Blood Curse (13 page)

The glowing coals in her fireplace gave the room a soft glow. Ophelia was groggy with the need to sleep, but her mind would not stop. Why could she not stop questioning him and simply give her body to him and believe him when he said she would be freed?

But could she do it if the price was to kill him?

She had to know—

The door creaked softly. That must have been responsible for the breeze, for her windows were shut tight.

A shadow moved, filling the doorway with darkness. Just as on the first night, it was Ravenhunt. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. His broad shoulders stretched across the opening’s expanse, his eyes lost to the shadow. Only the prominent lines of his face were revealed by the fire’s glow—his high cheekbones, his blade of a nose. But this time instead of being filled with fear, she sat up. She pushed off the covers. The instant after she did, she knew what she was doing. She was welcoming him.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. But she was afraid
for
him. “Is taking my power going to kill you?”

“Always blunt and direct, aren’t you?” he countered from the shadows.

“Why do you never answer my questions?”

A deep laugh came out. “We both throw questions at each other and never answer them.”

“Are you risking your life to save me? Why?”

“I’m not. Neither of us will die.” There was the soft creak of the door frame as he straightened. He prowled into the room. “You should be sleeping. I came to make sure you were.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? Aren’t you tired, too?”

“Not yet. As I told you, I often stay up all night, and go to sleep at dawn, then I sleep away the day, and wake at twilight.”

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Questions collided in her head, and she was definitely dazed with tiredness. Why did he want to take away her power? What would he do with it?

Oh God, did he want to use it?

Why hadn’t she pushed him for answers? It seemed, since he had captured her, her brain had ceased to function. When she’d been a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s, all she’d had was time to think, but with Ravenhunt it was as if she were finally pulling cobwebs off her brain.

She wanted to put questions into words, but he came to the edge of the bed. “Sleep,” he said softly.

Deep and soft, his voice flowed into her thoughts. She wanted to obey. Ophelia fell back, her head landing on the pillow. Her hair fanned out around her—she’d forgotten to braid it for sleep. It would be tangled, but she was too tired to care.

So tired. But something nagged at her thoughts. Something she couldn’t quite grasp but that wouldn’t let her sleep. “I still don’t think I can sleep.”

“What you need is to be exhausted—to have your body worn out and your mind thoroughly tired, too. Too tired to think but satiated and happy.”

Heavens, she had never felt more exhausted in her life, but that did not help her sleep. “How could I do that? My head is spinning. I’m so tired, yet I cannot sleep.”

“I have the perfect solution.”

Ravenhunt came to the bed, and brought his hand forward. He reached into a pocket, drew something else out. A snap of his wrist made it uncoil. It was a length of black rope.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Concentrate only on what you feel.”

“A—are you going to tie me up?”

“Not yet. I want to show you how enticing a rope can feel.” His voice flowed like rich, amber honey. “Think of nothing else but what you feel.”

She did as he asked. She fought to think only of the soft touch of one end of the rope over her cheeks. He drew soft circles that tickled. The rope was not scratchy and rough, but soft, as if made from velvet.

The end of the rope slid across her upper lip.

Ophelia gasped. Little bolts of lightning seemed to sizzle on her lip. He traced the shape of her mouth slowly with the dangling rope.

He was just touching her lip with the velvet length, but it made her throb and ache between her thighs. Heat flared there. Moisture pooled. She wriggled her hips.

“Lift your nightdress.”

She couldn’t resist the hoarse, dark command of his voice. Almost as if they were acting on their own, her hands clutched the skirt of her nightgown and she tugged it up. Her eyes were still closed, but cooler air brushed her thighs. The curls at her pubis were exposed.

The rope touched her inner right thigh. Up it went, and she sighed, almost sobbed, as she felt the caress on her skin.

She felt like marble coming to life—as if she’d been cold stone for her whole existence, and finally she was beginning to feel.

He possessed a master’s touch. Smooth and soft, the rope stroked around the intense, tingling place between her legs, first in agonizingly slow caresses that made her shiver, then in faster slaps that made sensation streak though every inch of her. Ravenhunt tapped the top of the aching nub and she cried out. Her achy, throaty squeal flew up to the dark ceiling.

Something built in her. Her hips jerked with the sensations. She arched up, trying to lift her hips to tease her throbbing, demanding nub with the rope.

Ophelia opened her eyes. Between his large hands, Ravenhunt had drawn the rope tight. He sawed it gently over her throbbing, yearning quim and that magical place that felt such pleasure when it was touched.

Heavens, yes.

He lightened the caress, so it barely touched her, and she whimpered. “More . . . please,” she whispered.

“Of course.”

But Ravenhunt played a maddening game with her. He stroked harder until she moaned with agony, then slowed the passes of the rope until she rocked and bucked desperately for stimulation.

“Please,” she begged, when the pressure and ache and tension built hard once more, yet he took the rope away. “Please don’t stop.” She felt as if she would go mad. She felt like a half-formed statue, ready to take shape only to have the artist put down his tools and walk away.

Ravenhunt gave a slow smile that seemed to say he had a secret she could not begin to guess. How handsome he became when he smiled. He lost the hard, grizzled look to his face, the cold austerity that made him look like an assassin. His eyes softened, and appealing lines bracketed his mouth. He became . . . beautiful.

“I wish I could touch you.” Deep and growling, his voice echoed in her thoughts, as if he could speak directly to them. “I’d love to do this with my tongue.”

That brought an immediate, shocking picture in her head.

She imagined having her legs spread wide, her private parts bared. His body would lie between her legs, his head at her most intimate place, and his tongue would slick over her throbbing nub—

All her tension coiled and snapped, like a cracked whip. “Ravenhunt!” she cried, in desperate agony.

