wall it felt warm to the touch, and a diffuse white glow enveloped her spread fingers. Very neat!
Discovering this new place allowed her to forget about where she was. Later she’d think of a plan to escape, or at least to stay alive until Rogan came for her. Because he had to. Because he wouldn’t abandon her at the hands of a cruel, infuriating king.
She sat on the mattress, firm but comfortable. The leather armchair offered another cosy haven. When she slumped onto it, Liv noticed some kind of wooden closet on the other side of the door. Quick on her feet, she pulled on the handle, but in spite of her efforts the panel remained locked. Too bad! Now she’d have to fall back on the hundreds of books displayed to find a clue as to the reason of her presence here.
First, she went to the writing desk, and pulled open both drawers. Pencils, an eraser, a sharpener, some Scotch tape, graphics, and dozens of sheets filled with numbers sat in the right drawer. Nothing interesting there. Then she pulled a very big, heavy book from the left drawer. Using both hands, she placed it carefully on the writing desk. Bound with worn-out leather, it looked more like an ancient manuscript than a novel.
As Liv lifted open the front cover, she felt like a trespasser. How weird was that? Whoever wrote this book must have been a lengthy storyteller, she’d need weeks to read it through. As it happened, she didn’t believe she had weeks—probably not even days.
She flipped through the pages, dipping into passages, overlooking entire sections written in a foreign language and impossible to decipher, reading selectively until a particular turn of phrase caught her eye. There, spelt in black letters— The Bringer of Death.
Liv realised she was holding the book of prophecies Rogan had told her about. No wonder it looked so ancient. Should she marvel at this stroke of luck? Or wonder if someone had deliberately left it there for her to find? Now, who would do that and why? Holy mackerel, but she didn’t care a whit about the reason for the manuscript’s presence. She must read this!
As she bent over the book, her heart suddenly veered. Something rattled in the pit of her stomach. A mix of excitement and apprehension, the uncanny sensation raised goose pimples on her arms and grew stronger with each passing second. Acting on impulse, Liv put the book back in the drawer. She stood up, a hand fluttering to her belly to soothe the baffling gut reaction she was experiencing. When her cell door banged open, she stared with wide eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
This could not be happening. Dear God, why him? Now that his eyes bore into her, she recognised the inescapable feeling for what it was—desire and anticipation. She had felt him coming, no doubt about that.
Her body had responded to his. Like a sexual connection. Like an inner vibe beyond her control. Truth be told, she had felt the same vibe in the motel room. As she had run into his arms, believing he was Rogan, she had sensed something similar then. And she had dismissed it. But no, no, no, this could not be happening.
She hated his guts. She loathed the fact that he played vampire almighty and toyed with her weaknesses. She couldn’t stand his arrogance, meanness, and superiority. Most of all, she despised herself for desiring him, for wanting to feel his finger on her again.
He had used her feelings for Rogan to jump her bones, he had taken her prisoner into a blood-sucking alien world, and he was probably plotting another of his devious schemes. Yet when she looked at his gorgeous face, she wanted to shiver and spread her legs.
Why had Rogan left her? Where was he? How come she wasn’t connected to him instead of the vampire king now stepping into her cell? If destiny had decided to play a trick on her, it wasn’t funny. So Liv conjured an image of Rogan to muster up her strength before Raskhan could lay down his cards.
“Where’s Rogan?”
“Hopefully
Discovering this new place allowed her to forget about where she was. Later she’d think of a plan to escape, or at least to stay alive until Rogan came for her. Because he had to. Because he wouldn’t abandon her at the hands of a cruel, infuriating king.
She sat on the mattress, firm but comfortable. The leather armchair offered another cosy haven. When she slumped onto it, Liv noticed some kind of wooden closet on the other side of the door. Quick on her feet, she pulled on the handle, but in spite of her efforts the panel remained locked. Too bad! Now she’d have to fall back on the hundreds of books displayed to find a clue as to the reason of her presence here.
First, she went to the writing desk, and pulled open both drawers. Pencils, an eraser, a sharpener, some Scotch tape, graphics, and dozens of sheets filled with numbers sat in the right drawer. Nothing interesting there. Then she pulled a very big, heavy book from the left drawer. Using both hands, she placed it carefully on the writing desk. Bound with worn-out leather, it looked more like an ancient manuscript than a novel.
As Liv lifted open the front cover, she felt like a trespasser. How weird was that? Whoever wrote this book must have been a lengthy storyteller, she’d need weeks to read it through. As it happened, she didn’t believe she had weeks—probably not even days.
She flipped through the pages, dipping into passages, overlooking entire sections written in a foreign language and impossible to decipher, reading selectively until a particular turn of phrase caught her eye. There, spelt in black letters— The Bringer of Death.
Liv realised she was holding the book of prophecies Rogan had told her about. No wonder it looked so ancient. Should she marvel at this stroke of luck? Or wonder if someone had deliberately left it there for her to find? Now, who would do that and why? Holy mackerel, but she didn’t care a whit about the reason for the manuscript’s presence. She must read this!
As she bent over the book, her heart suddenly veered. Something rattled in the pit of her stomach. A mix of excitement and apprehension, the uncanny sensation raised goose pimples on her arms and grew stronger with each passing second. Acting on impulse, Liv put the book back in the drawer. She stood up, a hand fluttering to her belly to soothe the baffling gut reaction she was experiencing. When her cell door banged open, she stared with wide eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
This could not be happening. Dear God, why him? Now that his eyes bore into her, she recognised the inescapable feeling for what it was—desire and anticipation. She had felt him coming, no doubt about that.
Her body had responded to his. Like a sexual connection. Like an inner vibe beyond her control. Truth be told, she had felt the same vibe in the motel room. As she had run into his arms, believing he was Rogan, she had sensed something similar then. And she had dismissed it. But no, no, no, this could not be happening.
She hated his guts. She loathed the fact that he played vampire almighty and toyed with her weaknesses. She couldn’t stand his arrogance, meanness, and superiority. Most of all, she despised herself for desiring him, for wanting to feel his finger on her again.
He had used her feelings for Rogan to jump her bones, he had taken her prisoner into a blood-sucking alien world, and he was probably plotting another of his devious schemes. Yet when she looked at his gorgeous face, she wanted to shiver and spread her legs.
Why had Rogan left her? Where was he? How come she wasn’t connected to him instead of the vampire king now stepping into her cell? If destiny had decided to play a trick on her, it wasn’t funny. So Liv conjured an image of Rogan to muster up her strength before Raskhan could lay down his cards.
“Where’s Rogan?”
“Hopefully
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