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  She flashed Vincent an innocent grin, and he raised his glass to her before taking a sip. He had never realized it until that instant, but seventeen decades had not only honed her fighting skills, they had also sharpened her mind. Or maybe she had been as clever as a human? He would certainly never know, but the question was intriguing, and he made a mental note to check again whatever books he had that spoke of her.

  * * * *

  "I won."

  Bemused, Vincent shot Lilia a glance. They had just walked past the graveyard's iron gates, on their way back to the mausoleum, and she had been silent ever since Emery had dropped them off a few streets away, when she had said it was close enough to her home and she wanted some fresh air before turning in. Her satisfied, almost gloating tone, after her silence, was surprising to say the least.

  "You won?” he repeated. “You won what?"

  She let out a clear laugh that seemed to echo amongst the still stones around them.

  "You thought that I couldn't meet your father and make him assume I was human without lying. I did not say one single word that was untrue tonight. So, I won."

  Unable to repress a lopsided smile, Vincent acquiesced. “I suppose you did, yes. Well done."

  That had actually been the reason for his silence so far; she had surprised him beyond words during the dinner, and he had been trying to pinpoint why exactly. He had thought at first that it was the dress that threw him off; he was more used to seeing her dressed in dark colors and leather than in light summer clothes, a shawl covering her neck and shoulders. But that wasn't it. The look was different, but behind it, it was still her, still Lilia, there was no doubt about that.

  "Well done? You're not getting away with just that, Jordan. I want a prize."

  She sounded as though she was taking this much too seriously to his liking, and he tried to put an end to it right away. She didn't even let him finish however.

  "It wasn't a bet or anything—"

  "Who cares? I want a prize for winning."

  He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Lilia..."

  "And I know exactly what I want."

  Sometimes, he could hardly believe how stubborn she was. “I'm not...” he started, determined to put an end to the charade, but what she said next threw him off.

  "You."

  "Me?” He frowned, unsure of what she meant.

  "You,” she simply repeated, and the grin on her face was positively evil.

  "Me in what way?"

  From evil, the grin turned almost hungry. “In any way I want. My prize, my choice."

  "Any...” His cock gave a light twitch, clearly indicating that it wasn't opposed to the idea, but the loud warning bell in his head said something completely different. “No."

  "Come on, Vincent. Don't you trust me?"

  If she had asked only an hour earlier, he would have answered without a hesitation and let her do just about anything she pleased. But after hearing her insist so much, after seeing that gleam in her eyes, he wasn't so sure anymore. “That's not the point."

  She stopped walking and he had taken a few more steps before noticing. He turned back toward her. Arms crossed over her chest, she clearly looked upset.

  "It's exactly the point,” she said coolly. “What are you afraid of? That I'd kill you? It'd be as good as suicide, just more painful. I'm not that stupid."

  She wasn't stupid at all, he wanted to shoot back, but something altogether passed over his lips. “Unless you kill me to turn me."

  For long seconds that trickled by as slowly as hours, she looked at him, her expression unreadable. When she started walking again, it was without a word. Vincent followed immediately.

  "Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

  Her voice was diffident when she answered. “I might have."

  "See? My point exactly."

  "And I didn't do it,” she continued on the same tone.

  "I never gave you the chance..."

  A snort interrupted him. “You've slept in my bed, Vincent. Of course, you gave me the chance. I could have turned you a dozen times already if not more. And the fact is, I didn't."

  They had reached the mausoleum and she stopped walking again, turning deceptively calm eyes on him. He tried to keep his emotions under control too, but wasn't as successful.

  "You haven't done it so far, that doesn't prove you won't! And why wouldn't you want to?"

  A thin smile stretched her lips. “Thinking about it doesn't prove I want to either. As for why I don't ... It doesn't matter, not when it's not what I had in mind for my prize."

  "You're asking for too much,” he said, shaking his head.

  "Yeah, I suppose I am,” she murmured as she pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. “Good night, Jordan."

  Vincent had been waiting for her to clear the entrance to step in, and her words puzzled him.

  "Good night?"

  "Emery might get worried if you don't hurry home. Give him my regards.” With that, she closed the door on him.

  He stared at it for a long while before turning on his heels and walking away, his fingers flying to lightly scratch at the bite mark on his neck. It was the first time she had sent him away without so much as a goodbye fuck since they had started sleeping together, and he felt oddly robbed. At the same time however, he couldn't regret his reluctance at giving her complete power over him the way she had asked.

  However human she had appeared that night at the restaurant, he had not forgotten she was a vampire and neither had she, as she had confessed she had thought of turning him. He didn't think he had it in him to trust her that far, and a part of him was still wondering why, because he had never hesitated about putting his life into her hands when they fought.

  He returned home, hands thrust deep in his pockets and head low, wondering if she was truly angry with him, and, if she were, how long she would remain upset. Sleeping with her was addictive, and already his body was protesting the lack of soft limbs and flesh around, above, and under him. The night promised to be long.

