Worthless: New adult paranormal romance (Age of Blood Book 2) (5 page)

Six

Michael had been acting completely out of the ordinary for twenty-four hours, so might as well throw in another scene.

He left Cece’s – or more accurately, Fay’s – room without so much as a word and went right up to his brother’s bedroom.

There was an unsaid rule about never stepping into his sanctuary; fuck that. He knew that so late in the morning, William was either sleeping or fucking Fay; fuck him. Fuck them both.

The noise warned him that his second guess had been on the mark, and he didn’t feel even a little bit guilty about walking in in the middle of their tryst.

“What the hell is the matter with you!” William yelled, throwing a cover over his fiancée’s bare body.

Unnecessary; Michael didn’t give a flying fuck about her, he didn’t even look.

“You’re a fucking selfish prick, brother, that’s what’s the matter! I used to respect you, and you take this,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of Fay, “more seriously than the needs of a depressed girl fading away every day.”

They both frowned, not even getting what he meant. Sure, both of their mind’s had jumped to Cece, but the golden couple didn’t even see what they’d done wrong.

“Tell me, Fay, were you welcomed in this home? How long was it before someone took you shopping? Did anyone give you directions, or were you applying for janitor jobs because you didn’t think you had a choice?”

Both of them looked as though he’d slapped them.

Good.

“Fuck. She doesn’t need to look for a job she doesn’t want…”

“You’ve enrolled Fay in the Academy,” he spelled out, as William was apparently as thick as he seemed. “And you didn’t even bother to give Cecilia clothes that fit her, the glasses she needs, or the means to get either.”

Then, because the blame had to go where it belonged, he turned to Fay.

“You think your time at Vincent’s was horrid. Do you know Cecilia lived in a bunk room with three other slaves? Do you have any idea what they did to her? You were a princess and she was nothing. And you’ve made her feel exactly the same way here. It would have been kinder to drop her in a rescue center.”

Sure, he was using and abusing flashes he probably shouldn’t have extracted from Cecilia’s mind, but they had to understand how fucking selfish their carelessness had been.

“I’m so…”

“Don’t you dare,” he snapped at his brother. “Don’t you dare apologize to
me.
”

His anger was fading, though. It never lasted long; usually, he didn’t even get to do the whole shouting thing before reason overthrew passion.

“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m moving, and I will be taking Cecilia with me, if she so desires. I’ll see that she’s actually cared for.”

Fay seemed to want to interrupt him, but his gaze taught her better.

She wasn’t talking to her future brother in law, now; she was getting orders from her King.

“You two may carry on living on your little cloud and fuck each other’s brains out to your heart’s content.”

“Michael, Cece’s having therapy, dammit. I thought it might be best to let her be, get her to adapt to the change while she’s getting better.”

Yeah, right.

“I’m quite certain that was exactly your policy with Fay, too. Let her wonder about what her future held, and squeeze into trousers that barely reach her knees in November.”

Apologies were pretty cheap, but excuses? They were plain unacceptable.

“Cecilia’s mind is stronger than either of yours. What she’d lived through would have destroyed us all, and she’s barely wounded. She was a
sex
slave at Vincent’s. And after that, you’ve made her an invisible, unloved, undesirable nuisance in her cousin’s home. Now stand aside brother, while I make her Queen.”

He didn’t know what possessed him to say that, but he wasn’t taking it back – he wasn’t even regretting it. What was left of his anger disappeared, soothed by the prospect he’d just announced out loud.

The prospect of making Cecilia his consort, the Queen of the North American Coven, should have been frightening and pointblank ridiculous, really.

Somehow, it wasn’t. He knew he didn’t love her; he’d known her for a few hours, for god’s sake! But he also knew she was strong, and smart, and more importantly, she fucking deserved to stand at the very top of the world, for once. If he could give her that, even for a little while, he would.

Michael wasn’t as much of a soft hearted fool as one might think, though. He’d met his fair share of men and women who’d been dealt with a crappy hand. The difference was personal. He liked the girl, dammit. After centuries of apathy, he was allowed to want to hang on to the one woman who’d struck him as someone he might wish to keep for longer than a night.

He wasn’t surprised to find Cecilia and Charlotte at the foot of the staircase leading up to William’s room; he hadn’t exactly been quiet.

He stood there, expecting anything from
how dare you speak without my consent
to
oh Michael, yes, I’ll marry you and we’ll have a flock of ginger babies.

He was going to have to explain what he’d meant. The Queen title – the consort title, really – could just be honorary, inconsequential. She’d be nothing more than the head of his Aspirants, if he enthroned her now. Surely, she would find it reasonable? 

