Sheltered Page 2

  “You were her favorite,” she whispered to the teapot. Glancing down at the taller-than-average teacups, she smiled. “Yes, you’re lovely, too.”

  A few minutes until teatime. She carefully lifted each cup and saucer, placing all four around the table. Then, cupping her hands around the teapot, she waited for a few seconds until the heat from the tea warmed her fingers. “See now, that’s why you’re the favorite. Well done.”

  Standing tall, she hurried from the comforting blue paneled walls of the cozy tearoom and out into the great room. Mother had allowed her father to choose the décor of this room, and this room alone. His fondness for the stone architecture of old castles scattered across Europe was prevalent. He’d brought a bit of above-ground architecture down here to her.

  Bette abruptly stopped in her tracks, eyes fixed on the old woven carpet beneath her feet. Her father no longer lived. Both her parents were just…gone.

  Her vision became instantly distorted. Details blurred. The room shifted out of focus. Blinking helped, but not enough. Slowly, she carefully made her way to the large mirror near the entry. Peering into the carved mahogany-looking glass, she tried to discern the problem, but she was out of focus too.

  What she could see was the deep mauve shade of her gown, but none of the expensive details. Bette brushed her fingers over her shoulders, relieved to touch the thick, lace cap sleeves on her shoulders. The lace bodice flared over her hips, and the skirt? Layered tulle. It floated as she walked, brushing the floor with each step. Lovely. At least that’s what her gown should look like, and she could feel the materials, but why couldn’t she see it?

  She leaned forward, looking at her reflection more closely. There was the problem. Tears again. “Oh, must you? I only came in here for… Why did I come in here? The door!”

  Bette hurried to the door, methodically checking the locks. Top to bottom. She unlocked the small slide bolt at the top of the door, then slid it carefully back into place. The deadbolt. Unlock. Lock. The solid slide bolt in the center of the door came next, the routine the same, and lastly the small bolt connecting the door to the floor. Her home was secure.

  Her mind now at ease, Bette retuned to the tearoom with her head high and sat, adjusting her skirt to drape evenly over the sides of the chair. Patiently, she sat with her hands folded in her lap, smiling as she glanced around the table.

  When the clock chimed, she lifted the teapot from the tray and poured her cup full. Slowly, she sipped her tea in silence. When her cup was empty, Bette stood, moved to the next chair and poured the tea, this time adding a touch of sugar.

  Once the cup was empty, she moved to the third seat. Bette poured the tea, and sipped leisurely until it was gone. Fourth and last seat. She poured the tea again, but this time the slow stream tapered off to a drip. The teapot was empty. Bette gaped at the inside of her cup.

  It wasn’t full. She didn’t have a whole cup. How impolite to short a cup! How could she have miscalculated? She needed to steep another pot right away.

  Bette stood, carrying the teapot in both hands as she hurried from the table. At the door she turned back to make her apologies, but when she scanned the vacant room, she hugged the teapot close, a pang of sorrow in her chest.

  “No,” she said softly, her gaze landing on each empty chair. No one was here with her. She had no guests to impress. She was alone. “Perhaps not.”

  * * * *

  Bette woke from a sound sleep, consciousness returning with a burst of adrenaline. Eyes open and searching, she could barely make out a single object within her dark bedroom. She sat up in bed, perfectly still and listening intently for the noise she thought she’d heard. Had she imagined the footsteps? She heard nothing now. But if she’d truly heard someone walking, had they only passed by her door? Or were they inside her home?

  No, she couldn’t pinpoint what had woken her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was inside her home. Bette dove for the lamp at her bedside, and when she switched it on, the soft click echoed through the room. Her hand trembled in the glow of the light, and she drew in a shaky breath, afraid of who she might see standing in here with her.

  Bette glanced around her bedroom. Everything was in its place. Nothing moved. No sound carried to her from outside her bedroom door, or even beyond, but she couldn’t dismiss this fear.

  Something thrummed inside Bette, an intuition, a warning. Reaching to her nightstand, she curled her fingers around the handle of her jewel-encrusted letter opener she kept within arms’ reach. She poked her bare feet from the covers, then gingerly touched her toes to the soft carpet and stood, the hem of her satin and lace nightgown sliding down her legs to brush the tops of her feet.

  Tiptoeing across her bedroom, she reached out a hand to her high-backed green and gold chair, steadying herself as she stepped around it and headed for her bedroom door. She slowly opened the door, but hugged the frame as she peeked into the great room. A part of her wanted to call out, to ask if anyone was in her home, but fear blocked out the words, choked off her voice.

  Several nerve-wracking moments passed without a whisper of a sound, but Bette couldn’t put her mind at ease until she checked the locks. She would have to cross the great room. The soft glow of her lamp behind her did little to give her courage, but she dare not look back, not now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness ahead.

  Crossing should be easy, just put one foot in front of the other. She could do this. Bette stepped into the great room, and suddenly something moved beside her, a shadow shifting in the darkness, visible from the corner of her eye. She jumped, unable to suppress her gasp of surprise, and scrambled back into her bedroom. There was no thought behind her reaction. It wasn’t as if the dim light at her bedside could save her, but somehow seeing what was coming seemed less terrifying than being attacked by the unknown.

