Some were ignoring him, talking among themselves or sewing or reading, but a number were not. In fact, a few of the women were openly staring. She couldn’t expect . . .
But clearly, she did.
His jaw tightened.
And then his hand went to the lacings on his doublet.
Coming from a culture in which even the men were expected to stay decently covered up, Mircea had never acclimatized to the casual Venetian attitude toward nudity. He reminded himself that the workmen here often stripped down in summer, completely if they could get away with it, in order to save their few clothes from wear. He’d seen some shortly after he arrived repairing the façade of a church, yet wearing so little he’d been surprised that the carved stone effigies beneath them hadn’t been gaping in shock.
But Mircea had.
And while he had somewhat accustomed himself to seeing workmen in such ways, even while women walked about underneath the scaffolding, or sold bread or baked apples to those same men on their breaks, he had never gotten used to it.
It was even worse now that it was him on display.
By the time he was down to those infernal hosen, he was sweating, his body reacting to stress the way Jerome’s had to the idea of no air. It was reacting in other ways, too. One of which sprang loose from the damned hosen already half hard, even before he finished stripping them down his legs.
Face burning, he tried to control his body’s response, but it didn’t help. He didn’t feel any power being exerted on him the way that Martina had. But then, there was no need. The large space with him at the center, the ring of watching women and a few men, the fact that he was the only one nude in the room—it made him feel as awkward as a boy.
And like when he was a boy, concentrating on the problem only made it grow worse.
He finally accepted the truth, jerked the last of the delicate things off his feet, and stood up, stomach clenching.
To see his client reading a letter a servant had brought her.
It threw him. To the point that he didn’t know what to do except stand there, feet planted, hands at his sides. And try to act as if nothing unusual was happening despite the problem jutting proudly out in front of him.
It didn’t work. He didn’t know how Paulo would have handled this. Perhaps he would have enjoyed the attention. Showing off his well-maintained body to an appreciative audience, like a living version of the priceless statues that lined the stairs coming up. Maybe he would have posed and preened. Maybe he would have flirted.
Mircea was wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
It didn’t help that the breeze off a balcony ensured that he felt every inch of his nudity. Cool tendrils slid across his skin, ruffling his hair, furling his nipples, and causing his wayward member to bob excitedly. And a couple of servant girls by the door to giggle and begin whispering things to each other behind their hands that they thought he couldn’t hear.
Or maybe they didn’t care. Their mistress certainly didn’t seem to. After what felt like an age but was probably only a few long moments, she looked up. And appeared faintly surprised to see him there.
Her eyes moved over his body, but if there was so much as a spark of interest, Mircea couldn’t see it. But after giving the letter to a servant, she finally turned her attention to him. “Very well.”
Again, Mircea waited. Again, she did not get up. And slowly, incredulously, he realized that she wasn’t going to.
He felt his hands curl into fists at his sides.
Was she trying to humiliate him?
He thought about walking out and damn the consequences. Martina would make him pay, and pay dearly, for insulting one of the godlike senators, he had no doubt of that. But it might be worth it to wipe that look of faint amusement off the woman’s face.
Of course, there were other ways to do that, he thought fiercely, and started toward her.
Only to have her hold up a hand. “No. From there.”
Mircea stopped abruptly. “From . . . here?” He was at least ten feet away. His eyes moved automatically downward, and then back up. Making the point that, well-endowed or not, “from here” was not a viable option.
One of her ladies laughed.
His client did not. “Pleasure yourself,” she instructed, and lay lazily back against the chaise, preparing to watch.
Mircea just stood there, thrown off balance again. Badly. And it didn’t help when someone closed the doors to the balcony, apparently deciding that the night breeze was making the room uncomfortable.
And inadvertently made it more so for Mircea.
Glass, so dear at home that it was reserved for religious icons or church windows, was manufactured here. And was so affordable that it was everywhere, swinging from ladies’ waists in the form of small mirrors, hanging from the ceiling in cesendelli, the delicate lamps copied from the Byzantines, or even taking the place of wood panels in the balcony doors. Which afterward offered a view despite being closed.
But at night, it wasn’t of the dark canal and street outside, but of the comparatively brightly lit interior.
And the naked vampire standing in a puddle of lamplight.
Mircea stared blankly at the image reflected back at him, and didn’t recognize himself. Gone were the heavy robes of court, the armor of the battlefield, even the fripperies of Venice. Gone were all the outward trappings of the man he’d known, the person he’d been. And in his place . . .
Was a decadent member of Venice’s oldest profession, naked expect for the black half-mask he wore.
He hadn’t taken it off, because he’d forgotten he had it on. Masks were common when going out in Venice, especially on formal occasions. And this one was just a scrap of stiffened linen, covered with a little paint.
But the effect on his appearance was astonishing.
He wasn’t a person anymore, with a name, an identity. He was a body, polished to a high sheen and bought at a heavy price. And expected to give a good show for the money.
