She'd risen from the chair and before he'd even taken a step, she was handing him a neatly folded pile. "You didn't allow me to finish. I was able to obtain clean clothing for you."
Chas took them silently. If he weren't so intent on getting out of the inn to see to business, he might have been chastened by her tone. But he couldn't worry about that now. Moldavi had had a week. A week. Through his alliance with Bonaparte, he could have sent people after Maia and Angelica already, crossing through the blockade.
His knees wobbled a bit as he drew on the breeches, but Chas ignored it. There'd be time for weakness later. The shirt fit well, but the boots were a bit tight-although certainly adequate. As soon as he was dressed, he started for the door...then stopped, with his hand on the knob as he turned back to Narcise.
"I'll be back as soon as I can. I trust...I trust you'll be well alone here?"
She lifted her brows in a wry expression. "I've been alone for the last week, Woodmore. I suspect I'll do just fine in your absence."
Narcise wasn't at all oblivious to Chas Woodmore's revulsion toward her. She didn't completely understand it, but it gave her a sort of comfort, knowing that he wasn't about to force himself on her.
Or try to, anyway.
She had no worries about protecting herself from him. Aside of the fact that he was still weak enough to be wavering while on his feet, she was also, of course, stronger and faster than he was even in his prime. Nor did he seem inclined to attempt to slay her, either...although she wasn't completely certain he wouldn't try.
The last week of tending to him, however, had helped to ease Narcise into her new life: a life where she was beholden to no one, a life where she made her own decisions, procured her own nourishment, clothing and even drawing supplies.
Nevertheless, she was never wholly comfortable leaving the public house-especially at night, when she knew Cezar or his makes could be out looking for her. She'd become adept at enthralling mortals to gain whatever it was she needed: pencils and paper, a pouch of sous or livres, clothing for herself or Chas...even a full, hot vein on which to feed.
Philippe had visited her chamber more than once. She wasn't certain if it was coincidence that he was always the one to bring new water for the bath, or whether he sensed that there was a reason he was drawn to this particular chamber.
Until now, Narcise had always approached feeding as some necessary evil akin to submitting to her brother's friends. A mortal was brought to her, and she fed. Or, during the span of months when she attempted to starve herself rather than submit to Cezar, a jug of fresh blood was forced down her throat.
There was a residual layer of eroticism that always aroused her when she was in such an intimate situation, but it never required satiation-at least on her part.
Philippe seemed eager enough, and more than once during the three times she'd enthralled him had he managed to get himself-or herself-half unclothed. There were moments when she nearly allowed herself to finish what they, or more accurately, their bodies, obviously both wanted...but she never could succumb so far.
For decades, she'd protected her emotions and her heart-not to mention her mind-by separating herself from the reaction of her body and keeping all but the physical response locked deeply away. She was fully aware of that, cognizant of that steely control.
The one chink in that armor had come with Giordan, and since then, she'd melded it back together so tightly she suspected it would never soften again.
Now that she was free of Cezar, however, Narcise realized there could be a chance for her to open herself again. And after ten years, she hadn't forgotten nor forgiven Giordan. No, in fact she burned with revulsion and loathing for him...but she remembered how it had felt to be awakened. Not with malice or control, or even by reflex.
But with love and affection.
Neither of which, of course, young Philippe possessed toward her-but at least he had no malice or control.
Or so she was thinking as his insistent hand slipped beneath the hem of her chemise. Her fangs pulled free from his flesh and he tried to find her mouth, desperate for a kiss, but she refused, nipping instead at his ear and feeling his c**k slide against her belly through layers of cloth. "S'il...vous plait," he whispered thickly, and when she pulled away, he frowned petulantly.
Narcise shook her head, looking into his glazed eyes, knowing that he didn't truly know what he was doing-or wanting-any more than she ever had during those dark nights in The Chamber.
She released him, pulled him free from her thrall and from her arms, and was just stepping back when she heard the doorknob rattle.
Philippe was still too numb and slow to react, or even to understand what was happening, but Narcise knew, and she turned away an instant before the door opened. Chas swept into the chamber in the dark swirling scents of wine and power.
Later, she never fully understood why she felt the need to try to hide what had been going on-but it didn't matter. Chas's eyes flashed to her and then around the chamber. The expression on his face spoke clearly of his disgust and aversion.
"Leave," he snapped at Philippe, the poor confused boy, who stumbled awkwardly from the room with, Narcise knew, half-formed memories of a very intimate situation.
She had a moment to wonder briefly if he'd ever come back, but then irritation and affront spurred her to face Chas. "If you're afraid your sensibilities will be offended, perhaps you should knock the next time you decide to enter."
"Perhaps it would be best if you found another place to...do...that. I don't wish to be any sort of party to your depravity." His eyes flashed with that cold loathing...yet Narcise felt a shifting in his breathing, an awkwardness in his heartbeat. He strode across the chamber, much steadier on his feet than he had been when he left. She scented food along with the heavy weight of wine, tobacco and smoke, and realized he must have eaten belowstairs. And, from the smell of it, drank quite a bit of wine.
She knew her fangs were still slightly extended, and that her eyes had just banked from their burning glow, but she turned away.
"I have no choice," she said. "If I don't feed regularly, then it becomes more difficult for me to control my..." She bit her lip, her cheeks warming.
He'd walked over to the window and snapped the shutters closed, as if shutting out the cool night air would cleanse the room of tension. In fact, it did just the opposite-trapped the scent of blood and wine and musk, and of Chas Wood-more and his energy, his nobility, all the more tightly into the chamber.
Narcise felt a stirring low in her belly, a little flutter that she hardly recognized. No. Not him.