DARK SIDE OF THE GLASS
CHAPTER 43
The arguing had long since moved beyond the point of reasonable and slipped into the ridiculous. Erik lounged in the bed, still rather weakened by the loss of blood, but recuperating quickly.
"Lord Demidov…you must…"
Erik glared at the speaker, reducing him to ash with his eyes.
They had been arguing amongst themselves, determining his future without consulting him, and he had had enough.
"Do not assume for one moment that I am going to sell my soul to you and your kind; I have said – and I will say it again – I have NO desire to claim anything that resembles a title nor do I wish to inherit anything that was once coveted by my father."
Before speaking again, the young prince chose his words wisely.
"Monsieur Lacroix, we strongly urge you to reconsider your place in Russia…your genius and life experiences would be such an asset to our country and the aristocracy as a whole."
Erik was strangely flattered by his words, but adamant about his decision. He understood the importance of a balanced aristocracy and the need to keep a family name going, but he was not going to be the one.
"I can assure you, I care not."
Blatant, unbelieving masks covered the faces of the four princes of Russia; they had never come upon anyone who did not wish to be a member of the elite – the titled and privileged of society – Erik was the first.
"Monsieur, we know that your relationship with your father was not the best…"
"Relationship!" Erik ground out between clenched teeth. "All that my 'relationship' with my father awarded me was this face, a life without my mother, and years of torment….so you will have to excuse me if I have no inclination to have anything to do with my father's country, my father's wealth, or my father's title."
He was seething – visibly so – and the men knew better than to say anything else. Anya walked into the room, not caring that they considered her an intruder.
"Gentleman, is there another person out there…someone else who can take over?"
Erik graced her with a cockeye smirk, his eyes dancing with pride at her suggestion. She smiled sweetly at them and then smiled hungrily at Erik….it had been too long since they had had any time alone.
The room became deathly silent and the four princes' shuffled words in a foreign language and ended it abruptly with an argumentative grunt of agreement.
"Yes, there is, but his claim is weak and he knows nothing of his heritage."
Erik furrowed the dark wing of his brow and frowned.
"I knew nothing of my heritage until about a week ago – and yet, you pursued me." He pointed out with a large amount of suspicion growing on his features, "Who is this person?"
They mumbled to each other and seemed hesitant to reveal any details, but Erik's unwavering stare finally encouraged them to share.
"Your father also had a daughter out of wedlock…born to a tavern wench he had a brief encounter with – before he married Yves' mother. That daughter grew up and married a local merchant and, in time, gave birth to a son – before her husband was killed in some sort of accident."
The news that he had a sister and a nephew warmed him more than Erik would have thought possible.
"The claim is actually hers, not mine." Erik spat; more than a little bit annoyed with them.
"The title and wealth cannot be claimed by a woman….and the child is not of age nor is his blood strong enough."
The frown deepened and Erik was doing all that he could to not strangle any of them.
"How old is he?"
Hesitation, once again…and Erik clenched his fists.
"Twelve…Lord…" catching himself before he made a dire mistake, the nearest man cleared his throat and continued, "…Monsieur Lacroix...he is twelve."
"Is his mother smart, fair, and humble?" Erik asked, causing them all to share perplexed stares and creased brows.
"Yes, she appears to be."
Erik nodded and ran a confident hand through his dark, tousled waves.
"And where do they reside?"
Erik asked the question while moving his legs over to the side of the bed and preparing to stand.
They watched in wonder, as he stood to his full height before them -stubbornly unwavering and every inch of him dark and daunting.
Anya stood beside him, her arm wrapped protectively around his waist, and her eyes fixed lovingly on him.
"They live in Spain…" they finally answered, not liking that he had obtained this information. "…just outside of Madrid."
Feeling stronger and needing to stretch his sore muscles, Erik moved slowly, but elegantly, over to them.
"In two days time, after I have exercised for some time, eaten normally, and bathed several times, you will take me to them…I wish to meet the members of my family."
After a shared look of shock, they all made to argue with him – but he lifted his hand in a bored, swift turn of his wrist.
"You have no choice in the matter." Erik stated – no contest in his voice, "Now leave."
"Leave?" They all asked at the same time.
"Yes…as in, I…DO…NOT...WISH….TO….SEE….YOU…AGAIN…TONIGHT."
Lavanya giggled behind her raised hand, but watched amusingly as they all scampered away like frightened mice.
His mischievous, roguish eyes twinkled as they almost trampled each other to get out the door; he then turned those eyes to Anya. He covered her hand with his and lifted it to his lips.
"You take my breath away…just by being near." He swept his warm lips across her wrist and saw the thrill that spread over her and settled in her eyes.
The room had a slight spin and Erik knew that he needed to lie back down. He turned toward the bed, cursing his own weakness…he so longed to ravish his lovely wife.
Anya walked beside him, supporting him with her arm around his thinning waist; he had not eaten properly in a week.
She sat him on the edge of the bed and kissed him passionately, knowing by the sensual warmth of his eyes and the silky timbre of his voice that he had seduction on his mind.
It was a slow, drugging kiss that her slowly pushing his robe from his broad shoulders and easing him back against the mattress. Erik's hands leisurely trailed a hot path up her sides and around to her back; effortlessly unclasping the holds on her dress.
Their tongues wound around each other - dipping and weaving, caressing and petting; their bodies moved in rhythm with each other – his surging upward, begging for attention, hers grinding against his rigid heat and building to a molten crescendo.
"Dance for me."
His gravely whisper sent an erotic thrill up her spine; it was the first time he had ever asked her to dance for him.
She stood, pulling him to a sitting position; his erect staff pushing against the silk material of his sleeping pants.
The Indian dress she wore fell to the floor and she gave Erik her back; she began the slow, intoxicating language of her body, swaying in time with a beat that only she could hear.
She captivated him; from the graceful movements of her hands and the sway of her hips to the smoldering embers of desire lighting her sea green eyes.
Somehow, he forgot about the dull throb in his side where he had been shot and devoured his wife with his hungry gaze. She came to him…moving between his legs and gently grasping his strong shoulders.
His large, nimble-fingered hands shimmied over the sensitive flesh of her thighs, moving upward until his hands were fanning her abdomen, teasing the petal softness with his thumbs while he rested his cheek against her.
Her full breasts were too tempting to ignore and he cupped them with his hands, teasing the tight buds until she whimpered in pleasure and drew her bottom lip in between her teeth.
She fit so perfectly against him, and his mouth sought the swollen peaks of her breasts until he was sucking upon her bounty with the greed of a newborn; leaving her utterly breathless in his arms.
She eased his shoulders back onto the bed, until he was helpless beneath her. Her whispered kisses upon his eyelids, over the curve of his cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, and the camber of his neck made Erik's body bolt upright in one particular area – and a very distinct moan vibrated from deep within his throat.
Now, this would have been a wonderful, enjoyable, charged experience…if a loud, annoyingly persistent knock had not interrupted.
Erik growled his frustration, threw back on his robe and angrily opened the door; Anya had disappeared behind the bathroom door.
Mr. Tibbs stood there, apologizing profusely with his eyes; but that did not stop him from saying what needed to be said.
"The Vicomtess…" Erik lifted an inquiring brow at the quiver in Norman's normally studious voice, "…has gone into labor."
TBC