My Midnight Moonlight Valentine (My Midnight Moonlight Valentine 1)

This was the sight that made him want to mate with me? Obviously, he’d been hit on the head. That man, that vampire had lost his mind.

Or not. I noticed he’d folded the clothes he had worn and placed them in the corner. I could tell he’d used my soap and shampoo but only a little of both and put them in the exact spot and angle I’d left them.

I didn’t know if he was just being considerate, or if this was all part of some vampire ritual. And that bothered me. It left me feeling at a disadvantage. Stripping down, I stepped directly under the shower before turning up the heat as high as it could go. I was never physically cold or missed warmth until I stepped under a shower, and then suddenly, I remembered what heat felt like. I sometimes felt like I could stay under the stream forever. The warmth was sensual, and in that moment, his body flashed into my mind again, and I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel to have him pinned against me. Would his grey eyes stare down at me, glowing in the darkness like they had in the forest? Just as I began to enjoy the thought more, the temperature changed, now cooling.

Damn it.

Turning off the water as fast as I could to preserve the warmth, I grabbed my towel and stepped out, only then realizing I hadn’t brought clothes with me.

Ugh.

Tiptoeing to the door, I opened it just a peek to stick out my head, hoping he’d still be searching for clothes. But of course, I’d run out of luck. Theseus sat on my couch, dressed in sweatpants and a V-neck shirt that seemed to fit perfectly, reading one of my books. He didn’t look up. He didn’t even take a breath. Instead, it seemed like he was trying not to breathe.

“Make your escape.” His voice was harsh, the playfulness I was getting used to hearing was gone. And I didn’t move, making him crack his jaw to the side. “This is not the time to be stubborn, Druella.”

“Nor is it the time for you to boss me—”

“If you do not calm yourself, Druella, I do not know how long I can sit here calmly, smelling your arousal. Go.” He glanced up at me, and his eyes looked pained. “I beg of you.”

His glare sent a bolt of shock through me, and I held my breath, running into my room and closing the door as fast as I could. Throwing myself onto my bed, I laid there for a moment, knowing full well he could hear every sound I made because I could listen to every sound he made as well. I could hear how hard he was gripping the book in his hand by the way the paper crackled. I could hear the amount of pressure he put on the couch as he sat upon it.

Why was I acting like this? I thought, sitting up. What was all the work for? This old vampire meant nothing to me. Yes, he was attractive, but that was the nature of vampires. Rising off the bed, I moved to grab my normal old pajamas but paused. It wasn’t important; he meant nothing to me, and yet, I still got up and pulled out my nicer, silkier nightgown. The one I bought just in case someone—a special someone—spent the night.

No. Then he’ll think I’m actively trying to get his attention.

I fought with myself for a good two minutes on what the hell to wear before throwing the silky nightgown back into the drawer and just picking an oversized sweater and some shorts. As I dressed, I heard the balcony door open, and I wondered what he was doing. Stepping out into the living room, I saw him sitting leaned against the door, staring up at the

moon, the book still clenched in his hand. I tilted my head to the side to see which one of my novels he refused to surrender. Of course, it was Pride and Prejudice.

Walking over, I slid between the door and his body, reaching to take it from him. He glanced back at me, the corners of his lips turned upward into a smile.

“Why are you women obsessed with this book even still? It perplexes me,” he questioned as I sat down across from him, hugging the pages to my chest.

I thought about it. “Firstly, I am sure men enjoy Jane Austen as well. Secondly, I could hardly speak for women all over the world. And lastly, I enjoy it is because it is like a fresh fairytale, where the female is impassioned, bold, and witty but with hints of Cinderella.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Cinderella?”

“Come on. You know, servant girl goes to the king’s ball. She meets a handsome prince but has to return home before midnight,” I said, and he stared at me still. “Seriously? She leaves behind a glass slipper?”

“Ah…” His mouth parted slightly as he remembered. “The tale of the Little Glass Slipper, you mean. I do hope you not believe an Englishmen came up with the tale.”

“I’d never really thought about who came up with it,” I admitted. “It was one of those stories that have been told so often and in so many different ways that it just feels like it belongs to everyone now.”

“It is Greek,” he said so sternly that I tried not to laugh.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, really,” he shot back with the same inflection in his tone that I had. “It is the story of Rhodopis by the Greek geographer Strabo.”

“Personal friend of yours?”

He frowned, his lips in a hard line. “I am not that old, Druella.”

At that I couldn’t help it; I did laugh. “Sorry, please go on, what was the original about, or has it remained the same?”

“From what I recall,” he said slowly, and I could tell he was straining to think. “The tale came from the sixth century, a Greek woman named Rhodopis, who was kidnapped and sold into slavery by the Egyptians. One day while she is bathing, she has one of her slippers—though not made of glass—stolen by an eagle who flies it all the way across the Nile and drops it in the lap of the Pharaoh. He takes it as a sign of the gods.”

“Talk about convenient.” I crossed my legs and sat well. “So, the Pharaoh sends out his men to search all the land for her?”