What happens when a vampire is granted his greatest desire at the worst possible time?
The sound startled her. Szeretni sat up, searching the darkness for the noise’s source. A shaft of moonlight breached the terrace doors. There, revealed by its silvery glow, waited a man. Her breath caught at the sight of him. He stood without moving; could have been crafted from stone—except for the life blazing from his golden brown eyes.
Hunger intensified his predatory glare.
Szeretni’s heart leapt to her throat. Scooting back against the headboard, she returned his stare, unable to look away. Now she knew how a hunted animal felt—afraid but defiant as, cornered, it turns to make a futile last stand. The man’s expression spoke volumes. Like the animal’s, her defense would be in vain.
She clutched the fur up under her chin, clenching it in her fists. “Who are you?”
“Your prince.”
“Why are you here?”
“Don’t you remember? You gave me the invitation.”
Szeretni loosened her grip on the fur. She managed to release it completely with one hand and began to smooth her palm back and forth across its soft surface, feigning a calmness she didn’t feel. She couldn’t let this man know he intimidated her. A show of fear might give him the upper hand.
As if he didn’t have the upper hand already, alone with her in her bedroom, with no one within hearing distance if she cried out for help. He stepped closer. She felt a strange tingling at the base of her spine—a stronger, unrecognizable emotion to mingle with her fright. “I did not invite you here.”
He gave her a slight smile. “The invitation was valid. Think back…remember. You told me your home was through the trees. ‘Perhaps you’ll come visit me’ you said. It was all the invitation I required. Now I have a question for you. Why did you ask me here?”
“Told you where my house was? No…I told the wolf. Were you hiding in the shadows? Why didn’t you make your presence known?”
“I didn’t want to frighten you.”
“So the wolf is yours?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Who are you? Where do you live?”
He stepped nearer to the bed. “I can be whoever you want me to be. A prince, perhaps? Ah, but that is too easy. Give me more of a challenge.”
She felt the heat of a blush rise up in her face. He had overheard her silly talk with the wolf. She had let down her guard, safe or so she thought, with only an animal for company. Now she was open to ridicule. “You mock me.”
“No. Tell me, what would you have me be?” He sat down on the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped with his weight, leaning her toward him.
His nearness overwhelmed her, clouding her ability to think. He smelled good, clean. Familiar. And what were the strange sensations tickling her spine?
He moved toward her. She shrank back. “What is your name?” he asked.
“I am Szeretni Maria Vitez.”
A laugh rumbled from his chest. “Szeretni is Hungarian for love—could it be an omen? Or just delicious irony?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes in defiance. “I am proud of my name. My mother chose it—she said I was a personification of the love she and my father shared. She hoped my name would bring me luck. That it would bring me the same kind of love.”
“And has it?”
She looked away. “Not yet.”
He reached out to caress her cheek. At his touch, she shrank back and his eyes filled with sadness. “Foolish of me to come here, but you charmed me with your talk of princes and fairy stories. How could I resist you?”
Szeretni’s breath escaped her. Her voice trembled when she dared to ask, “What do you want of me?”
“You gave the invitation. What do you want of me?”
She sat up taller, boldly meeting his gaze with her own. “I want you to leave.”
Matthias shrugged. “Very well, but rest assured, I will return. That I promise you.”
She watched as he moved out onto the terrace. The moon went behind a cloud and he vanished into the night.
Copyright 2008 Sara Saint John. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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