The Story of Son(11)

“You have never kissed someone?”

“No. Now answer the question I asked. Why does the idea of me . . . relieving the ache arouse you?”

“Because I would like to . . .” Watch. “I think you must look beautiful when you do that. I think you . . . are beautiful.”

He gasped.

When there was nothing but shower sounds for a long while, she said, “I’m sorry if I shocked you.”

“You find me pleasing to your eye?”

“Yes.”

“Truly?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“I am blessed.” The chains rolled across the floor as he turned away and walked back to the bathroom.

“Michael?”

The metal links just kept going.

She went over to the bed and sat at the end of it, holding the candle with both her palms as he took his time. When the water was switched off and he finally came out from the bathroom, she said, “I’d like a shower, too.”

“Avail yourself.” The water came back on as if he’d willed it. “I assure you of your privacy.”

She went into the bathroom and put the candle on the counter. The air was warm and moist from his shower, scented with milled soap and his dark spices. Dropping her robe and her underwear, she stepped under the spray, the water pouring over her body and soaking into her hair and cleansing her skin.

She was appalled by the lack of compassion he’d received over the last five decades. By the cruelty that his only companions were stolen for him, their rights violated so that he could survive. By his imprisonment that had persisted and would continue unless he was freed. By the fact that he didn’t even know he was beautiful.

She hated that he had lived alone for all his life.

Getting out of the shower, she dried off, put the robe back on, and tucked her panties and her bra in the pocket.

When she was out in the bedroom, she said, “Michael, where are you?”

She went farther into the room. “Michael?”

“I am at the desk.”

“Will you turn on some lights?”

Candles flared instantly.

“Thank you.” She stared at him as he shuffled to hide what he’d been drawing. “I am taking you with me,” she said.

His head lifted and for once so did his eyes. God, they were amazing the way they glowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“When Fletcher comes for me, I’m going to make it so you get out.” Most likely by beaning the butler with the very candleholder in her hands. “I’m going to take care of him.”

“No!” Michael jumped to his feet. “You must not interfere. You shall leave as you came, without violence.”

“The hell I will. This is wrong. All of it. It’s wrong for the women and for you and it’s your mother’s fault. Fletcher’s, too.”

And would that she could take things to their right and proper conclusion. That woman and her thug butler needed to be put behind bars; Claire didn’t care how old they were. Unfortunately, turning them into the police because they’d kept a vampire chained in the basement wasn’t exactly what you wanted to lead with when you were trying to have one of Caldwell’s most prominent citizens arrested.

That would be one hell of a hard sell. So freeing him was the best course.

“I cannot let you resist,” he said.

“Don’t you want to get out of here?”

“They will hurt you.” His eyes were grave. “I would rather be imprisoned herein for all my days than have you harmed.”

She thought about Fletcher’s uncanny strength given his age. And the fact that he and Miss Leeds had been stealing women for fifty years and getting away with it. If Claire disappeared because they killed her, it would be a pain to justify, but bodies could be dealt with. Sure, her assistant knew where she’d gone, but Miss Leeds and Fletcher were no doubt smooth enough to play dumb. Plus they had Claire’s car keys and the signed will. They could get rid of the car and maintain Claire had come and left and whatever bad things had happened had nothing to do with them.

Man . . . she was surprised they’d picked her, for no other reason than her personality was so assertive. Then again, she’d been pretty damn ladylike around Miss Leeds. And she was an acceptable target, she supposed: a single woman traveling alone on the last, rowdy weekend of the summer.

Clearly, they had an M.O. that had worked for five decades. And they were going to protect themselves. By force, according to Michael’s fear.

She was going to need help getting him out. Maybe she could have him—no, he probably wasn’t going to be the kind of backup she needed, given the head f*ck that had been done on him. Damn . . . she was going to have to come back for him and she knew who to bring. She had friends in law enforcement, the kind who would be willing to put their badges in the drawer and leave their guns on their hips. The kind who could take care of a messy scene.

The kind who could take care of Fletcher while she took care of Michael.

She was coming back for him.

“No,” Michael said. “You will not remember. You cannot come back.”

A fresh wave of anger hit. That he could obviously read her mind didn’t piss her off as much as the idea that he’d prevent her from helping him—even if it was because he wanted to protect her. “The hell I won’t remember.”