  Bette covered her mouth to keep silent, and to stop her lips from quivering. Her other hand held the letter opener, her grip tightening in preparation. The edges of the makeshift weapon weren’t necessarily sharp, but the tip was pointed enough to damage flesh. Would inflicting an injury be enough of a distraction for her to escape the intruder? She wasn’t sure. By the size of the shadow, she assumed a man had entered her home, and men were indomitably resilient.

  With long, deep breaths, she forced her breathing to calm. She needed to hear beyond her own panic and listen for movement in the next room. If she could hear the approaching steps, she might be better prepared to strike.

  Excruciatingly long moments passed with no sound, no hint of movement. Had anyone been there? Had she imagined the shadow, and perhaps even the sound that had woken her?

  Bette no longer trusted her senses, but this instinctual, driving need for self-preservation was difficult to ignore. With no further proof of a trespasser, she decided she needed some clarity.

  The light switch to the great room was close. She needed to dash down the short hall and reach around the corner. Bette stepped from her room, and that shadow moved with her, followed her… It was her shadow.

  She pressed her hand to her forehead. Lack of sleep had finally taken its toll. Sounds woke her, kept her on edge. Catnaps no longer sustained her energy, and now she was jumping at her own shadow. When she could no longer slumber soundly through the day, she’d tried to sleep at night, but sleep was not only illusive, it left her vulnerable, to both real and imagined dangers.

  It was all in her head. Again. Bette loathed her fears, her confusion, and the lack of control over her life. Could she even classify this existence as life?

  Babette, the wealthiest woman in Valenna and the last of the illustrious Dautry lineage, had been reduced to cowering inside her home, fearful of the people living within her own city.

  Squaring her shoulders, she ignored the warning bells ringing inside her head and walked down the hall, flipped on the light switch to the great room, then made her way
to the door. She resisted the temptation to rush her steps, to look behind her. She’d never get to the door if she gave in to her imagined fears.

  The door to her home was closed, and Bette reached out, tested the doorknob. It remained locked, as did the slide bolt, the dead bolt, and the small slide bolts at the top and bottom. Clearly no one had entered through the door.

  She mustered her courage, and cautiously pressed her ear to the door. Silence. If movement outside had woken her, then it had since ceased. Bette released the breath she’d been holding and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

  Backing away from the door, Bette cautiously made her way to the far corner of the great room and eased onto the loveseat beneath a stone alcove. Yes, the wall at her back and the slight alcove gave her a false sense of security, but she’d take any little thing to help ease her nerves.

  Pillow hugged to her chest, she lifted her feet onto the loveseat, tucked her toes beneath her nightgown. And so her routine began. Bette would sit here, staring at the door for hours, then return to bed and lie awake for another hour at least. This had been her version of normal for almost ten years.

  It was no longer safe to venture out, no matter the time of day or night. With the aristocracy dwindling, and whatever wealth remaining in the city coveted by those in power, Bette had become a highly desired commodity.

  On two different occasions a male had cornered her. Both men had intended to bite her, hoping to leave her with a mating mark branded onto her neck. All it took was one bite, the wound left to heal on its own, and she would be trapped, forever bound to that man. As her mate, a man would have every right to her, and to the wealth and property her family had amassed over the last nine centuries.

  The city’s Guardians had rescued her from those attacks, but they too had known exactly who Bette was and what they could gain by claiming her. At first, between the looks they’d given her and the taunting, she’d expected several Guardians to come after her, but they never did.

  After a time, she suspected the Guardians only kept their distance at Captain Basteen’s command, but Bette wasn’t stupid enough to believe she would be left in peace. Lady Cecilia had a son, as did the captain. No doubt they had plans for her, to add her wealth to their own. The only way they could take her possessions without forcing her to mate one of their sons, was to have her killed, and soon someone would get tired of waiting to catch her off guard and take it upon themselves to decide her fate once and for all.

  Some nights her door would rattle, and a dark, masculine chuckle would float to her ears from the other side. She feared she would lose this battle. These men were hunters. Bette was trapped, and they were patient.

  Bette forced herself to set the letter opener on the small table beside her, finally certain she was alone. She hated having her only defense out of her hand, but it remained within reach.

  In a few hours, she would wake with the setting sun, take care to dress properly and fix her hair and makeup. She continued to act the aristocrat in her home, still sitting to take tea at midnight, doing anything to feel normal.

  Her life was far from normal. She was vampire. Her body craved nourishment from more than food. Taking blood from anyone within the city was not a workable solution, and venturing above was an impossible task with the Guardians blocking the gate. The lack of blood in her system had caused her to physically age.

  Bette had a few hundred years on her, and prior to Lord Baudouin’s death, she’d kept up her lovely appearance of a beguiling woman in her mid-twenties. Now? After confinement and blood deprivation? She looked closer to thirty-five, or perhaps a little older. Her skin had lost some elasticity, the luster of her hair had faded, and her body was no longer quite as nimble. Aging was irreversible.