Instead of demanding clarifications, she cocked her head and asked, “So, do I get to wear a tiara?”

She had yet to wipe that silly grin off her face. Not because of the whole Queen thing he’d totally said because he felt like being dramatic, but because he’d had her back. No one had ever had her back.

Sure, William had come to get her out of Riverville, and she was quite grateful, but it was no secret that he’d done that for Fay, not her.

Every word Michael had said held true; they’d ignored her, and she hadn’t known where she stood. She hadn’t really doubted that she’d be welcome in their home as long as she needed to be there, but that was just it: it was
their
home. She had no place there, and no direction. An offer to get her into a college would definitely have helped…

However, she knew they hadn’t meant to be hurtful, or negligent. She was a grown ass adult, three years older than Fay; she could take care of herself. She would have eventually.

And yes, if that meant getting a Janitor job, first, so be it. The plan had been simple: working, and saving money by staying at their place for a month, max. Then she would have rented her own flat – or more than likely, her own cupboard.

Instead, after walking out, she found herself sitting in the cab of a posh car, next to Michael Drake, King of all vampires.

It was pretty funny in a way; she was in this mess because she’d gone off with some cute guy at eighteen, now five years later, she was back to square one, only the man was considerably more gorgeous, and the car cost about as much as a small country.

She knew she was safe, though; and more importantly, she was out of William and Fay’s place.

“So, that Aspirant job,” she initiated, breaking the awkward silence. “What does it entail?”

“A lot of smooching; but next Saturday will be the perfect trial run. There are a few issues at the moment; the European Coven had a murder and the main suspect is at large, presumably in New York City, so there will be plenty of discussion in that regards. There also is the matter of an attack on my brother…”

“You mean, when his fancy car was blown to bits? I know, I was in it.”

He did his thing with his eyes turning blue again, and his hand reached out to hers. He just held it in silence, before pulling it up and dropping his lips on her warm skin.

This time, she knew that her desire to jump on his lap and take him for a rodeo had very little to do with the incessant hunger of her wayward body, and a lot to do with the fact that Michael Drake was the ultimate pussy whisperer.

“I’ll see that you aren’t thrown in the crossfire again. We’ve traced the culprit, and it’s just a matter of time until we find her with her hand in the cookie jar.”

“Her?”

Cece was genuinely surprised. Not that she didn’t believe women weren’t capable of assault and murder, but they were supposed to be more subtle: poison, conspiracies, mysterious disappearance… Somehow, a plain old missile seemed disappointing.

“Yes, we’re suspecting Daniela, my main opponent back when I was elected.”

“Electing a King,” she frowned. “It’s a rather strange notion.”

Michael shrugged.

“Worked for Naboo.”

He’d just made a Star Wars reference.
Pardon me while I swoon.

“To be considered, you have to be an ancient with a certain standing, and explain why you’re the best person to hold the position, because once elected, we hold our title for life. That can be a very long time.”

“Got it. The whole immortal thing.”

“Well, truth is, Daniela might have been the better option. She’s a woman, like most of the rulers out there. She’s also more ruthless, and comes with a lot of allies.”

“But?” Cece prompted, quite keen to get her head around it all.

Michael paused, grinning at her.

“You have the most sincere mind I’ve ever heard.”

Oh. She’d quite conveniently forgotten that the King was a freaking
psychic.
That was embarrassing: she thought about naughty, naughty things every freaking five minutes, in his presence.

“Just now, you were thinking
but,
and you said it. Whenever you speak, it’s just what’s on your mind. I love it.”

His smile became wider, yet.

Yeah, she was screwed.

“But, I come with one particular ally no one else can boast to have any pull towards. William. By extension, that also means Aiden Klein, arguably the most powerful individual alive. He happens to be William’s closest his friend.”

Cece nodded; she knew Aiden. The other girls at Vincent’s had been terrified of him; not her. She got his number.

Whenever he turned up, he took the most tired, beat up, stressed out ones amongst them and took them away. When they came back, they
seemed
beat up – but they also reeked of magic. They were sent to the infirmary for a little while, and came out looking better than ever. More to the point they were
always
looking at Aiden with so much awe and respect…

She recalled one young guy in particular; Clive. Like Cece, he’d tried to run more times than she could count, but unfortunately for him, he hadn’t been one of Vincent’s favorites.

There had been a lot of noise amongst the servants and the slaves about him; everyone knew he’d be Vincent’s next
example.
He would have died, bled dry any day, but Aiden turned up, presumably played with him and the next day, Clive was reported dead.

