Hupotasso (Vampire Bachelor Games #2)

29

29

I say nothing as he sits, tearing off his tie as though it’s a boa constrictor and snicking open two buttons of his white shirt in the same movement before pouring himself a glass of red, all without looking at me once.

It’s been a long day and an even longer evening without him, and although he’s a total prick, I drink in the sight of him like an alcoholic seeing her first drink of the day. Even harried and tired, he somehow manages to look divine.

Part of me wants to ask him what’s wrong, to soothe his worried brow. Part of me wants to stake him.

I bite my tongue.

I’ve been back four months now. Four long months since my meeting with Jag and the subsequent announcement that Caroline had suffered a fatal skiing accident in the South of France the day after our tour ended.

Four months with no word from The Free Men, cementing my knowledge that I’d been used as a pawn in a centuries-old game. Four long months where my emotions have continued to see-saw between desire, despair and disgust. Where I want our evenings together almost as much as I hate them, and myself for wanting them.

Four months with still no pregnancy.

Usually he demands my presence around eight for our meal with his mother, and sometimes his brother, before demanding other things. Tonight I’d dined with only his mother, which was a welcome relief. I still loathe Viper, and the lascivious and calculating looks he gives me most nights make me want to reach over and slap his face.

Dining just with Falcon’s mother, Eleanor, was a pleasure.

Tonight, receiving word that Falcon had ordered me to stay at the table after the meal was over and wait for him, Eleanor offered to stay too. But I’d told her to go. It wasn’t fair for her to have to suffer his moods, and I’d visit her tomorrow anyhow.

At first, I’d only see her over a meal, but sometimes I visit her rooms now. Still, our conversations are shallow. I guess I’d probably enjoy any company since I’m alone all day, every day. But I can’t confide in her. She’s politely distant. She doesn’t ask anything about my relationship with her son, and he remains civil to me while she’s nearby. If anything, it looks like we’re the quintessential vampire husband and barely acknowledged human wife. If she notices how sad or angry I am, or how clipped and brusque he is, she’s never said.

And angry is an understatement for how I feel tonight having been ordered to wait at a table, alone, like a servant at his disposal. That was five martinis ago —and I’m a little bit drunk and a lot wanting to goad him.

“Where have you been?”

He raises his eyes to mine.

‘Oh those beautiful eyes – eyes that once held affection, warmth. But nothing now, except boredom and icy disinterest. I wish you would look at me as you once did. I wish you’d see me, really, see me. Why can’t you see me, you bastard?’

“I mean,” I continue, “I presume you have to do something to maintain all this.” I wave my hand around at the castle’s lavish dining room, indicating the paintings, the sculptures and the décor, so rich and beautiful compared to my sparse apartments. “So tell me, what exactly does a lord do for a living?”

He frowns as he slowly sips his wine before placing his glass down carefully and leaning back in his chair.

“Historically, of course, we would manage our land and serfs,” he says quietly. “Today, we manage our businesses.”

It seems that tonight he feels like talking. It’s rare, but it does happen. In my head I’m high-fiving myself, but I try to project the same disinterested manner he has, and turn my attention to picking at my food, pretending I’m not starving for conversation — for him .

“Businesses?”

I glance up, meeting his eyes, and catch for just a second a tiny little flash of the old Falcon, a hint of amusement and, did I imagine it? Admiration? But it’s gone as fast as it came.

“You name it,” he shrugs, “vampires own it.”

I frown and shake my head. “Surely, there must be…”

“Angelina don’t be naive,” he snaps, his eyes flashing, all hints of amusement gone.

I wonder if he’s suddenly angry because he’s realised I’ve drawn him into conversation, or if it’s something else I don’t know about.

“Everything,” he snarls, “that you wear, breathe, eat, drink, read, watch and think, is managed and owned by a handful of corporations. Everything. We, the ruling class, are those corporations.”

“Are you trying to tell me,” I scoff, “that you manage humans?”

“If we didn’t you’d outbreed the capacity of the planet to support you,” he mutters.

“What?” I almost choke on an olive from my martini. “Are you trying to tell me that you vampires see yourselves as some kind of benevolent planetary overlords? Because I’ve got news for you, buddy, and it’s all bad.”

He quirks an eyebrow at me.

“When the population gets too high we manufacture a war or a plague. When it gets too low, which it has from time to time, we let you be. But, yes, we manage humans.”

“Who are you?” I wonder out loud.

“Just another species, one of several who inhabit this world, in fact. And no, before you ask, we’re not aliens. We evolved alongside you. We are fewer in number, obviously, but the compensation is that we can live virtually forever.”

“Virtually,” I echo, putting my drink aside, my appetite for anything now disintegrated. I note with rancour that he’s falling back on the royal ‘we’ once more — completely divorcing himself from his individual role in anything. Yet again defining himself as something ‘other,’ something completely detached from humans.

‘From me.’

“Of course, we need humans for food and for us to be able to procreate,” he goes on. “It’s nature’s cruel joke. And the reason we can never absolutely annihilate you.”

I swallow hard and stare at him.

“Speaking of which,” he adds, pushing his chair back and rising, “it’s time you earned your living.”

I shake my head, but before I can get a word out he zips around behind me, pulls out my chair, and lifts me into his arms. They’re strong and muscled, and he holds me to his broad chest like he owns me. Once upon a time, under different circumstances, I’d be tempted to bury my face into his neck, kiss the small triangle of skin revealed when he’d torn off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. But that can never be, not any longer, not now.

“Where are you taking me?” I mutter, although I already know, because it’s all part of the game. A game we were supposed to have played and left, but never have. To earn my living, to keep living, I need to produce him an heir — then, and only then, will it be ‘game over’ for me.

“I think you know,” he murmurs into my hair as his arms tighten and he turns to stride from the dining room.

I don’t bother struggling. Intellectually, I’m raging about what is about to occur, but physically, he needn’t bother carrying me. I want to be close to him so badly I could almost race him to the bedroom.