed to being up in the daylight hours, the lack of recent sustenance had begun to leave her feeling a little lethargic. She started to rack her brain for another question to ask him, but Vladislaus beat her to it.
"How did you meet Meirás?"
"At a ball in Paris. My husband had left me at our home in the city while he was away in Toulouse with his mistress and because he was terrified that I would expose him for his cruelty – or worse, that I would follow his example and take a lover of my own – he had left instructions that under no circumstances was I to leave the house without a chaperon of his choosing, nor was I permitted to entertain any visitors in his absence. Not even family."
"Spiteful and insecure. How did you escape?"
"Alphonse's valet had a son who was training to be a footman, a young adolescent of barely fifteen. Unlike the rest of the servants, he had a more difficult time turning a blind eye to his master's brutality, so when the Duke was away, and I had been left to tearfully reject yet another invitation for an outing with Alayna, the boy decided to take matters into his own hands. "
"What did he do?"
"He had helped himself to my apartments one afternoon to unburden himself of his grievances regarding my husband's treatment of me that morning, and he insisted that because I was a de Chacier and the great-granddaughter of the king, if the Duke could go gallivanting about the countryside with his mistress without raising even a single eyebrow, I should be able to do the same. Of course, I had no lover to speak of, and while I didn't entirely agree with all of his assertions because of the societal conventions of the time, he did have a point and I so wanted to attend Madame Davenant's masquerade party. So that night, with his help, I managed to slip out of the house unnoticed. I met Eduardo later that evening."
By this point in the conversation, Frankie found herself having a more and more difficult time withstanding the power of the dawn, limbs heavy and eyelids weighed down as if invisible pieces of lead had replaced her lashes. Thinking nothing of it, she moved to lie down upon the bed, staring up at the ceiling as Vlad moved a little closer, resting on his side with his hand propping his head up so he could observe her as she continued her tale.
"We danced and he flirted shamelessly, and I made no attempt to stop him. He was all grace and precision, from the way he moved to the manner of his speech. And I was utterly oblivious of the web he was weaving around me, how calculated his every word and touch truly were. Or maybe I did realize it on some level, but didn't care. Having such complete and undivided attention from a handsome man after years of neglect and abuse not only left me feeling human again for the first time in an age, but the desire in his eyes made me feel like a woman. For just a few hours, I wasn't the disappointment and burden the Duke had spent the majority of our marriage convincing me I was. But, as most good things do, my brief stint of freedom came to an abrupt halt when who should walk into that very same party but Alphonse."
"Did he see you?"
"Yes. His humiliation was profound and his rage immediate. He took no pains in hiding his displeasure as he whisked me out of the room. On the surface he was all charm and smiles to the other guests, but to this day, I can still recall how tight his grip was on my arm. When I dared to ask him why he wasn't in Toulouse with his mistress, he lashed out. By the time the sun rose the next morning, I couldn't even bring myself to move from our bed. He had been cruel before – I was used to that – but something about seeing me flirt with another man set him off. I had hoped the liquor would have kept him from getting it up, but God couldn't even grant me that small mercy."
Vlad remained silent and still, eyes fixed as she spoke. He could tell from the haunted look in her expression as she stared up at the ceiling that there was so much she wasn't saying, but it was easy to imagine just what abuse she had endured.
It infuriated him, the thought that any man would dare lay a malicious hand on the woman next to him. This Alphonse was lucky he had already met his maker, because nothing would have given Dracula greater pleasure than to spill the Duke's blood himself.
"When I was well enough to leave my room, he announced that we were returning to our home in the country. Although I wasn't exactly eager to return to my gilded cage, avoiding Alphonse was easier at home than it was in Paris. And I knew from experience that after a week, he'd get bored and would leave me to myself to go chase some new conquest, so in spite of everything, I found myself looking forward to it. But oh, how I hated him. The entire journey home, I dreamed of killing him, of bruising his skin as he had done mine, of hitting him, stabbing him, of taking the nearest blade and slicing off little pieces of him at a time until he bled out… and for some strange reason, I imagined Eduardo being there to help me. Since the night of Madame Davenant's masquerade, I had imagined him watching over me in some way, witnessing the crimes of my husband, and then I would fantasize about him swooping in to save me."