It should have made him furious. It should have made him violent. Instead, it just left him bewildered.
Who was he, anymore?
Who was he without the power? Who was he without the name? He didn’t know; wasn’t sure he’d ever known.
From the time he was born, he’d been trained to be one thing: his father’s heir. To put the needs of family before his own, to endure hardship uncomplaining, to set an example before the people of the strength and stoicism of their leaders. Everything in his life had been designed to mold him to think a certain way, to be a credit to his house, to act as expected. And he’d done that.
He’d done that right up until his treacherous nobles shoved hot pokers in his eyes and buried him alive.
That man had died. This one lived. But, he realized, he didn’t know this one.
He’d spent almost two years as a vampire, one on the run, one here in the supposed sanctuary of Venice, trying to scrape up a living. But he’d never really faced the fact that anything had changed. He’d been acting like a prince in exile, someone temporarily down on his luck, who would be back to claim his throne any day now.
But he wouldn’t be back. Couldn’t go back. This was who he was now.
And he didn’t know this person.
He had never really even looked at this person, turning his face away in disgust, hearing the words of the old stories echoing in his ears: cursed, damned, evil, monster. But he looked now. For the first time, he looked.
Not at the man, but at the vampire.
And saw gleaming dark hair falling onto hard shoulders. Eyes that glittered dangerously behind the mask’s almond-shaped openings. Skin that glowed golden bright, highlighted by sweat and darkened by shadow where flesh became muscle: the curve of his chest, the ladder of his ribs, the indentation of his naval.
The proud jut of hi
s manhood as his fist curled around it.
He stood there for a moment, head swimming. Completely unable to connect the polished, nude courtesan holding his throbbing member with the man he knew. But this time, he didn’t turn away.
Instead, he watched the muscles in his arm bunch and release. Watched his hand glide down the length of his thickness, from the creamy flesh to the rosy head, pausing to caress it softly before sliding back up. Watched as he completed a simple movement that nonetheless broke the laws of his church, of his homeland, even of the dissolute city in which he now lived, which equated self-pleasure with the crime of sodomy.
Watched what he had never actually seen, because such things were considered shameful and hidden away.
But it didn’t look shameful. It looked strangely beautiful. And even more so when he made the first, tentative thrust.
He’d never before noticed the way his whole body joined in the motion. How it started with tension in his calves and thighs, moved up to tighten his buttocks and back, and then rippled outward as he completed the movement. How each isolated action blended with the one before as he fell into a rhythm, melding into a sinuous wave, an erotic dance—
Performed for the pleasure of a group of strangers, some harsh voice from his other life reminded him.
Yes, he thought vaguely, but didn’t stop. Even though, this time, there were no bonds to restrict his movements, nothing to keep him from turning around and leaving. Or from finishing quickly and technically completing his assignment, while rendering his audience frustrated and unsatisfied.
And yet, perversely, he found that he didn’t want to.
It felt like there was something in the air tonight, heavy and languid. Like the soft sound of rain starting up outside. Like the flowering vine growing on the balcony, perfuming the darkness. Like the light from the lamps that left the corners of the room in shadow, but fell warm and honey thick across his skin.
It slowed his movements, made them languid, too.
Made him pause to slide his hands up his torso, enjoying the feel of hard muscle and smooth skin and rigid nipples before moving back down. Made him arch his back, gliding his hands over the tense muscles of his buttocks, then smoothing around to the front. And following the deep V of muscles to the heavy globes hanging between his thighs. Made him linger on their heat and velvet softness for a long moment before resuming his former occupation.
He searched his emotions again, looking for the smallest suggestion of influence. Of any sign that he was being controlled by the woman watching from the chaise. But there was none.
She had paid to be entertained, not to perform herself.
No, this was all on him.
Whoever he was.
He could change his name, he suddenly realized, speeding up. He could become anyone, he could do . . . well, not anything, but a great deal more than he had. The human laws didn’t apply to him anymore. The human restrictions and prejudices had been left behind with his life. Along with the expectations and duties and heavy mantle of authority that had passed to him too soon.
Because he wasn’t that man anymore. He’d been so busy contemplating all he’d lost, that he’d utterly failed to see what he’d gained. Freedom of a sort he’d never known, could never have known in life.
It seemed amazing to him now, almost as amazing as the timing of his epiphany. But then, how better to see yourself clearly than when there were no barriers? No clothes to hide behind or names to live up to. Just sweat-slick skin and undulating hips and rasping breaths as the most primal of needs built toward a climax.
The women draped over the couches had started murmuring, discussing him among themselves, the soft rise and fall of their voices like the lap of waves in the canal outside. But it didn’t bother him now, any more than the feel of their eyes on his body. Somewhere along the line, he’d stopped thinking about being on display for them. And started noticing other things.
The flutter of soot-black lashes against honeyed skin. The dark purple stain on a pair of perfect lips. The swell of a breast above creamy silk.