Cece might have bought it if she hadn’t seen a hooded guy of his height and coloring sneak into Aiden’s car.

“So why are Aiden and William so important?”

“Because they are more powerful than just about any other vampire out there. Neither of them can be elected; William is too much of a wildcard, and Aiden is… ineligible. But I’m King because I’m the only person who can rule over them.”

Cece just snorted in disbelieve.

“What?”

“I just don’t buy it.”

He seemed confused, which probably didn’t happen often.

“Buy what?”

“Can’t you read my thoughts?”

Michael shrugged in response.

“I’ve tuned it out. It just gets out of control when I’m angry. I do prefer to at least pretend to be normal when I can.”

“Either way, it should be obvious. Pardon me if I’m wrong, but you’ve just kicked your brother’s ass – so, I don’t buy any of it. You haven’t been elected because of William, or even Aiden. They’ve picked you because you’re you.”

Seven

They’ve picked you because you’re you.

He couldn’t get the words out of his head, wondering at the veracity of that statement. She’d believed it – he didn’t need to check, Cecilia was no liar. But what of the council? He hadn’t bothered to look into their take on the election, because he’d believed his assessment to be true…

It didn’t matter in the end. He was King and that was that.

Stop kidding yourself.

He hadn’t been surprised, or proud, or even glad of his election and his position had been nothing but a duty… But what if he’d actually earned it of his own merits?

A shift in the air, suddenly made the cab of his car stuffy, heavy, oppressing; recognizing it for what it was, he turned on the switch, tapping into his psychic abilities.

Oh hell. He’d completely forgotten about that.

Cecilia looked quite poised, as though everything in the world was just as it should be; she didn’t even blink or wince. Nothing betrayed the fact that her mind was screaming at the top of its voice.

He considered ignoring it; it was probably the gentlemanly thing to do.

“Precious,” he said, the endearment, rolling off his tongue; it seemed apt. He had to call her that because she believed she was anything but. “You do realize that I’m a psychic, right?”

“I thought you turned it off.”

“Your mind was yelling,” and to emphasis the gravity of the situation, he added, “about your ass.”

Vincent was getting drilled and she was feeling the effects. It had surprised her at first, but now she was…

Yeah, he didn’t even need any insight into her mind to guess that one. She was horny as fuck. He’d picked up on a subtle change in the scent of the car – it was richer, now. Spicier. She was getting wet and he could almost taste it on his tongue again.

Fuck. He wasn’t prepared for that. His whole campaign to improve her self-esteem didn’t include him screwing the hell out of her; what would it say to her, who’d only been seen as a sexual object for so long?

But he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her…

He couldn’t help himself, he had to touch her; pushing a strand of hair behind her ear seemed safe enough. It wasn’t. His skin was on fire as soon as it came in contact with hers.

“Cecilia?”

“Mh?”

“We’ll get through this.” 

We. How easily that had rolled on his tongue. And he’d meant it, too.

She wasn’t quite sure what had occurred but somehow twenty minutes later, they were checked in to the swankiest hotel in town.

She’d been quite excited when she’d heard Michael book the one suite, but in fact, it could have fit a whole football team quite comfortably. Two master bedrooms, three guest rooms, one office, a lounge, a TV room, a gym, a kitchen… The place was as large as William’s penthouse at least and it felt like a high rise apartment rather than a hotel room.

Michael offered to let her choose her room at first, but when she picked the smallest one, he shook his head and pointed towards the masters.

“I can’t take that room. Seriously, I’d feel so weird, there’s no way I’d sleep in there.”

He considered her words for a while.

“Sorry, no. You’ll get used to it.”

These words were repeated quite a few times the next three days.

Apparently, she’d get used to having someone spend a five figure sum on clothing. She’d also get used to that someone calling in one of his contacts and getting her an interview for one of the best culinary schools in the country. She muttered and groaned, embarrassed, and Michael smirked all the way, apparently amused by the fact that he was making her feel so… weird.

On one hand, there was a certain dose of shame at being a charity case, a project, or whatever he saw her as, but there was no denying that she felt like someone had told her Father Christmas existed, after all. Everything she’d ever wanted was just thrown her way.

Foremost on her mind was a little voice asking her why. What did he want in return? The only answer she could come up with was sex. She had nothing else to offer.

Somehow, she wasn’t sure. Michael didn’t
need
to shower her with invaluable presents to play between her legs; the fact that she’d let him lick her out for free attested to that.