Frankie paused, chuckling a little.
"Little did I know that he had indeed been watching me since that night, that he had followed us home unseen. When we arrived at the house, it was near sunset. The Duke and I had barely gotten settled when there was a knock at the door…."
…
"Who the devil is that at this hour?" Alphonse grumbled angrily, hastily downing the rest of his port before shouting, "Blaise! Get the bloody door and tell whoever it is to go away!"
Francesca continued to stand by the fire, staring at the flames, mind and heart still filled with dark thoughts as the tender bruises on her arms and back continued to heal. She was grateful her sex at least had stopped hurting, though that empty ache in her womb remained persistent. Her eyes narrowed a little as she listened to her husband's tirade. He had been agitated the entire ride home, grumbling to himself bitterly and for just a moment she smiled faintly in satisfaction. The news that his latest mistress had left him for another man had certainly been satisfying on a particular level.
If only she could follow suit and do the same.
She could hear Blaise, the butler, opening the front door, his voice carrying throughout the empty foyer as she and Alphonse lingered in the parlor.
"I'm sorry, but the master has just returned from a long journey and he is accepting no visitors this evening…"
"You will invite me in," a familiar voice commanded calmly and her heart skipped a beat. She knew that Spanish lilt anywhere! She had dreamed of little else all week. But had she imagined it? How had he found her?
"Come in, monsieur," the butler replied, but to not only Francesca's surprise, but Alphonse's as well. The man's head turned sharply, eyes like daggers as he glared viciously at the parlor door in the direction of the foyer.
He swore under his breath, the profanity drowned out by the sound of his glass hitting the wall after he had thrown it angrily.
"Blaise, I told you, no guests!" he barked, kicking the door as he parted from the room.
He had disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, leaving his wife to stand frozen in place as she waited with baited breath, so full of doubt, but hope as well, that their visitor was who she thought it was. There was a voice in the back of her mind that feared the Duke's reaction should their unexpected guest eventually depart, but the idea that someone had found her worthy of pursuit left her heart aflutter.
"Who the devil are you?" Alphonse had begun to shout, but there was the low rumble of something spoken and her husband went abruptly mute. She could hear their guest talking, then there was a moment of silence until both Señor Meirás and her husband entered the parlor together.
Alphonse was more docile than Frankie had ever seen him, his eyes glazed over, face impassive. The Spaniard, however, was just as beautiful as he had been a few nights ago – if not more so – his eyes penetrating and smile disarming.
"Duchesse," Meirás called out in greeting, and he bowed low.
"Señor Meirás! How… why…" She was still so astounded by his sudden appearance that she could scarcely decide on what question to ask first.
Fortunately, he took pity, his smile broadening as he stepped into the room, leaving her husband to linger alone in the doorway. He took Francesca's hand in his and pressed an ardent kiss to her knuckles, maintaining eye contact as he did so. The intimacy of the action made her blush, but also had her panicking as her attention darted to that of her husband, awaiting his expected outburst… but it never came. Alphonse's expression remained utterly devoid of anything.
"What are you doing here?" she asked at last, desperately trying to ignore the way the Spaniard's attention made the butterflies in her stomach dance and twirl.
"I am here to see you, of course," he explained, making no attempts to hide the suggestion in his tone. "Given the conversation we had been having before your brute of a husband interrupted, I had been under the impression that our time together at Madame Davenant's party the other evening had been destined to end a little differently than it had."
"Señor…"
"Eduardo, please."
Frankie hesitated, stealing another look at her motionless husband, but still he had not moved from his spot, not a trace of anger in his face.
"Eduardo," she said carefully, lowering her voice as if doing so would keep her husband from hearing them. "You must go. Your presence here has clearly distressed my husband and it would be indecent for you to stay any…"
"I don't care about your spineless husband," he insisted passionately, taking both of her hands in his and raising them to his lips. "I am here for you, cariño. You are the only thing I desire."
"You musn't say such things!"
