The Pale Waters (#1 Reclaimed Souls) by Della Roth Page A

trouser buttons. “No
markings?” I shake my head. No, no markings. “Shall I keep
going?”
    I swallow. “Aren’t you going to be late for
something?” His fingers scorch me, leaving little burning
sensations all over me. My tummy flips and I feel it there .
The heat. The lust. The urgency.
    “I take that to mean you want me to hurry,”
his husky voice answers.
    The button snaps open. Roland bends down
and, with both hands, he lowers my pants. I step out one foot at a
time. I wear no undergarments. He stays in the crouched position,
the top of his head near my sex, and looks at me. Eyes like
fire.
    “You have no idea of what you do to me,
Rahda. The way I’ve always wanted you, needed you, waited for
you.”
    “You speak nonsense.”
    “Probably. Your love will ruin me, consume
me, burn me.”
    “What do you want from me?” I moan, whether
from anticipation or frustration, I know not. He hasn’t moved.
Roland could easily touch me, lick me, own me, and I’d be lost
forever. I might even forget my own name, if so. But he just stays
there, crouched down, looking up at me with eyes filled with secret
longing and darkness. Like he’s of two minds, hearts, souls.
    “I want you to do what you are meant to do,”
he says.
    His hands are on my hips, his fingers
kneading softly, exploring the skin on the sides of my thighs,
hips, and butt. His thumbs slide wide, skimming, and soon I realize
I’m leaning against the edge of his bed and his thumbs are hovering
over my hairless sex.
    “What am I meant to do?” I croak in between
heavy breaths as his head moves back and forth, as if he’s
conflicted over what to do next. Should he touch me? Should he not
touch me? I wonder what makes him hesitate, if there’s more than
attraction brewing here, or if he’s deliberately messing with my
head. Deliberate or not, it completely disorients me.
    Instead of answering me, he pushes himself
away from me, stands, and kisses my forehead.
    “You are right,” he says calmly, his face
smooth and scar-free. He consults his wristwatch and then looks at
the door. “I will be late for something. Use my bathroom to
clean yourself up. I’ll find something for you to wear, but Cat
will have to assist you. I am expected in The Gardens in fifteen
minutes.”
    My mouth gapes open as he walks away,
leaving me with an avalanche of mixed emotions.

TWENTY-THREE
     
    I EMERGE FROM ROLAND’S SHOWER CLEAN but
conflicted. I get the sense that he cannot make up his mind about
me. It’s possible his statements are meant to disorient and confuse
me.
    Can he see me wavering? Or worse: can he see
how much I love him?
    I cannot forget what he told me last night
about how I am not unique, how he’ll pretend I don’t have another
agenda, and how he won’t care about whatever fate awaits me when he
discards me. Which completely contradicts what he said a few
moments ago to Cat.
    It’s amazing to me the amount of emotions
that I’ve felt over the last twenty-four hours.
    I use a plush white towel to dry my hair and
body, wrap it around me, and step into Roland’s bedroom. Instantly,
I spot something on the bed: a formal sterling silver fabriskin
robe encrusted with black diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. I touch
it, expecting it to be hard, stiff, and cold; yet the sterling
silver is crafted in such as way that it feels like the softest,
most pliable silk.
    “It will look glorious on you, Rahda,” a
throaty voice says from the doorway to my right.
    Cat Evinas.
    She always shows up when I least expect her.
I wonder where Roland is, but I won’t ask. Not her. Not when I’m
not sure of my own emotions.
    Tonight, Cat’s black fabriskin robe is a
series of braided black diamonds sewn into silky threads that, with
the slightest touch, might suddenly burst into a million sparkly
bits. Her silver-gray hair is pulled high, braided and threaded
with the same black diamonds and twisted into a bun. In her arms,
she holds her communicator tablet. Always