armor? She couldn't care less that Conrad was a virgin. Well, that wasn't true, but she definitely wasn't reacting the way he would think.
What if I just return and tell him that I'm attracted to him—and that this information doesn't lessen the feeling?
So he could yell more at her? Insult her? Was she the type of woman who would rather get insulted than be alone?
Never.
Now what to do? Where to go? Conrad's comments resounded within her as she moped through the hallways of her home.
At the week's end, the brothers were all going out and she... wasn't. Néomi had loved going to gatherings, had adored getting dressed up. She'd loved anything with a social aspect.
She recalled all the fun things she'd done—beach bonfires at the gulf, houseboat parties on the Mississippi, celebrating Mardi Gras with other bons vivants, lively and hedonistic stage people.
One Fourth of July, she'd splashed in the fountain in Jackson Square. Under the heat of fireworks above and surrounded by the soft strains of jazz, she'd kissed a complete stranger—his lips had tasted of absinthe.
I used to be proud, too, the life of the party. No longer. Now she wasn't above begging like a pathetic dog for a crumb of attention.
Her mood picked up a fraction when she heard a voice downstairs. Murdoch hadn't left yet. She traced to him, finding him dialing on his cellular phone. She decided to see if his pockets held any more of those lovely hair combs.
'Pick up, Danii,' he muttered. When Danii didn't, he slammed his fist into a wall. If another Wroth punches my house one more time...
He was so preoccupied that he never felt a thing when she rooted through his pocket—
And fished out a key.
For hours, Conrad had wanted to call her back.
Something about her expression had put him on edge. She'd had a look on her face as if she'd been sentenced to the gallows—part fear, part resignation. Her eyes had been so sad, so different from her earlier excited demeanor, such as when she'd been asking about mermaids, of all things.
It wasn't her fault she'd overheard Conrad's shaming secret, but he'd treated her as if it were—because he was sick of feeling powerless and impotent, sick of being both. He was just about to swallow his pride and call for her when he smelled lit candles and... starch?
His hackles rose. Something was happening, something she'd known was awaiting her. All she'd wanted to do was stay with him during the day, because she'd been afraid. Of what?
And he'd cruelly sent her away to be on her own. A bewildering type of panic welled inside him, so strong it left him shaken. He began sweating.
Néomi should never be afraid. Not while he had strength in his body.
His eyes widened when he heard music downstairs. Not right. This isn't right. He grew frenzied, rocking back and forth, yanking against his chains, leveraging all his strength against one arm. Again and again, he heaved... until he dislocated his shoulder with a pop.
This gave him just enough leeway to thread his hands under his feet and unlatch the tether from the bed. He stood, pounding his shoulder into the doorframe to force it back in place, then charged downstairs. Searching for the scent of roses, he came to the ballroom.
This area had been wrecked by age—and by Conrad. Yet now it appeared as it must have been eighty years ago. The marble floor was an unbroken gleam under the light of what seemed like a thousand candles. The interior was filled with fresh-cut roses, starched tablecloths, and obviously expensive furniture. That ghostly music sounded from no apparent source.
Surreal. This situation had all the makings of a hallucination. But he didn't believe it was. Then he saw her enter the room, looking as though she were in a trance. 'Néomi?' She didn't answer, just began to dance.
She started slowly, somehow keeping her chest, head, and arms perfectly still, while her leg unfolded and she pivoted round. When the pace quickened, she began to sweep her arms, the movements precise yet fluid.
The way she moved was like silk, as though her arms were boneless. Stunned, he muttered, 'Tantsija.'
Even he recognized certain steps from classical ballet, but she infused them with sensuality. There was something... suggestive about the way she danced, as if she did it to attract a man.
It was working. When she moved, he felt.
Néomi appeared spectral at certain angles. But he'd still never seen anything so beautiful. Her skin was glowing, her pale lips like a bow. The smoky outlines around her eyes just made the blue irises stand out. Her cheeks only seemed sharper because of the shadows under them.
Her face was suffused with contentment, what looked like a nearly mindless joy. He was calmed watching her, his earlier frustrations soothed. Others' memories couldn't overcome his captivation with what he was seeing. They grew quieter with each second, and then, for the first time in centuries, they receded altogether.
A dead dancer with joy on her face made him feel... expectation. He had a sense of looking forward to something more with her—to watching her dance again, to talking with her.
Before, he'd been accepting of the fact that he would die soon, had believed he deserved it. He was a vampire, a being he'd been taught to hate all his life.
Now... he wasn't at all ready for the end. As he watched her, he thought, I might not be able to miss out on her.
He narrowed his eyes. I want... the dancer.
In the shower with her, he'd recognized she was special to him in some way. This evening the suspicion that she was his Bride had grown. Now he no longer denied it. She must not have blooded him because she wasn't technically alive.
Néomi's mine.
To have such a woman in his keeping...
For a chance with her, could he put away his plans for revenge—and his certainty that he would soon die?
She effortlessly twirled up on her toes, her black skirts and her long hair whipping around. So lovely his chest ached.
Yes, he could. She's mine. And I'll have her. There were obstacles, but he excelled at eliminating anything that stood in the way of what he wanted.
Soon her pace increased. She spun faster and faster. Not right. Outside, yellow lightning began to flash in front of the crescent moon, and the wind soon roared through the trees, raining leaves. The room slowly aged, decaying right before him. The music abruptly ended.
Rose petals littered the floor.
Conrad charged for her, unable to trace because of the chains. Before he could reach her, the pace quickened even more. 'Néomi?'
The air grew heavier. Her expression changed, going from dreamy and seductive to terrified.
Once he reached her, he yelled, 'Néomi, stop this!'
She didn't glance up, didn't seem able to. Her eyes were stark, her breaths ragged. When he tried to stay her, she passed right through him, making him shudder from a surge of electricity.
Every protective instinct in him screamed to life. Keep her safe... keep her close.
He couldn't. He roared with frustration when she moved through him again.
How long could she sustain this pace? Faster, twirling away from him, until... she vanished.
Turning in a slow circle, he bellowed, 'Néomi!' But the sounds continued, sounds that he didn't want to identify: the wet scraping of bone; her scream—interrupted. Suddenly blood pooled out over the floor, soaking the petals.
Until they, too, disappeared.