"Why? Are you afraid he'll hear us?" and he followed the direction of her fearful gaze to look upon the frozen Duke. He laughed. "He will not move or utter a word unless I command it. I could kiss you right here and now in front of his face and if I willed it, he would have no memory of the occurrence."
The doubt in her eyes was immediate and she began to insist that what he was saying was absurd, but Eduardo was possessed. Still holding her hands, he led her to stand in front of her husband before pulling her into his arms and then he kissed her. Francesca went rigid, hands pressed against his chest in a moment of instinctual protest, heart seized with fear that the next thing she would be feeling would be the hard and unforgiving hand of the Duke… but his anticipated reaction never came.
When the kiss finally broke, she turned to look at her husband, dumbfounded by his lack of anger – or any other emotion, really. She then looked to the Spaniard who appeared so very pleased with himself.
"But how… how is it possible?"
Eduardo's smile was positively self-satisfied and wicked.
"I told you, cariño… he cannot hurt you. Not while I'm here."
…
"Naturally, I didn't understand him," Frankie continued, now lying on her side, facing Vlad. "For years, I had been convinced that Alphonse was beyond anyone's control. Not even my father could coerce or persuade him to do anything, but Eduardo – in just a single moment – had managed to ensnare my husband's will with ease. He ruled him, and for the next hour, I had him show me the extent of his power, with Alphonse was his puppet. When I had seen enough to be convinced, Eduardo then explained to me what he was. We talked for some time, walking alone in the gardens."
"What about the Duke?" Vlad asked.
"Eduardo had commanded him to sleep on the floor in the parlor like some kind of dog before we made our way outside."
"Fitting, although I probably would have opted for a less merciful punishment. The stables would have been more appropriate."
"True, but the horses didn't deserve the injustice of sharing a bed with that man," Frankie replied with a sly grin and Dracula chuckled.
"So after he told you what he was, what happened next?"
"He asked me about myself, my situation, and without even thinking about it, I was soon unburdening myself. He only had to use compulsion to get me started, but once I began, I couldn't stop. For the first time since I had married the Duke, I felt safe to tell the truth unrestrained. For years, I had been forced to lie to my family and friends about my situation for fear that if Alphonse discovered, I would only incite his wrath. But Eduardo was the only person on earth up until that point that I felt safe with, even with the knowledge of what he was. I told him everything – the abuses I had endured, how hopeless and trapped I had felt. I told him how I had even once tried to take my own life, but the fear of eternal damnation, of being separated forever from my family was what kept me going. He listened, never once interrupting as I poured my soul out to him, and when it was done, he made me an offer."
…
Eduardo retrieved a small vial from his waistcoat pocket and he held it out to her. It seemed to contain some kind of crimson liquid, the consistency dreadfully similar to blood.
"What is this?" Francesca asked, accepting the gift so she could study it further.
"The key to your freedom," he answered, his words catching her attention. "I know that you feel as though there are no doors opened to you, that God has abandoned you to this hell, this gilded cage. But there is another way. I can give you what you desire," and he moved a little closer to her, increasing the intimacy between them. He gently ran this thumb along her cheekbone, the tip of his nose brushing ever so slightly against hers as he lowered his voice until it was barely even a whisper. "I can liberate you, Francesca… I can give you the power to control men and women alike. I can teach you how to draw them in, how to manipulate them, how to string them up and make them dance for you…"
His fingers caressed down her throat slowly; gentle, careful sweeps of fingertips against her skin, each touch leaving her eyes to flutter as desire began to bloom deep within her womb. Her gaze, which had been momentarily distracted by his lips, returned to his eyes. The smile he wore was somewhere between predatory and playful, suggestive, and she found herself tempted.
"I can give you pleasure," he continued, his touch now slowly moving downward from her neck to her collar and her heart began to race. "Pleasure the likes of which you cannot even begin to fathom. I can make your skin burn and your cunt ache. And I can teach you how to give the same pleasure in return, how to use the secret lusts and desires of others to acquire anything in this world that you may wish." His fingers ghosted over her breasts now, leaving her heart to pound wildly in her chest. "Just think of it, Duchesse. Power unchecked. You'll be beyond the control of society, of the monarchy, of the church, of God… of any man who has ever sought to silence you or bend you to his will. I can make you untouchable..."
