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 his 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
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 his 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
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