  She stifled a sob. Her life had become terribly miserable. Bette glanced around her home at the precious heirlooms her father had collected long ago as the city’s emissary. He’d been proud, showing her the priceless artifacts he’d been gifted from the wealthy lords of Romania, Spain, and even Russia. Her father had been well liked, appreciated for his worldly knowledge and his commitment to open communication between all vampire cities.

  There would never be another man as revered across all borders. There would never be another Dautry. Bette was the last.

  The agitated buzzing inside her ramped up suddenly, and she cried out as she launched off the chair and onto her feet, pacing. She clasped her hands over her chest, attempting to calm the vibrations coming from inside her while her mind screamed for her to move fast, run far. She couldn’t. She was trapped.

  “Run where?” Bette asked aloud.

  When no answer came, she answered, “I can’t run.”

  What was this? Feeling trapped was a constant, but never had it manifested in physical symptoms. She rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck from side to side, attempting to ease the building tension. It didn’t work. The frantic urge returned. Over and over, she whispered to the need inside her, “No room to move. Why run?”

  She resumed pacing, her steps hurried, her path traveled without conscious thought. Moving felt good. Needed. She counted her steps around the coffee table, from wall to wall, from wall to…door.

  Bette yelped and jumped. She didn’t like being near the front door, hadn’t realized her pacing had brought her close. Backing away, she placed her cool palms to her cheeks. It had finally happened. She’d gone mad.

  She retreated to her bedroom, closed the door, and sat on her bed, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress as she rocked forward and back. Sleep would help, but the luxury would never be possible. Not like this. Whatever this anxiousness was, it bubbled inside her like she’d guzzled down a pot of coffee. How could she even attempt to close her eyes with her mind and pulse racing? With only a few hours left until sunset, should she try?

  Bette glanced at her clock to confirm the time. Not sunset. It was early morning. She’d felt the sun’s rising. No longer a warning of the danger in the form of a tingling at the back of her neck, the feeling had become a strong pull to walk into the dawn light and find peace in death.

  If the sun called, then she had little time left in this world. She had nothing to fight for, no reason to go on. Like nearly all vampires, what she longed for most was family. If she was already feeling the pull, then only a fated mate or a child could keep the sun’s call at bay. Obviously she had neither.

  Bette looked around her home, tears streaming down her cheeks. The world she lived in had broken her down, and she no longer saw herself as a strong woman. With nothing to ground her, she would soon answer the sun’s call. The urge to run out into the sun hit her again and she curled her fingers into the bed sheets until her knuckles turned white.

  When the disorienting urge to run had finally passed, she opened her eyes, thankful to still be within her home. She longed to fight this, to live, but how? Some made the battle to deny the sun their permanent mission, thriving in the challenge, but she wasn’t capable of such fortitude. Truly, she didn’t need to be strong to win this battle. For Bette, the key would be to eliminate the need for this fight.

  In her long life, she’d failed to accomplish two of the things she’d wanted most. She had no mate and no child. Finding her fated mate would negate the call of the sun, but she hadn’t encountered him yet, and at this point in her life it would be impossible. And even if it was possible for love between mates to become strong enough to overshadow the sun, she feared she didn’t have time for such a love to grow.

  The only solution was to bear a child. A mother’s bond to her offspring was often greater than any call. No, it wouldn’t last forever. Once her child had grown old enough, the call of the sun would likely return, but maybe by then she would love her mate. Either way, she wanted to experience a mother’s unconditional love for her child before she died.

  The problem was, conceiving a child was not biologically possible for
a vampire female without a mating mark. She would have to dupe a man into marking her, mating her. Tying herself to a man was a nasty double-edged sword, and it was something she dare not attempt here in Valenna. The few men who might yet have a good heart here would not be able to protect her from those who desired her wealth. To mate a man from Valenna would only get them both killed.

  She needed to eliminate money as a factor and that meant leaving it all behind. To survive, Bette would need to travel to Balinese, the fabled city of peace. In a city devoid of political unrest, she would have a chance to handpick the man she hoped would father her child. Though it wouldn’t be as simple as walking in and cozying up to a stranger. First she had to find a man who didn’t frighten the life out of her.

  Then there was the sun. It wouldn’t ease its calling, and Bette would have to hide the signs. Should a man discover the sun was a factor, he would bolt in the opposite direction. And could she blame him? No man wanted his choices, his future, stolen from him. When bent on avoiding the sun, a vampire could become quite desperate. Bette was desperate. Given the opportunity, would she mark a man without his permission? She wasn’t sure.

  If Bette could hide, or perhaps distract from her connection with the sun, then she only needed to make certain the man perceived she’d completely fallen for him. She would be a loving, dedicated mate, and as long as he remained unaware she’d taken away his choice in the matter, he should have no complaints.

  It wasn’t in her nature to deceive, but to survive the sun she would have to become something she was not. Manipulative.

  Chapter 3

  Balinese

  Rollin shut the door to his home and locked it behind him, checked the sword at his hip a second time, and then reached back to double check the doorknob before heading down the corridor. Locked.

  The door didn’t need to be locked. He lived in a good section of the city, even for one of the lower levels. It had become a habit, though a strange one. It wasn’t as if he locked the door when he was home.