His bold hand had smoothed down her side before grabbing a handful of her derriere, pushing her against him so she could feel the purity of his desire pressing against her belly – even through her skirts. The heat of his voice, the thrill of his words, sent delicious shivers down her spine to her toes, her body already responding to the invitation in his gaze. His lips were now playing over the angle of her jaw and she weakened in his hold, the lust he inspired in her foreign and overwhelming.
"I can make it so no one can hurt you, no one will control you… not ever again," he whispered into her ear and she felt something prick lightly against her neck, like teeth but sharper. "I can give you all of this and more… so much more," and he kissed her neck once before running the tip of his tongue up the column slowly. "All you have to say is yes."
There was a small pinch of pain as he bit into her neck but it quickly dissipated into a pleasure she had never felt before as he drank from her. His sighs and faint slurping left her light-headed and aroused and when he had taken his fill, he held her wrist and raised her hand that still held the vial up between them.
"Free yourself from your mortal coil, Francesca. Drink… Sempre vive!"
So caught up in the sensuality of his voice and touch, the temptation of his promises, Frankie watched in rapture as he removed the stopper with his teeth. With a gentle urging in his eyes, she obeyed his silent request, whispering the word "yes" while raising the vial to her lips and pouring the contents into her mouth. She swallowed and shuddered a little when the cold, metallic liquid slid down her throat slowly. Before she could ask him what it was, he kissed her then, deep and slow, his tongue teasing her as he tenderly cradled her face in his hands.
And then there was an abrupt pain and a snap in her neck and all went dark.
...
"I awoke sometime later in the rose garden," Frankie explained almost dreamily, eyes having trouble staying open now. "The first thing I was aware of was the breathtaking pain, a kind of cold fire burning in my lungs and spreading slowly through my veins. It was so intense and so unreal, I couldn't even cry out. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew that I was dying, and it terrified me. I remember the light of the stars and moon feeling so bright that they were almost hot and then I couldn't breathe. In a panic, and without even realizing it, I had started to free myself of my clothes, desperate for air, but no matter how many layers I removed, my body felt constricted, as if I were shrinking within some invisible vice – this painful tightening of every muscle and organ. I could hear the blood rushing through my veins, could feel the earth spinning beneath me, and then almost as quickly as it had begun, just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, the pain stopped and everything stilled."
Although her eyes were closed now, her mind's eye reliving the memories she was now recounting, Francesca could still sense Vladislaus lying next to her on the bed, the sun high in the sky beyond the walls of her darkened bedroom. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew she should have saved her story for later, perhaps granted him the chance to return to his own chambers to rest for the day, but she could not.
"When it finally ended, the first thing I remember being aware of was how light I felt, almost weightless, as if I were floating on the grass. I remember the scent of the roses – the smell so overpowering it was almost nauseating. But most of all, I just remember feeling free… untouchable… and strangely more alive than I ever had in my life. I returned to the house, awash in how new everything felt, my senses sharper than I could have ever imagined. And then I heard it – a heartbeat. Alphonse's heartbeat."
"How did you know it was him?" he asked, his voice low and even, as if any more inflection might break the spell between them.
"I just knew," she said almost wistfully. "And with that recognition came a hunger the likes of which I had never before experienced. It was consuming, devastating in its breadth, and I had no desire to fight it…"
…
Francesca walked slowly through the gardens toward the house, her dress and corset left abandoned amongst the flowers as she moved about donning only her shift, the torn collar leaving it to lie draped down one arm, exposing her shoulder and much of her chest.
She followed the sound of the steady drumming, the rhythmic thump bump as she made her way through the house, her footfall silent, her movements almost ghostlike. She found her husband in the dining hall, alone and seated at the table, a large decanter of wine situated in front of him. Frankie approached, never uttering a word as he drank feverishly from his glass, rivulets of crimson spilling from the corners of his mouth. When he finally noticed her out of the corner of his eye, he jumped, startled.
"Francesca! Christ almighty, woman, what are you doing? I thought you had gone to bed," Alphonse replied, relaxing visibly as she approached. "Why on earth are you walking around like that? It's indecent! Go back to your chambers at once before a servant sees you!"
