30

Casimir

"She's lovely, Casimir," Martin says, downing the last of the bubbles in his glass. "Will you be keeping her?"

"She's not a piece of art or some ancient relic," I point out. "It's not as if I can just—"

"Psh." He cuts me off with a dramatic wave of his hand. "Semantics."

Even after nearly a century of acquaintance, I'm not entirely certain what manner of creature Martin is. Or if Martin is truly his name, rather than just the moniker he's chosen to go by this century.

Because despite his exuberant, youthful nature, there's something ancient in his eyes. A deep cerulean, they sparkle in a nearly unlined face made up of delicate, almost elven features. His short, slender frame barely reaches the height of my shoulder, and the points of his ears seem to suggest he does indeed have some kind of fae or elven lineage, though Martin himself is singular. Unlike any other being I've met.

He seems to be well-aware of that singularity, and revels in it, possessing an undeniable magnetism that's won him a wide circle of friends. His appreciation of beauty in the form of art and sculpture and antiquities also means our paths have crossed frequently over the years.

"Ophelia and I have a business arrangement," I say, hoping it will be enough to put the topic to rest.

Even if that same topic is never far from my mind. It's been lingering there for days, growing louder and more insistent with each time I feed from her, each time I lose myself in the heat and the pleasure of her, each night we pass curled up together in my bed.

"Oh?" Martin asks. "What kind of business arrangement might that be? And would it have anything to do with that exquisite painting you stole right out from under my nose the other night?"

"How did you—" I start, but don't bother finishing the question. The market for a piece like that is unimaginably small, and of course he would have been in the fray somewhere.

Martin's eyes twinkle. "It's no great matter, truly. And if the rumors about its final destination are true, then I'm happy enough to have missed it."

"As happy as you'll be to sell the emeralds you've been sitting on these past few weeks?" I ask, redirecting the conversation back to the reason I came here tonight.

We spend the next few minutes engaged in some quiet haggling before he finally relents, excusing himself to make a phone call to one of his associates.

It gives me a moment alone, and my eyes find Ophelia across the crowded room, drawn to her like a magnet.

It's where they've been drawn all evening.

In every quiet moment and every lull in conversation—if I'm being honest, even in the midst of those conversations—I'm unable to stop myself from seeking her out.

I like having Ophelia here. I like seeing her enjoying herself and I like how natural it seems for her to step into this world. In the short time we've been here, she appears to already have made a dozen new friends. All evening I've been torn between striding over to claim some of her time for myself and leaving her to her fun.

And now, after wrapping up my conversation with Martin on promises he'll be in touch about transferring the jewels in exchange for a small fortune and a painting not quite so extravagant as the one I recently purchased, I'm eager to call it a night.

Any other evening, I might stay and see if there's any more business to be drummed up, or perhaps simply to distract myself with some company. A few more hours of diversion before returning to the emptiness of my home.

But tonight I'm eager to leave, and as I cross the room and catch Ophelia's gaze, I might almost be able to convince myself the warmth in her eyes and the small smile on her lips when I ask if she's ready to go mean she's feeling the same.

Hours later, when Ophelia and I are both sprawled naked and panting in my bed, a soft ding has me reaching over the side of the mattress to find my phone where it's lost in the pile of our discarded clothes on the floor.

"Ugh," Ophelia groans beside me, rolling over so she can shoot me a glare. "Phones in bed is one of my biggest pet peeves. I think we need a rule against it."

"Already making rules?" I murmur. "Let me find a pad of paper so I can start writing them down."

She lets out another frustrated grunt and leans into me, sinking her teeth lightly into my shoulder in a disgruntled little bite that does very indecent things to my cock where it's just barely covered by the sheet.

"Careful," I warn. "If you'll remember, I do bite back."

"Yeah, yeah," she scoffs. "I'd like to see you try."

I'll have to take her up on that later, but right at the moment I'm caught between the email that's just landed in my inbox, and her comment about making a rule.

I think I'd like to make rules with Ophelia.

Rules like no phones in bed, and always giving each other a heads-up when we're about to do something reckless or dangerous or both. Rules like she lets me tend to her after accepting my bite, and I allow her unfettered access to my hair whenever she wants to tangle those greedy hands of hers into it.

Rules like there will never be anyone else for either of us, ever again.

The depth of conviction in that last thought draws me up short and shakes me out of my distraction.

Speaking of reckless, dangerous things…

I force myself to turn my attention back to my phone and the reason I picked it up in the first place, opening the message with a few quick taps.

I read the email, then read it again. A slow smile spreads across my face, and Ophelia takes notice immediately.

"What is it?"

"Do you have plans tomorrow night?"

She arches a brow. "Uh, no? At least not any that don't involve you and this bed and something I saw earlier in your bedside table drawer that looked a hell of a lot like handcuffs."

"You've been snooping?"

"You left it open."

"And who would be wearing these handcuffs, if that's indeed what you saw?"

She shakes her head and huffs a laugh, eyes sparkling as she nods toward my phone. "Back on subject. What has you grinning like you just won some sort of lottery, and why do you want to know what I'm up to tomorrow night?"

"I'm taking you to another party."

"Whose party?"

Instead of answering, I tug her to me, kissing the hell out of her before I drag my fangs over her lower lip in a sharp-tender tease that makes her gasp.

"Let me surprise you?"

For a moment, a cloud of something like doubt, like hesitation or displeasure or any number of things I absolutely don't want to see there, darkens her expression.

It sends a corresponding pang of worry into the center of my chest. Did I overstep? Is this not what she wants, not what we're supposed to be to one another—going to parties, fraternizing outside the case, doing anything beyond losing ourselves to pleasure in the shadows of this room?

But she covers it quickly, collapsing into me with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. Surprise me, then."

"Good," I tell her, and though I'm pleased with the acceptance, I don't forget that look or stop wondering what it might mean.

But she seems ready enough to let it go.

Ophelia swings one leg over my hips, pulling herself up to straddle me. She catches both my wrists in her hands and presses them into the pillows beneath me, a wicked grin settling on her lips.

"Now, about those handcuffs…"