  "Back so soon?” his father asked, clearly taken aback, when he entered his home. “I thought you would ... spend some quality time with your lovely friend."

  "Well, you said you'd leave tomorrow, so I thought I'd spend some time with you before you left."

  It was probably one of the worst lies Vincent had ever told, and he couldn't manage to care. His father didn't call him on it however, and the only indication he had noticed was a twitch of his eyebrow.

  "Maybe we could have a night cap,” he suggested, and that was the best idea Vincent had heard all night.

  Alcohol didn't help, however; if anything, it made Vincent's dreams that night even more vibrant than they usually were. It was probably to be expected after the talk he had had with Lilia, but he dreamt, again, of her biting him. The dream didn't stop there as it usually did however, and he saw her, practically felt her, drain him, then tasted her blood on his tongue and felt it slide down his throat, and watched himself rise again as a vampire.

  Only then did he wake, covered in a cold sweat and for the first time after one of these dreams very much determined not to let Lilia anywhere near his throat again. But even as he made that silent vow, he already realized how silly it was. As she had pointed out earlier, she had had several opportunities to bite him and turn him, if that was what she had wanted to do; and if she hadn't yet, why would she change her mind now?

  When he went back to sleep, the dream turned into a familiar memory, and he relived their Mating night in all its intensity and glory, to the point that he woke with his hand inside his shorts and unable to stop touching himself until he had reached a silent climax.

  Mind blank and body still trembling, he lay on his back and watched the light and shadows slowly creeping across the ceiling. It was morning, already. In a few hours, he would see Lilia again. He would want her again. And he had the growing feeling that he would be ready to put himself, and his life, into her hands.
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br />   Not only because, even after so little time, he couldn't imagine anymore his nights without her, but also because, as she had said, it was a matter of trust. The truth of it was, whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he did trust her.

  * * * *

  Her internal clock informed her that it was barely the middle of the afternoon when Lilia awakened, pulled out of sleep by the warning chime that rang when someone stepped on her doorstep. Naked and barefoot, she tiptoed to the entryway that led to the main room, smiling when she caught the scent of the intruder before she even saw Vincent, but she immediately wiped off the grin. He couldn't see her from the other side of the charm, and she watched as he approached, looking incredibly nervous as he paused for a second, ran a hand through his hair and stepped forward again.

  His look of surprise when he stepped through the illusion of stone to come face to face with her was priceless.

  "God! Lilia! You're trying to give me a heart attack?"

  "You're the one sneaking into my home in the middle of the day. What do you want, Jordan?"

  Passing by her, he walked into the bedroom and a flash of irritation ran through Lilia at how casually he stepped into her lair, giving the impression that it was his own.

  "Didn't you say you'd call me Vincent?"

  The attempt at distraction was pitiful, and she told him so in very clear words. He looked at her again, and his eyes wandered a little over her body before settling with determination on her face.

  "You asked whether I trust you,” he said, and she could have sworn his voice trembled just a little. “I'm here to show you I do."

  "Show me?” she repeated as she came back toward the bed. “Show me how?"

  She wasn't sure what was most prominent in his scent now, the lust or the nervousness. If he did trust her, it was against his own better judgment.

  "Any way you want,” he answered, his voice cracking slightly. “That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

  She almost had a mind to send him away. He had answered her question about whether he really trusted her the previous night when he had refused to play. But the opportunity was just too good to pass, and since she was awake now she might as well take advantage of the situation.

  With as few words as possible—the stern act part of the game—she had him undress and lie down on the bed on his back. His cock was half hard, but he was still anxious; the contrast was interesting. His edginess came close to fear when she tore a spare sheet into long shreds and tied one over his eyes as a blindfold before using the others to secure his wrists to the headboard and his ankles to the foot of the bed.

  His body was tense, and for a moment, she simply watched him as he waited for whatever he imagined she would do to him. She had no idea what it was, but judging by how he gasped in relief when she started trailing her fingertips over his skin, touching wasn't it, and she grinned at the satisfaction of having surprised him so thoroughly. She knew he had been surprised already the previous night at how well the dinner had gone, and she couldn't help but wonder how long it would take him to learn to know her well enough that he didn't find every little thing she did so strange.

  Using only the fingertips of her right hand, she took her time to explore inch after inch of him, learning the map of his body, and what spot made him sigh, tense or wiggle into her touch. She had wanted to do so for a little while already, but hadn't dared to so far, unwilling to watch him look at her as though she had lost her mind. The blindfold helped nicely for that.

  By the time she had rediscovered him, from the tips of his toes to the dark strands of hair he kept too short in her opinion, his heartbeat was a bit faster than normal and he strained toward her touch, trying to find more contact. A quiet word had been enough to request his silence, although she could tell, by the way he was nibbling on the inside of his cheeks, that he wanted to talk.

  Her mouth and tongue followed the path her fingers had traced, and soon the words started escaping his lips, pleas for more and repeated murmurs of her name. She didn't chastise him for speaking, but continued to take her time, enjoying with a silent glee how thoroughly she was driving him mad with want.