But she ignored his command, continuing to approach slowly. Her head was filled with the sounds of his beating heart, pumping all of that fresh blood underneath that warm, pink flesh. It had her salivating just thinking about it.
"Are you deaf?" he suddenly snapped at her, slamming his glass down onto the table as he stood. "I said go back to your room and put on some clothes!"
"Do I not please you anymore, husband?" she asked him, and with a roll of her shoulder, her shift fell from her figure to pool on the ground at her feet.
Alphonse's eyes widened in astonishment and Frankie momentarily broke his gaze to glance down at her body. She was surprised to find it so altered.
The old bruises and signs of her husband's abuse were gone. Her skin was supple, unblemished – a perfect balance of youthful tightness and womanly maturity. A female in her prime. Every hair on her body, including her sex had also vanished, leaving her smooth as silk from the chin down. Her limbs and core were toned, her breasts full and nipples erect.
From the lust in the Duke's eyes, it was easy to imagine how beautiful she looked, but she didn't need his approval. For the first time in a long time, she felt beautiful on her own, and that surge of confidence had her returning her gaze to that of her husband, her expression mischievous.
"What on earth have you done to yourself?" he asked, motioning with his hand toward her bald sex, but when she continued in her approach, his tongue fell silent. She placed a hand on his chest and lightly pushed him back into his chair, climbing into his lap.
"I don't know," she answered demurely.
"What has gotten into you?"
"I'm so hungry…" Frankie whispered, the words more like a moan as she took Alphonse's face in her hands so she could kiss him. The Duke's reaction was immediate, blood rushing to his groin and lust flowing through his veins, assuming that he knew full well what was coming next. He grabbed fistfuls of his wife's ass as he pulled her closer to him, his demanding cock straining in his trousers between her legs.
Its presence began to incite an old anger in her that only accentuated her hunger, but before she could make sense of it, she felt her husband move, trying to get her off of him as he stood. He pulled himself out of his trousers, his erection springing free and he stroked himself to full hardness while pushing down on her shoulder to get her to her knees.
She didn't require an explanation as to what he wanted. They had been here many times before – him pushing her head down between his legs like some kind of entitled, debauched piece of filth. Frankie had learned early on in their marriage that fighting him on this would only make things worse, and so instinct had her falling to her knees to keep him from getting angry. But when he pressed his glistening tip to her lips she remembered…
The Spaniard.
What had he told her?
I can make it so no one can hurt you, no one will control you… not ever again.
"What are you waiting for? You started this… so finish it," Alphonse snapped impatiently, jutting his hips forward so his cock would hit her in the face. "Come on you little slut. Just let me come so I can go to bed."
Frankie's eyes narrowed, her expression darkening as the Duke continued to stroke himself. She held out her tongue in invitation and instead of allowing her to set the pace, he moved to slam himself into her mouth, the man sighing before muttering an oath under his breath when he hit the back of her throat. He grabbed a fistful of her hair as he thrusted his hips back and forth, holding her head in place, using her as he had done countless times before. He should have grown suspicious, however, when her hands started to slide up his thighs, her grip on him tightening. His wife had never been much of an active participant in their more intimate encounters, and that alone should have made him suspicious. But he didn't notice, too caught up in his own pleasure to even be aware of the way her eyes were now glowing, her canines sharpening behind her lips.
She waited patiently, watching his face for the usual telltale signs that he was close. The scrunching up of his brow, the queer way his mouth hung open, the way his balls slowly lifted upwards.
He never really did last long.
And then just before he could spill his seed between her lips, she bit down hard and the eruption of blood that followed was only made all the more heavenly by the screams that accompanied it.
Francesca saw red, feeling nothing even as Alphonse beat against her head with closed fists, trying to free his cock from her clenched teeth. But with a sharp yank she had torn it off, letting the gory appendage slip unceremoniously from her mouth as he shouted abuse at her, howling in pain, blood gushing everywhere. He kicked her in spite of his agony, his boot landing right in her gut, surely breaking a few ribs in the process and she fell onto her back, bracing herself for the pain.
But it never came.
