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  Father, however, insisted they must. “Humans make our clothes, mine our coal, and build our homes. We have to pretend we actually care about them and their lives.”

  Unfortunately, Dante couldn’t find fault with the argument. But he didn’t like it. Who would care if he did manage to turn a colored-eyed human into a vampire, anyway? Shouldn’t the human be joyous? They’d be immortal, for blood’s sake! And strong, and fast. Those perks should be enough to make anyone happy. He’d never met a Chosen human who wasn’t satisfied with their lot in life.

  Then again, he’d never met a human who could hold a decent conversation. Like now, with this servant; she hadn’t said more than “Morning, sir.” Even that had seemed a challenge. She hadn’t even responded to his polite enquiry as to the state of her health. Wasn’t that how humans greeted each other? It didn’t bode well for her mental acumen, he decided, and she seemed, rather, well, muscular. She had short hair, features that could cut glass and she wasn’t very feminine. Well, not feminine according to aristo standards. Maybe commoners had a different view. Maybe she only liked women? That would make things a little bit more difficult. Or maybe she was just one of those humans who was all about the physical side of life, rather than the intellectual. How was he meant to pretend love and lust for that?

  So far, her packaging and personality seemed a rather large waste for such an extraordinarily interesting eye color.

  “The bench is finished, sir.”

  Dante turned away from the microscope, swiveling slowly on his chair to face the girl. She stood by the bench, hands folded primly in front of her, head downturned. He focused on the object of her work. It was definitely shiny, not enough that he could see his reflection, but then, he hadn’t asked for that. Maybe he should be more specific in future.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed. He’d never had a personal servant before. He wasn’t really sure he knew what to do with one. He knew what other vampires did with their personal staff, and he knew he’d have to pretend interest in her because of it—and it would help his cause, after all—but why did his father have to hire one now?

  Ugh.

  “Excellent,” Dante said and tried to smile in a pleasant manner. “Now come here.”

  *

  That guy gives me the creeps, Elle thought.

  Walking back down the cold stone hallway, which was barely lit by yellow lamps, Elle clutched a few polishing rags and her cleaning products to her chest. She wanted to know why Gran hadn’t assigned a Green to this case. They could have read the creepy bastard’s mind in a few minutes flat and then Elle wouldn’t have had to put up with his stupid orders and his even dumber attempts at seduction.

  “Come here,” she muttered sarcastically. Apparently that—and a toothy I’m-a-hunk smile—was all that a woman needed to get turned on. The idiot. She’d had to make some excuse about feeling faint due to human female problems, and almost bolted for it.

  What Elle hadn’t realized before, and what Gran hadn’t bothered to tell her, was that personal servants were really low-paid whores. Half of the ones she’d seen here were low-paid bit-ridden whores, which was even worse. Of course, Elle thought, Gran wouldn’t have bothered to mention that.

  There’s no way I would have agreed, Elle thought, Emmie or no Emmie. Elle would have found a way to protect her sister, without bothering with this farce, she knew it.

  No point in crying over spilt milk, she told herself. Or spilt blood, as the case may be. Reaching the top of the servants’ stairs, Elle carefully navigated her way down. If the halls were poorly lit, the stairs were even worse. It was almost as if the bloody leeches wanted someone to trip and break their neck. Freezing, her foot hovering over one stair, she blinked in comprehension. Two realizations in five minutes, she’d better be careful, she thought with a chuckle. Mirth disappearing, she frowned down at the stairs. She knew with a gut-churning certainty that the leeches wanted someone to trip and fall. Servants weren’t free game when it came to dinner time—not draining-to-death free game, anyway. They could do that to their slaves, but slaves weren’t as healthy, weren’t as appetizing. At least not the ones kept on this estate, mangy bit-ridden creatures that they were.

  Shaking her head, Elle continued her downward journey. Now, she just had to try and evade the Creep’s advances.

  *

  “I want you to keep an eye on my son,” Lord Kipling said.

