Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

He untied her hands when his erection had eased, and drew out of her.

“Be careful. Don’t touch anything,” he murmured as he eased her down on her side on the couch, her hands now in an abbreviated praying position in front of her. Neither of them spoke as he gently, carefully replaced the gloves. When he’d finished, she scooted back on the couch and turned on her side, staring up at him with heavy eyelids, her lustrous hair spilling around her shoulders. The dying fire cast her skin in pale gold. Her vitessence danced like a million minute fireflies around her. She burned in his eyes; her satiated smile was like watching a brilliant sunset.

“Delraven.”

“Call me Blaise.”

“Blaise,” she murmured, and something powerful stirred in him. Their minds were joined. She’d known he’d meant it literally. He’d longed to hear his name on her tongue.

She held out her arms. “Come to me,” she mouthed.

He swayed on his feet, hesitating. Her beckoning arms did not waver.

He felt ridiculously enormous and ungainly when he sat down on the couch next to her. She was delicate curves and soft, pale skin, a luminous female beacon, while he was huge and hard and dark in comparison to her.

He froze when she touched his chest and stroked him.

“Stop it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, the wry hint in her voice warning him that she’d read his mind. Again. She glanced up at him, her brow quirked up in amusement. Their gazes held, and he had the sensation of melting into her.

“What’s happening, Blaise?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Her small smile faded. For a brief, panicked moment, he was sure he was going to see her expression morph into disgust and fear as her pleasure faded, and the truth of what he was struck her consciousness. He swiftly placed his hand on her temple, preparing to spare her of her memories of him and what he’d just done to her…to spare himself from seeing that horrific realization in her eyes.

“Don’t do that…don’t be afraid, not of me,” she said, anguish overcoming her features.

Her soft plea was like the edge of Morshiel’s heartluster piercing his chest. He cupped her temple and willed her to forget.

Chapter Seven

A week later, Aubrey came upon David Kwan where he stood beneath Lord Delraven’s crest and the torch-lit corridor to his private quarters.

“Cleopatra requests your presence, Menas.”

Kwan looked about sixteen years old instead of three hundred and fifty when he broke into a grin. Isabel Lanscourt had this very eff

ect on the Literati. Kwan possessed one of the most brilliant minds in the field of physics Aubrey had ever known, but he’d turned into a lovesick puppy in the past week as several of them helped Isabel with her production of Antony and Cleopatra during their free time. Blaise had hired a small troop of classically trained Shakespearean actors along with a crew, but a few of the Literati had also succeeded in auditioning for parts. Aubrey had become thoroughly amused as he watched battle-hardened warriors and scholars of the highest degree pose and gesture on the stage. Never mind the amusement Aubrey got out of watching them scramble to grant Isabel Lanscourt’s every wish.

“Are they rehearsing Act II?” David asked excitedly, even as he glanced back at Delraven’s corridor and a tinge of regret shadowed his features.

“You may go to the theatre, David. I will take watch here.”

“But Lord Delraven said that—”

“I know who Delraven has set a guard for, and I assure you that Ms. Lanscourt will not breach his hallowed sanctuary.”

David hesitated. The Literati were actually quite militaristic in their duty and command. When Lord Delraven gave an order, it was typically followed without the slightest alteration. Delraven didn’t always explain his tactics to them, but in their battles against Scourge revenants or any other intrigues in which the Literati took part, Delraven had never failed to provide the smartest, safest strategies for combat and operation.

Aubrey also possessed the respect of a long-time leader, however, and he had Delraven’s trust. The Literati had seen proof of that time and again.

“Go on, David,” he urged gently. “You can trust me to your duty.”

David looked relieved. “Thanks, Aubrey. Thanks a lot.”

Aubrey checked his watch and tucked it back into his velvet vest pocket. He wagered about five minutes, if that. The costume designer Blaise had hired had been taking her final measurements, and she’d planned to shower afterward.

He sensed her presence—he smelled her blood—a full twenty seconds before he saw her. Isabel started when she saw him standing there, but then approached. For the second time that evening, he took note of her slightly hollowed out, flushed cheeks. She’d lost weight in the eight days she’d spent at Sanctuary, even if her color was good—excellent, in fact. Her cheeks and full lips were flushed dark pink with blood and her velvety eyes shone like dark beacons. Her chestnut hair was unusually glossy and full. Her small breasts were even more pronounced than usual, rising above the taut lines of her torso. She wore a bra, but there was little padding. He could see the areolas of her nipples pressing against the fabric and couldn’t help but wonder if they were as pink and flushed as her lips. If she’d lost weight, it’d done nothing to diminish her beauty. It only enhanced it. He’d speak to Margaret about her eating habits, though. It wouldn’t do for her to become ill.