The feel of a dozen hands sliding over his body.
The women hadn’t moved, much less their mistress. In all the room, nothing did. Except for the flicker of lamps, the slide of raindrops, and the erotic shadows he threw on the wall.
But moving or not, he felt them, some part of them, everywhere. Fingers soft as air combed through his hair, explored his ribs, ghosted over the tense muscles of his backside. Invisible teeth nipped the peak of a nipple. Phantom tongues followed the curve of his ear, skimmed down his collarbone, dropped to trace patterns in the sweat on his now heaving chest.
And then slid underneath the mask he wore, and started to push it up.
It ripped the first sound from his throat, a desperate, keening cry. It also finally broke his rhythm when he hunched over protectively, he didn’t know why. It was such a little thing, when he had revealed so much already.
But it was also his last.
The last bit of him still hidden. The last taboo still unbroken. The last, most private part of him, far more so than his body.
He felt that heady sense of freedom evaporate in an instant. That man in the mirror could be anyone, anyone at all. But once he showed his face . . .
Then it wouldn’t be an anonymous courtesan doing these things anymore. It would be him. It would be Mircea.
But it seemed that his audience was determined to have everything.
Unseen hands pulled his own away from his face. Leaving him with no way to hide as the soft touches returned. Sliding through his hair, tugging at the silken straps, undoing the soft knot. He could have fought them, could have resisted. But emotions were roiling in him too fast and hard to know how to respond as they pulled away his last remaining defense.
And laid him bare.
He stood there, watching the last of his old self die as the mask fell away. As he transformed from a living statue, to be admired for adherence to ancient aesthetics, to a flagrantly sexual being. One standing tall and proud and utterly exposed before the room.
And before his client. Who kept him like that for a long moment, her eyes going over him. From the convulsively working throat to the glistening chest to the proud jut of his manhood. And then back up to meet his eyes.
She studied his face, that last forbidden area. She took him in, she took all of him. Until he was trembling, his head was spinning, and his body was teetering on the brink.
“Now.”
She’d barely said the word when he was caught in a furious cloud of invisible lips and tongues and teeth. They dropped him to his knees, with delicate, razor-sharp fangs that slid into the bulging veins at his neck, his breast, his wrists. They bent him backward, leaving him arching and thrusting into the air, before piercing him at his thigh, his groin, even the vein running down his length.
They tore another cry from his throat, and then another and another, pulling them out of him as if on a string. Each sounded shockingly loud in the silence, but he didn’t care, couldn’t care. Caught in the middle of a sensual assault unlike any he’d ever imagined.
And then finally, finally, the pain gave way to sweet, yielding flesh, to the demands of a dozen bodies sliding against his, their need mingling with his own to send it spiraling higher and higher and higher. Until his orgasm erupted out of him, along with a roar that crashed through the well-mannered stillness and echoed off the walls.
And announced his climax to the room.
Chapter Eleven
Mircea staggered through the back door of Martina’s house, along with a burst of rain and wind that set the candles guttering and someone cursing. Someone else went running, and something hit the floor with a clatter, scattering in a thousand rolling pieces. Which hurt like the devil when he fell on them.
He decided he didn’t care and hugged the rough wooden floorboards g
ratefully. Whoever had been swearing did it some more. And then tugged the sodden cloak off him, which had proven worthless when the clouds opened up halfway back.
Fortunately, he’d been in a gondola, being too weak to walk. Unfortunately, the gondolier had decided that he wasn’t being paid enough for this, and had dropped him off at the end of the street. Which Mircea had never before realized was quite so long.
But he’d made it, and now someone was pulling him into a slumped sprawl against the nearest wall, giving him a strange angle on the large room. Or maybe that was him. He had the feeling he might not be entirely level.
Thankfully, the kitchen was the one room where nobody cared if you sprawled in the corner. The rest of the palazzo felt alien with its glass this and inlaid that. The house Mircea had grown up in wouldn’t have been thought fit for a self-respecting tradesman in Venice, much less one of the wealthy merchants, who lived like the princes they thought they were.
But the kitchen was better, with its rough, open board ceiling, plain plaster walls, and plainer furniture. There was an old, scarred table, a few wooden stools, rows of shiny brass pots, and a couple pieces of cracked pottery that the cats ate out of when they weren’t feasting on Zaneta’s bird. And a big stone fireplace belching out enough heat to warm him, even now . . .
Mircea liked the kitchen.
He liked it better a few seconds later, when something appeared under his nose. Something that smelled better than . . . than . . . oh, God. His fangs broke through fresh young skin, sliding in cleanly, but still wrenching a gasp from whoever was providing such wonderful, such amazing, such—
His brain shut down, and for a few moments, he just fed.
At some point, the lovely arm went away, to be replaced by another, hairier version. It didn’t matter; it was wonderful, too. And slowly, he managed to identify the little things he was sitting on.