  Elle was standing in his office, her eyes on the floor. When she’d first entered the masculine room—it was overly manly; dark colors, lots of wood, heavy furniture, almost like it was compensating for something, she thought—she’d realized that the man on the other side of the desk was an older, rougher replica of the Creep. But the Creep was prettier, much prettier.

  “Yes, milord.” Elle bobbed a curtsy. I’m the Creep’s bloody servant, isn’t it my job to keep an eye on him? And she’d already had this chat with the housekeeper. Why was it being rammed home? Was it even normal for the master of the house to want to speak to a servant?

  “Your grandmother recommended you personally,” Kipling continued as Elle fought the urge to jerk and glare at him. Barely. “And I don’t want to regret hiring you, as I’m quite partial to Mrs. Brown and her agency always makes excellent recommendations.”

  It went unspoken that he was partial to her for a human. For now.

  Gran knew Kipling?

  Gran spoke to him personally?

  A work relationship, it had to be. Although selling Nons to vampires wasn’t exactly morally clean. But this was just getting stranger and stranger. Gran was meant to hate vampires and weres more than anyone else she knew. She’d taught Elle to hate them. Gran was a purist—she’d kicked Elle’s mother out of home since she’d had her first child with a Non, and because that child hadn’t grown out of her Hazel eyes. Now Gran was out socializing with a leech?

  She was beginning to like her gran less than ever, which she hadn’t thought possible. Hate, was, after all, hate.

  “I will keep an eye on him, sir,” Elle said into the quiet.

  “Please tell me if he shows any preference for humans with…unusual features.”

  Was that his father’s way of making sure that Dante wasn’t into guys? Elle didn’t think she was on the same page. A guy liking another guy wasn’t exactly unusual.

  “In what way, sir?” Elle asked.

  In her peripheral vision she saw him slash a hand through the air. “Skin color, eye color…”

  In other words, eye color. In Pinton, there was no such thing as “unusual colored skin,” as everyone was varying hues of white or brown. Some, like Mikael, were so dark as to be a shade of night.

  “I see.”

  “Excellent. I want you to report to me once a day.” Kipling flicked a hand at her dismissively.

  Elle turned to leave, but was forestalled by his voice. “Also, please tell me if he tries—or, in fact, does—have intercourse with you.” Personal servant, she thought.

  She nodded then quickly left the room.

  What was going on in this house?

  Chapter 22

  Clay was waiting for the human—Elle—to arrive home. He was stretched out comfortably on her bed, hands tucked behind his head, shirt half-buttoned and legs crossed at the ankles. She’d left the window locked again, silly chit. Even if she’d hammered it shut, he still would have worked out a way to get in. Just to piss her off. He smiled.

  Clay wasn’t really sure when he’d decided that seducing the girl would be a good idea—considering his first thought had been that it would be too much work—but he’d apparently made the choice without consulting his brain. Every time he thought about bedding her, he got hard; it was a little embarrassing. He hadn’t been this keen on a woman in a century or three. Maybe even a millennium or three. To his shame, he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  Having sex with her was a terrible idea, really.

  I mean, he thought, screwing Olive Brown’s eldest granddaught
er? The one who the grumpy old bitch clearly wanted him to keep clear of? Although, his plan hinged on Elle actually letting him seduce her, and that was still touch and go. Originally, he’d thought his extra interest in the redhead had been inspired by his need to irritate her grandmother, but he’d recognized that his desire for Elle had sprung up independently. The tent in his trousers attested to it.

  He wasn’t really sure why Olive didn’t want him to know of this granddaughter; shame was at the top of his guess list, but that could change. A Hazel meant that someone had mated with an ordinary human—with a Brown. And that that someone had wanted to bear the child, would have ignored all advice to the contrary and given birth. It meant that Elle’s mother, Melissande, had loved the father, something that Olive would have been furious about, he knew.

  Why were humans so predictable?