  She thought he would come when she took hold of his cock; he arched into her hand, shuddering violently until she calmed him down with whispers that he didn't want the fun to end so fast. A few more seconds and a number of deep breaths later, he nodded and his body relaxed, ever so slightly.

  He bit down on his bottom lip and drew blood when she straddled him and took him inside her body, as she had wanted to do ever since she had first touched him. The scent of the blood, and its sight, should have spurred her on, but Lilia controlled herself and her movements, and began riding him at a slow, torturous pace that had Vincent begging in seconds. He was beautiful like this, she told herself as she eventually gave in to her instincts and his demands. His body was almost shining like bronze in the candlelight, his muscles rippling as he struggled against his bonds and tried to intensify her movements.

  Out of nowhere, their conversation from the previous night came back to her, his obvious fear that she might try to turn him, and how he had mastered this fear to come to her this day. She could have turned him, right at that moment, when he was so taken with pleasure that he wouldn't realize what she was doing until it was too late, and would never even have the chance to hate her for it.

  She could have turned him, but all she did was ride him, harder and harder, until they soared together toward an overwhelming bliss.

  She didn't turn him that day; more than that, she promised herself she never would, not unless he asked her. Because, quite simply, he trusted her, and she couldn't bear to lose that.

  Chapter 14

  "Do vampires celebrate special occasions?"

  The question, asked as Lilia was pummeling a vamp with a particularly bad fashion sense, baffled her enough that she—and her adversary—turned to look at Vincent where he sat on a low wall a few yards away. He had a slightly bored look, and Lilia realized she might have been playing with her prey for a tad too long. That was probably what had prompted the odd question.

  "You're asking me?” the fashion victim inquired, before falling victim to Lilia's stake.

  "Jumping into a conversation without being invited is rude,” she informed the pile of ashes before walking back toward Vincent.

  "So, do they?” he insisted. “Or more to the point, do you?"

  He slid off his perch as she neared him and they started walking together again, still hunting, still giving the impression that they were just enjoying the night.

  "I suppose it depends on what you call a ‘special occasion',” she finally answered after giving his question some thought. “I doubt my definition would match yours."

  He let out a small sound that might have been a snort, or maybe a short chuckle.

  "And I'm sure I'd rather not hear what your definition is,” he assured her. “How about Christmas?"

  She answered with a pointed roll of her eyes and he grinned.

  "Right. What about birthdays, then? Or do you call them deathdays? I've read accounts that mentioned that some Sires remake their Childer on the same date every year to..."

  "You can't ‘remake’ a vamp,” she cut in, caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. “And it's nothing more than a myth. I've never heard of such a thing actually being done. Being totally drained is far from pleasant; no sane vamp would agree to endure that once a year."

  Without trying to be too obvious, she was angling their path amongst the many small alleys they were walking through so that they would soon be no more than a couple of streets away from the graveyard where her mausoleum was. His talk of vampires would clue in any potential attacker that they might not be the best of prey to choose, so they might as well continue the night more ... productively.

  "Or maybe Nathanael just wasn't the type..."

  A cold shiver ran down her spine as he said her Sire's name, and she interrupted him again.
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  "Don't say his name, Jordan. Don't talk about him."

  He shrugged. “Why not?"

  Because one of these nights, he's going to come and ask questions, she wanted to reply. He's going to ask why I haven't killed you, and when he understands why, he's going to kill us both.

  "Just don't,” was all she said, and for a while she thought he had let the subject drop.

  However as they passed through the graveyard gates, he unexpectedly said, “You still didn't tell me if you celebrate your vampire turning, whatever you want to call it, day."

  He was insisting too much not to have something in mind, and for a few seconds she observed him sideways, trying to guess what it was and failing. She was usually pretty good at reading him; his face and body so expressive she had always been able to guess his moods and sometimes even what he thought, but this time it wasn't working.

  "Used to,” she finally answered, keeping a close eye on him to see if he would give her any usable clue when he would react. “The first few years, I'd treat myself to a blood bath. Literally."

  There it was, the tightening of his jaw, the small crinkling at the corner of his eyes, the two signs she had come to associate with him not appreciating much a reminder of what she was and what she had done over the years. Well, he had asked. She was just answering, and if he didn't like it, he would need to learn not to ask stupid questions.

  "Only the first few years, you said?” he pressed on after a few seconds.

  She shrugged. “It got boring after a while, and I stopped celebrating, as you would say. Didn't stop the bloodbaths though,” she added after a short pause.

  She was baiting him now, curious to see how he would react beyond the signs she had already noticed, and was disappointed when he showed nothing. Rather, he came to a halt, and stopped her with a light touch to her arm. She looked at him curiously as he fiddled with his cigarettes, finally lighting one and sighing with pleasure as the nicotine hit his system.

  "I thought ... maybe you might like to start a new kind of celebration,” he mumbled around the cigarette as he pocketed the lighter and pulled a slim box out of his pocket. “Since you don't do bloodbaths so much anymore ... Happy birthday. Deathday. Whichever."