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

the chief of staff.
Always ready to serve Roland, even if it means taking out the
trash, or, as the case tonight might be, getting me ready in time
for the event in The Gardens.
    “I cannot possibly wear this,” I say to her.
“What if I…”
    “Ruin it?” She says in a voice that clearly
indicates she believes it is entirely probable. Ruin … the
word seems to be very popular these last few hours. “We do not have
much time for debate. I will help you dress.”
    “I can manage on my own.”
    “Doubtful.” She clucks her tongue, places
the communicator tablet on Roland’s bed with such ease that I get
the feeling she’s used to being in here, and pries the towel out of
my hands.
    Inspecting me, she makes a small remark
about the cuts on my face. Her eyes move lower. Her gaze makes me
feel warm.
    “No markings?” she asks in reference to my
lack of tattoos.
    “I am not branded ,” I hiss, but then
I immediately regret my choice of words. Cat, with the tattoos on
the back of her neck and around her breasts, was undeniably marked
by someone, bound to them for life through their visual
identifications. Most hid their markings. Cat does not; she proudly
displays her tattoos through her sheer fabriskin robes, but she
visibly flinches at my statement.
    “I am not ashamed of my past,” she declares.
“Can you say the same?”
    I could have said anything. I could have
been defensive. I could have kept quiet, but I say the one thing
that she doesn’t expect me to say.
    “I’m sorry, Cat.”
    She searches my face intently, and I get the
feeling she can read my mind. “Yes, I can see that you are. Now,
let me assist you. Roland will not appreciate our tardiness.” Cat,
standing in front of me, mere inches away, directs her hands to my
wet hair, whips it around, and expertly crafts it into a
sophisticated bun without the aid of any pins. “Lovely,” she states
warmly. Her breath reminds me of brandy and her earthy, exotic
floral scent intoxicates me.
    I sway into her.
    She knows what she’s doing to me.
    Her spiky fingernails trail down the side of
my neck, over my clavicle, and down my breastbone. Almost the same
path that Roland’s fingers explored before removing my trousers.
She draws little circles there. I quiver at her touch. It aches and
burns. I inhale her scent.
    Cat leans in and her lips gently brush
against mine. It isn’t passionate or intense. Her kiss seems to be
more of an action she cannot stop herself from doing.
    I suck in a frenzied breath. Then her hand
goes lower.
    ***
    My legs weaken and virtually go out on me. I
collapse to the bed. Cat is on me in a flash; the diamonds on her
fabriskin robe scratch me.
    “Do you want me to stop?” she asks.
    “No,” I moan. Vaguely, I am aware that she
holds, in one hand, a jeweled dagger.
    ***
    I’m conflicted on whether to cry out in pain
or pleasure. It all feels the same at this point.
    Cat leans up and watches me writhe in
intense pleasure, a wicked smile on her feline face. Using the
jeweled dagger, she carves a pattern into the skin just below my
breast. But I don’t care. Even that feels good.
    “I will claim you,” she says into my
mouth.
    ***
    I sag against the bed, spent, as Cat’s
tongue begins to lick the wound under my breast. Her saliva stings,
but I’m too exhausted to say anything. I watch as she rubs a
healing balm over the carving.
    “I knew you would be delectable,” she says a
moment later, after she straightens her fabriskin robe and pulls me
to my feet. Cat looks impeccable; not even one hair out of place.
She fixes my hair, which is everywhere . I feel drugged,
intoxicated, and delirious all at once.
    There is no way I can even stand up on my
own, much less attend some sort of formal event. I say as much to
Cat.
    “Nonsense,” she declares in her
authoritative tone. “But we must get going. We are almost nearly
fashionably late.” She winks at me.
    She drapes the silky-soft sterling silver
fabriskin robe over my