  He figured that was part of the reason why he liked the redhead so much. She left him guessing more often than not. Telling him to get out, and then kissing him back. Telling him to leave, and then talking to him like a friend. Hating him while liking him. Her contrariness just made him grin.

  But Clay wasn’t dumb. He knew that the only reason Elle tolerated him was because she wasn’t entirely sure that he was interested in the little girl. But he wasn’t. He was no pedophile, and while she had pretty eyes, she wasn’t really his concern. No matter what her grandmother wanted him to do in a few years’ time. Clay had seen plenty of people with nice eyes in his lifetime, and one child was just that, a child. He’d come to this stinkhole of a city to see what Olive Brown had been after; he didn’t hold her in any great regard, but he’d been interested to hear what the Graced matriarch had wanted from a rogue like himself. And he’d found out.

  He almost wished he hadn’t.

  Most Graceds couldn’t breed with vampires or wolves. There needed to be a lot of luck—or an excellent knowledge of their genealogy—involved. Clay guessed that Olive had the latter. And most mixes didn’t survive childhood; infant mortality was high, and so were the “accidental” deaths. Clay knew. He’d spent years hunting the half-breeds—or dhampirs—down and helping them, trying to find them a place in the world where they’d be accepted for who and what they were. But he hadn’t seen a dhampir survive to adulthood in centuries. They’d been brutally wiped out, the hatred a remnant of the Civil War that had occurred thousands of years ago. The murderers probably didn’t even realize why they were told to make the killings, just that they did.

  But Clay knew why. And he used to return the favor.

  The sound of the door opening jolted Clay out of his musings. He started to grin, a sleazy expression he knew would make Elle want to hit him.

  “I know you’re there,” Elle said. Her voice was low and she sounded tired.

  Clay’s smile wilted as he lit the lamp next to the bed. He studied her, noting the wan face and droopy eyes. She also stank of vampire, more so than yesterday. It made his fingers itch.

  “That vampire get handsy with you?” he asked, surprised at his own growled words.

  Elle flicked a glance at him as she dumped her bag on the floor. “He tried to, but he wasn’t very good at it.”

  Clay blinked, distracted. “A vampire who isn’t good at getting into a human’s pants?”

  Elle slumped onto the end of the bed, rubbing her neck as she did so. “No. He really is rather bad at it. You can tell his heart’s just not in it.”

  “His heart shouldn’t be the organ involved in wanting to get into your pants.” Clay waggled his eyebrows. Elle thumped him in the side.

  Propping himself up on one elbow, he stared at her, serious. “Are you a personal servant?”

  Elle’s shoulders drooped. “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t let him into your pants?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Clay tried to tell himself that he wouldn’t care if she slept with anyone, but the burning feeling in his gut told him that would be a lie.

  “I don’t like vampires.”

  “Or werewolves.” Clay saw the lightning glance she shot his way.

  “Most of them,” she muttered.

  “But I’m the exception to the rule?” He grinned at her and hooked his hands behind his head, leaning back to lie on her bed.

  “Not really.”

  He loved her attitude. Tilting his head to the side, he frowned. She looked beyond tired. Too bad, he thought. I’m not.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Just like my pretty face, huh?”

  Clay meant it as a joke, but he felt a little uneasy when Elle looked at him. Her eyes were intense, more Green than Brown in the dim light.

  “Yeah, I like your face.” She moved closer to him then reached out a hand, touching the stubble on his cheek.

  Clay shut his eyes, feeling her fingers move toward his mouth. She ran a gentle thumb over his lips. He reached a hand upward and grasped her wrist, pulling her toward him. Eyes now open, he used his other hand to cup her neck, pressing her face closer. He kissed her, tasting her soft lips, the sigh of air as she exhaled. She really was gorgeous, with her fierce face and luminous hair. It began gently, but it didn’t take long for hunger to overcome sense, and he flipped her beneath him on the bed, hands roaming, mouth demanding.

