LUCY
Harlen is so right, I conclude, eyes fastening on the hulk of a man waiting at my door. There is nothing shy about the fellow.
No, not at all—at least not with the way he looks at me unabashedly. Not with the casual way he speaks to me as if we've known each other forever. Not with the simple way he waits for me to come up and actually meet him.
And he expects me to take him into my house?
Tavric. A fine name for a fine man. It is intriguing enough for the mystery standing before me.
What, really, is he doing here? Does he know who I am? Has my reprieve expired on my parents' calendar, and they've sent a scout after me?
I bite my lower lip, my mind racing. I don't think so.
Didn't Mother say I have two years or thereabouts? Besides, there is nothing truly "scout-like" about this man.
I check out his build and the aura that clings to him like a second skin. No, nothing like a scout at all.
And what is that about being thirsty?
"Hey…"
That voice again. That deep thing shouldn't be allowed to a man, I think, mentally shrugging off the tendrils of warmth cascading down my spine.
"Didn't you—"
"I heard you," I interrupt, folding my arms across my chest. "You claimed you are thirsty."
"I am thirsty."
I swear, what comes to my mind isn't water.
"Whatever… what concerns me is why you think I would be bothered by that."
I see him cock a brow—something I hadn't thought could be sexy until now.
"You will let me thirst? That's unkind of you." His voice takes on a deeper undertone, soft and amusing, pretending to be hurt.
I snort. "Not as unkind as you following me around. If you won't state your reasons, get the hell out of my sight."
Fineness be damned! I won't be a naive, swooning girl anymore.
"I can't, princess."
Princess?
I steel my emotions while my mind wheels. He knows who I am.
My resolve tightens further as he turns toward me fully and begins descending the stairs. My breath hitches in my throat still, a traitorous reaction I can't quite suppress.
As he moves, the light from the landing catches the planes of his face, revealing a beauty that is undeniably otherworldly—the kind of perfection only a supernatural could possess.
He is wearing a crisp white shirt tucked into navy blue pants; the fabric is strained across his broad shoulders and fits his narrow waist perfectly, emphasizing a physique built for power.
My heart races as he draws nearer. I take in the curve of his lips and the sharp, aristocratic line of his nose, and I have to force myself to stay grounded. I consider fleeing, but I dig my heels in.
Gods forbid I flee before a man again!
As he finally stops before me, he towers over me so completely that my head barely reaches his chest. He is a mountain of a man, his presence a physical weight in the small stairwell.
His eyes are keen on mine, dark and searching, almost stealing my breath and senses. I have never seen a more handsome male, and the sheer proximity makes my heart pound against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"So, you'll let me thirst, princess?"
What is this obsession with being thirsty? There are plenty of shops downstairs to get something to drink!
"Stop calling me that. My name is Lucy."
"Beautiful name… princess."
Okay, this one is an annoying brat, too.
"I ask again, what do you want?"
He smiles. The brat actually smiles—something akin to a smirk, even. I am amusing him.
"Princess…"
To hell with this! I am retiring to my house. I'm tired, and I don't have time for this nonsense.
But as I try to walk past him, he grips my arm with just the right amount of strength. A zap of electricity sparks across my skin at the contact, making me jerk—and making him jerk, too.
I hear the sudden, sharp flaring of his nostrils just before he releases my arm as if I am a leper.
Okay? What is going on here?
"Not thirsty again?" I tease, managing to get my emotions back under control.
He doesn't answer; instead, he stares at me weirdly, his expression unreadable.
"Okay, I think I'm done here. Just stop following me around, stop showing up at the restaurant, and stop calling me Princess… I'm not that."
He doesn't even acknowledge my words, just keeps staring.
I tsk and make my way to climb the stairs again. But just as before, he grabs my arm and pulls me toward him.
I am suddenly treated to his scent—a dangerous, enticing mix of cedarwood, rain-drenched earth, and something primal that makes my knees weak.
"You damn—!"
The rest of my words are cut off by his lips… on mine.
My eyes widen, my hands falling limp at my sides. What?
My mouth opens to cuss, my hands lifting to push him away, but before I can attack him, his lips move against mine with a desperate hunger. His tongue utilizes the opportunity to slip in, and I am not proud to say it—I forget my surroundings.
The world outside this stairwell ceases to exist. There is only the heat of his body and the intoxicating taste of him.
I don't know when a moan escapes my lips, but the sound makes him kiss me harder, his hands sliding around my waist to pull me flush against him.
Without thinking, my hand settles on his chest, feeling the heavy thrum of his heart, while the other goes up to tangle in his hair—silk-soft, long, and curly where it hangs at the base of his neck.
I pull at the strands before I can even question the act myself. He groans into my mouth, a low, vibrating sound of reckless abandon. That sound seems to be what snaps him out of it.
Abruptly, he lets me go, once again acting as if I am a leper.
While I'm still disoriented and breathless, he mutters a curse, shuts his eyes, and then flies away from the stairs toward the exit door downstairs.
Flies, because he's just so damn fast. One second I'm breathing him in, and the next I am bereft of that scent…
I hear the sharp crack of the padlock breaking, and then there is only the cool breeze gliding in from the open door, lifting my hair as I stand there, utterly alone.