But this wasn’t pain. It was as if a cold, unbreakable shell around her had cracked, and pure fire was pouring out. Her body arched as all her muscles tightened in exquisite glory.

It was so good. Pleasure swamped her, pleasure like she had never known. She cried, laughed, sobbed, knowing nothing but pleasure.

He watched her though the journey, through each happy, lovely twitch of her body. It eased, and she relaxed, limp and boneless, into the bed.

“Now, you’ll sleep. I promise,” he said.

Just as she was about to fall hazily into sleep, she whispered, “I didn’t know a rope could do that—could feel so wonderful rubbed against me.”

“You have to trust me, Ophelia. In this type of sexual game, I’m an expert. I always use ropes in sex. No matter how I do it, I want to build your excitement. I want you to dream of me stroking you with ropes. Or spanking you. I want you to anticipate each teasing touch against your round, voluptuous bottom. Each stroke will make your cunny clench, and will send throbbing pleasure right to your clitoris, my dear. I believe I can make you come just by spanking your bottom.”

Heavens, heavens. Her heart thudded, even as she floated in delicious pleasure, even as her lashes drifted shut.

The bed creaked as he stood. Softly he said, “I will return to you when I wake, but it will be late in the day. You should rest until then. Go to sleep.”

Satiated and tired, Ophelia knew she would finally sleep, but she could not wait until tomorrow.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, in the robe Ravenhunt had left for her, Ophelia shivered—that was nerves. Then quivered.
That
was desire.

Heavens, what was she thinking? She didn’t want a spanking. But then she imagined him standing in front of her, almost naked, sporting a huge erection and carrying a paddle.

She squirmed on the bed. Actually, she did rather want a spanking. She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

Ravenhunt’s strong, slanted handwriting flowed over beautiful notepaper, which was the color of thick cream and just as smooth. Why did he want her to go to the kitchens? They were in the basement.

Basements in ancient houses held dungeons. And those had iron shackles—

Ridiculous. Ravenhunt had specifically written
kitchens
, not
dungeons
.

She knew it was already afternoon. The mantel clock and sunlight peeking around the drapes told her. She had slept for hours.

It had been years since she’d spent a whole night in wonderful, undisturbed slumber. It never happened at Mrs. Darkwell’s. She’d always woken in the grip of a nightmare.

Ravenhunt had acquired slippers for her, too. Delicate satin ones and they sat on the floor by the bed. She slipped her feet into them, then padded downstairs.

Curtains had been drawn back throughout his house to let in light. Last night, when they had come back in from the brothel, everything had been closed up, dark and forlorn.

That was how he lived—cut off from the world in a darkened fortress.

He behaved like a prisoner. Just like she had been.

The house was brighter with daylight coming in, but it was still quiet, so eerily so that it made her shiver. A house of this size was never silent. There was always noise, even just the patter of footsteps or the hushed chatter of family or servants. The sense of being almost completely alone gave her a creepy feeling, as if she were the only person alive in London.

She wasn’t, of course. Ravenhunt was sleeping upstairs.

Ophelia made her way down stone steps to the basement. The ceiling was low, the walls formed of large, thick stones. Large wood beams crossed over her head, and she made her way to an open door through which light spilled. Wonderful smells poured out from there—a sweet aroma that must be the fresh fruit, along with the rich scent of roasted meat, and a yeasty tickle to her nose that promised bread.

She hurried into the preparation area of the kitchen.

An enormous feast waited for her, spread out on a wood worktable.

She found baskets of fresh breads, pastry on plates, a cold roast beef sliced for her, and bowls filled with grapes, oranges, and one incongruous-looking pineapple, complete with its spiky skin and leaves. A piece of paper was held in place with an uncut, exotic yellow lemon.

Adequate? It smelled spectacular, and with all the color, it was like a lush painting. There were no servants; Ravenhunt had prepared all of this himself. For her.

Sex made a woman hungry, too. She was thoroughly ravenous. Planting her bottom on a stool with a worn seat, Ophelia drew a plate toward her. She took one of the buns, tore it, and ate it in great chunks. Gooey, delicious fresh bread was her absolute favorite.

For days, she had been too nervous, apprehensive, and afraid to do more than nibble when he brought her food. With a feast in front of her now, she ate like a madwoman.

Then she frowned. When had she ever seen him eat?

Not once, actually. She’d just assumed he ate food before bringing it to her.

What if he didn’t? There were beings—creatures or demons—who did not eat. She knew that from Mrs. Darkwell’s house. Some demons survived on blood. Some survived on souls.

He had told her he had special powers to heal. He was not normal, just as she wasn’t.

Squirt.
She’d pushed through the peel of an exotic, delicious orange, and shot herself in the eye with juice.

She’d been incredibly dense. Not about the orange—about Ravenhunt.

He was going to take her power by making love to her. He had to know witchcraft, or he was a wizard, or a demon with magical powers. From her time at Mrs. Darkwell’s she knew such creatures existed.

Could she make love to him without knowing who he really was?

Men could make love to a lady without any questions. They could do it without love, affection, or thought. But she wasn’t like that.

Or was she?

Last night, when Ravenhunt had stroked her with the velvet surface of the rope until she . . . um . . . came, she hadn’t cared about questions or who he was. She had lived for each sizzling moment.

Sex with him made her feel
alive
.

And she wanted
more
.

Except right now she had to wait for Ravenhunt.

Ophelia finished her meal, then she went back up to the ground floor and wandered through the house. It was so still and quiet and shadowed it was like walking through a tomb.

She discovered a piano beneath white Holland covers, but didn’t dare uncover it. Every room was shut up, never used. Ravenhunt stayed in his room all afternoon—she didn’t hear any sound from it, though she didn’t open the door or even knock. As he’d told her, he wasn’t going to come out until it was night.