  She matched him though, her hunger as great as his own. As his fingers fisted in the material of her shirt, she pulled away from him. “Don’t rip it.”

  Panting, lying on top of her, he nearly moaned. She had stopped him to tell him not to rip her crummy shirt? “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  She chuckled, a breathy sound. “It’s my work uniform.”

  “Just get rid of it,” he groaned.

  Thankfully, she complied. Her breastband quickly followed, and he was left staring at the two most perfect breasts he’d ever seen. Firm, high and tipped in a pale pink blush. He had to touch them, taste them. Leaning down, he ran the tip of his tongue around an erect nipple. By the blood, he was harder than a rock.

  Elle arched beneath him, and he took the unspoken invitation. His hand closed over her left breast while he sucked on her right. Her head rolled back on the pillow and she sighed. After he’d treated her other breast to the same attention, she grabbed his hair in a tight grip and jerked his head up. She kissed him, openmouthed, hungry.

  Clay growled and began kissing a line down her throat. “You had better not say no,” he warned, “or tell me to get out.”

  “Don’t worry,” she gasped as his tongue traced her navel. “I won’t.”

  Chapter 23

  She smelled like werewolf.

  Dante didn’t think any other vampire—or were—would be able to detect the odor, but they weren’t cursed with his “delicate” senses. The overpowering scent of soap clung to the servant’s skin, but it didn’t quite erase the smell she was obviously trying to hide.

  Dante was seated on the chair in his workroom. He’d been facing the bench and the microscope, but had turned around when the servant had entered, in an effort to be polite. But what was the point? She’d carefully rebuffed his attempt to have intercourse with her yesterday—something about female human troubles, whatever they were—not that he’d put much effort into it. But she’d then gone home to have sex with a wolf.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Morning, sir.” She bobbed him a curtsy.

  For the first time, he comprehended that she didn’t seem to like him very much. Because he was a vampire? Overnight, he had decided that his father had assigned her to him most likely to ensure he was sexually satisfied enough not to Choose any more humans. That deduction wasn’t hard though; Viktor approved every servant to enter the house. Why he’d assumed that this human was Dante’s “type,” Dante wouldn’t know. But Dante’s attempts at coitus hadn’t worked. Why would his father have picked a woman who would be immune to his charms? Dante almost laughed aloud at that thought. He’d never met a woman who even liked his charms.

  “So, my father assigned you to me,” Dante
said. He was surprised at himself; why was he starting this conversation?

  “The housekeeper assigned my role, sir.” She kept her eyes on the floor, which was a shame, because they were the only interesting part about her. Her cleaning cloths were clutched in her hands.

  “Look,” Dante said as he stood, “I’m not in a very nice mood. Please dispense with the bullshit.”

  Startled, her eyes flew to meet his. That’s better, he thought.

  “My father assigned you to me, correct?”

  She nodded, her cap bobbing with the movement.

  “Did he tell you why?” Dante took a step closer to her and she backed away from him toward the door.

  “No, sir.”

  Chatty, he thought. Normally he’d appreciate her muteness, but he was in the mood for answers. “What did he want you to tell him?”

  She looked uneasy, but she kept quiet.

  He rolled his eyes. He was going to have to get nasty. He didn’t really want to, but then, what choice did he have? Maybe feeling like her life was in danger would loosen her tongue.

  Another two steps took him within reaching distance, and he shot his arm out, grabbing her by the throat. Within seconds, he had her pinned to the heavy door, her feet still on the ground. He turned the key in the lock with his free hand and leaned his face in close to hers. He popped the key in his pocket.

  He hoped he looked scary. “What did my father want you to tell him about me?”

  Her face was turning red. “He wanted to know if we had sex.”

  Dante studied her; he didn’t think she was telling the whole truth. She’d looked away from him as she answered. He hated not understanding how people communicated. “What else?”

  She’d struggled to speak, and she’d gone a little purple in the face, so he eased his grip. She gasped, “If you were interested in people with certain physical characteristics.”