Nightmaster. Susan Krinard
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But when she’d seen Ares’s interest, she knew that ploy wouldn’t work with him. She needed to arouse more than his lust; she had to intrigue him, engage his intellect and admiration as well as his desire.
But she’d also have to “negotiate” with that dark, animal side. The side that had reacted so violently to the touch of a human hand.
Yet his hand had caressed her so gently afterward, and she’d felt his regret. “Sentimental,” Palemon had said. Ares had come as close to an apology as any Opir could.
Trinity smiled grimly as she put one foot in front of the other, careful of her strangely uncertain balance. Most humans believed that Nightsiders couldn’t experience emotions that weren’t directly related to survival or protecting their status in the Citadel. Perhaps it would be easier to manipulate Ares than she’d had any right to hope.
But she knew she’d be lying to herself if she denied her own loss of emotional discipline. And it wasn’t getting any better with time. She was reminded of her unwilling attraction every instant she was in Ares’s presence. He smelled not of blood but of wholly masculine scents she couldn’t quite name. His uncommon black hair, drawn into a simple queue at the back of his head, framed his starkly handsome face like raven’s wings, making her ache with the need to bury her fingers in it. His nearly human eyes had an almost metallic sheen that reminded her of a dagger’s blade, yet she could imagine she saw warmth in them.
And his body... Under his loose clothes his physique had been a mystery, but once he had removed his shirt she had seen a chest, shoulders and arms hard with muscle and honed for battle. She remembered how powerful he had been, how graceful and deadly his every move as he’d fought for her.
She could so easily imagine herself in those strong arms, her nails raking his back as he entered her, as she cried out in pleasure and...
A sudden wave of nausea made her stumble again, and she fell against the nearest wall. Ares stopped immediately and turned to grasp her arm.
“You are ill,” he said.
That was concern she heard in his voice, though his speech was harsh and clipped. He caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face to his.
“Are you still in pain?” he demanded. He brushed her lips with the pad of his thumb, and she shivered violently.
Ares scooped her up into his arms. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Trinity only became aware of her surroundings again when she heard the hum of the elevator hurtling upward into the highest levels of the Citadel. Ares had set her on her feet, but his arm around her shoulders prevented her from falling.
She breathed in his scent, her cheek resting against the velvety fabric of his tunic, aware of the slow thump of his heartbeat. The elevator came to a smooth stop, and Ares held her tighter against him.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
Bracing herself against the wall, she pulled away from him. “Yes,” she said. “I...don’t know what happened.”
He frowned. “I will have my human physician examine you.”
“Please,” she said. “I’m all right. I...I’m grateful for all you’ve done.”
“You will be given every opportunity to display your gratitude.”
And she was ready to show it, to play the part, to become whatever Ares wanted her to be.
Play the part, she thought. Nothing more....
The elevator door opened onto a grand lobby faced with black marble and punctuated with alabaster busts of presumably important Opiri, each one a stylized depiction carved of planes and angles that she guessed were representatives of Nightsider “art.” Ares urged her down the hall to another set of elevators—three this time, each one marked with an Opir name and an emblem that represented the Household of the Bloodlord to whom it belonged.
Ares helped her into the one identified with the design of a Corinthian helmet. Its interior was padded and gilded like something out of a grand nineteenth-century hotel. It began to rise without any move on Ares’s part and opened to yet another lobby. But this one was not decorated with busts, and it wasn’t empty.
Three humans, two men and a woman—all dressed in deep blue tunics and pants belted with tooled leather—were waiting as if they had expected their master’s arrival. The younger man was missing one eye, and the elder was scarred across the face but standing foursquare against the pull of his years. The woman was middle-aged with a round, pleasant face.
The three serfs bowed, and the scarred man offered a large silver goblet of liquid as fresh and red as the petals of a newly opened rose. Ares accepted the cup and sipped, barely wetting his lips, and then returned it.
Neither of the men paid any visible attention to Trinity, but she could feel them observing her out of the corners of their eyes. She took the opportunity to study them, wondering if any of the three might be connected to the Underground. There was no guarantee that a member of the Underground lived within this Household, but it was her task to find out as quickly as possible.
After introducing Trinity, Ares glanced at the older woman. “Elizabeth, she is unwell,” he said. “Take her to Levi and see that she is cared for. Send Abbie to find suitable clothes.”
“Yes, my lord,” Elizabeth said, bowing again.
“Diego,” he said to the man with the cup, “I will have your report in two hours.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Jonathan,” Ares said, turning to the scarred man. “Ask Cassandra to attend me in my rooms.”
The serf responded with a bow, and all three retreated, Elizabeth supporting Trinity toward a door at the end of the hall. Trinity balked, looking over her shoulder at Ares. He looked back at her, his light eyes unreadable, and disappeared through the double doors.
“Do you need more assistance?” the middle-aged woman asked in a gentle voice.
“I’m all right,” Trinity said, touching her pounding temples. “I’m just a little dizzy, and I have a headache. If you have any pain relievers...”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said with a slight smile. “The Opiri don’t need them, of course, but we do.”
“Who were those men?” Trinity asked as they reached the door.
“Two of the senior serfs. Diego—the young gentleman—is the majordomo of the Household, and Jonathan is the Master of Serfs.”
“Wouldn’t those jobs usually go to vassals?”
“Ares hasn’t any vassals,” she said.
Surprised at Ares’s flouting of Opir custom, Trinity raised a brow. “And what are your duties in the Household?” she asked.
“I guess you could say I look after the women’s matters. You’ve been through a lot today, and there’ll be plenty of time to learn after—”
She didn’t finish, but Trinity knew what she meant. After Ares had done what he’d failed to do at the Claiming. After she’d shared his bed, and he had marked her as his.
No emotion, she reminded herself. No fear, no desire, no admiration. Nothing existed but the mission.
And that mission had well and truly begun.
Chapter 4
They descended a staircase to what Elizabeth referred to as the serf’s quarters and entered a brightly lit corridor. “This is where we live and where Household operations are located,” the older woman said. “Everything above belongs to the Opiri—Ares and his few Freeblood clients.”
Casing the layout of the Household was one of the first things Trinity needed to do. “Is there another way up the tower besides the elevator?” she asked.
Elizabeth threw her an