She could feel the broken bones heal immediately, her whole person pulsating with a power she had never felt before and she began to laugh almost hysterically as she sat back up, face and neck covered in her husband's blood which was still dribbling from the corners of her lips.
Alphonse was shouting for help even as she rose off the floor in a manner that could only be described as unnatural, but it was when he saw her fangs that the real horror overtook him. His high-pitched scream echoed off the high ceiling of the dining room, only to be cut off abruptly when his wife leapt forward like some kind of wild animal, grabbing the front of his shirt with both hands and swinging him around before burying her face in his neck and biting down hard, taking chunks of flesh and tendon with her.
She gorged herself, feverishly drinking, possessed with this incompressible need to devour. With every swallow, she could feel herself getting stronger, and as his heart began to slow, it was as though she could feel the chains that had once kept her bound suddenly breaking. She was racing towards liberty with madness in her glowing eyes. It was only when Alphonse had gone silent and still beneath her that she became aware of another in the room.
Francesca managed to pull herself away from the Duke's lifeless body, and she stood slowly, turning to find the Spaniard standing a short distance from her, his own fangs out, eyes ablaze in lust and a hunger of his own. He looked like the devil in that moment – an embodiment of temptation and pure, unadulterated sin.
She broke his gaze for just an instant to look down at what she had done and she waited for the guilt to set it, the revulsion, but it never did. She felt nothing when her eyes took in Alphonse's dead body at her feet, the blood, the carnage and destruction she had wrought.
The only thing she felt was relief.
"People are going to wonder what happened to him," she said after a moment, completely unfazed by the fact that she was naked and covered in blood in front of this man who was, in all honesty, still a stranger to her.
Eduardo stepped forward, smiling.
"I can take care of that," he assured her.
"And what about the servants?"
"There's no need to worry about them right now, Francesca," and he reached out to tuck a stray lock of blood-soaked hair behind her ear. His gaze was full of awe and tenderness. "How are you feeling?"
"Not quite myself," she answered candidly. "I should be mortified that I'm naked in front of you, that I just murdered my husband, but… I'm not…"
"You'll return to yourself soon enough," he assured her with a slight chuckle, eyes sparkling in amusement. "Your mind is still trying to catch up with the rest of your transformation. But don't worry. I will help you through your transition."
"How much longer do I have until it all hits?"
"I'm not sure. It's different for everyone. Could be a couple of hours – at the latest, you'll return to yourself tomorrow evening after sunset."
Frankie pondered this for a moment, her mind racing, but with her inexplicable hunger for blood now satiated, there was a hunger of a different kind starting to rouse the longer she studied the Spaniard. He was a beautiful man, tall and well built, but the way he was looking at her made her burn in a way that was entirely indecent. She knew she should have been self-conscious, that the sense of modesty that had been ingrained into her head at a young age should have made an appearance, demanding she make herself more presentable… but she didn't care.
And that indifference was liberating.
"You have given me the key to my own freedom, Señor Meirás, and for that I thank you," Francesca said at last, but then the expression in her eyes changed, her smile demure, inviting. "But I believe you also promised me something else…"
"Did I?"
"You promised me pleasure."
She had no idea where this newfound boldness was coming from, but it felt so natural, so effortless. She took a step towards the dining room table and propped herself up on its edge. Lifting her feet, she parted her knees wide, exposing herself to him.
"I'd very much appreciate if you made good on your word before my sanity returns."
His chuckle was rich and low, eyes sparkling in amusement as she started to reach for him. He stayed her hand, however, gently stopping her from proceeding further and when she looked up at him in confusion, his smile softened.
"Tonight is not about me, cariño," he said, resting his hands on her shoulders, gently urging her to recline back as his eyes raked down her body, taking her in slowly before stopping at the juncture between her thighs. "Tonight is all about you…"
With that, he fell to his knees at her feet and using only his tongue and his fingers, opened the doors to a whole new world of pleasure and empowerment she never could have imagined.
To say I'm looking forward to the next chapter is a gross understatement.
V&F are about to rip the crowbar I've been having to use to keep them apart out of my hands... this should be fun.
But until then - review? Maybe? Pretty please?