What could he possibly want from her?

“You know, I’d be quite offended if I didn’t know your misgivings have very little to do with me,” he told her, taking her hand to drop yet another kiss on it.

Yeah, hanging out with a psychic sucked.

“I heard that.”

“What happened to being normal?”

Michael shrugged.

“Normal is overrated,” he replied, walking away with his trademark parting wink.

Three days and they’d only had one hiccup.

Michael had just refused to leave the fact that she wouldn’t wear anything but turtlenecks alone, so she’d showed him why.

It wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past; not every bite marked permanently, the superficial ones disappeared within hours at most. As no one had bitten her for almost two weeks, the only thing marring her skin were the scars.

There was one on the left side of her neck – two ugly, prominent puncture marks, worse than the rest because she’d been bitten so many times there. The right side wasn’t as bad. Her wrists were marked too, but there was also the occasional scar along her arm.

Cece had never had any reason to be afraid of Michael, but when he grabbed the closest object – a big ass statue – and threw it so hard that the wall where it landed vibrated, with an unrestrained yell, she couldn’t help a shiver.

Despite that, even then, she didn’t think for one second that his anger could be directed towards her – or anyone else, for that matter. He was one to take his mood out on inanimate objects.

Somehow, an angry man who refused to target a person was actually sexier than a laid back guy without a temper. His outbreak showed he cared – more than anyone ever had.

“You’re not hiding this,” he said, turning to her.

Her eyes narrowed; sexy or not, she didn’t appreciate him telling her what she could or couldn’t do with her own body. There had been too much of that in her life already.

“You can do whatever the fuck you like, except lie to the world and to yourself about what you are, Cecilia.”

He may not have been yelling, but that hit her like a slap in the face.

“Fucking stop with the self-depreciation, I can’t take it!”

So much for not yelling.

“You’re hot. You were born with a metabolism that makes you that way – that’s pure luck of the draw, and you’ve picked the long stick. That will get you one foot in the door wherever you go. But this,” he said, holding her wrists, scarred side upwards, “this is what makes you so goddamned beautiful. Hide them from the world and they’ll only see a pretty face. Show them, and they’ll understand what your smile is: power.” 

So, yeah. She was as suborn as the next girl, but she had to hand it to him: he’d totally won their first argument, and she said goodbye to turtlenecks.

He had been right. People had looked at her; women with barely disguised contempt, men with a leer that made her want to crush hairy balls. Since she’d shown her scars, they still looked – but now, she read completely different things, like respect.

“Agnes is here, if you’re ready.”

Oh, yeah – the dress. She’d totally forgotten.

Apparently, the kind of dress he wanted her to wear for the party in four days wasn’t available in any of the stores where they’d found the rest of her wardrobe. He’d called in Agnes Gardiner, a connection of William’s, although according to him, she was a nasty piece of work and a two-faced bitch, too. She had a reputation for only getting close to people long enough to double cross them.

“And why are we asking for her help, again?”

“Because she has the best designers in the city on speed-dial. Besides, she’s evil, not stupid. She won’t mess with me.” 

Famous last words.

“I heard that. Get your sweet ass in the lounge.”

Cece had a perpetual case of grin-o-pharengitis that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon: she just couldn’t wipe the damn smile off her face, with her crazy psychic vampire king doing his utmost to amuse, spoil and cherish her.

But for how long? When would she be back to being the little nobody she really was? He’d lose his interest, eventually. He had to.

Agnes was a piece of work alright. She took one look at her, from head to toe, and went into battle mode: her eyes narrowed, her expression hardened, and she was calculating how she could possibly mess with her, that much was obvious.

Cece turned to Michael, all but ready to say, “how about getting the bitch out of here,” but something in his eyes stopped her.

Fuck. He seemed fascinated. Despite what he’d said, was he actually interested in Agnes? Was she here as some sort of plot to make her feel jealous?

Cece could feel the appeal. Agnes was perfectly polished, with sexy blond hair and the right make up. She’d look just right next to Michael. 

“Cecilia, I take it?”

“Cece,” she retorted.

“Right. Well, shall we get started then?”

The woman took her measurements, blabbling about coloring, height and trends.

“I’ve brought some dresses based on your description, Michael, but I don’t think any of them will suit.”

All of a sudden, Cece was fascinated about the outfits she’d brought with her.

“I’d love to see them.”

Agnes did her very best to get out of it, dishing out one excuse after the next. “It wouldn’t do you justice.” “Really, I don’t think the size is right at all.” “They were just samples lying around.”

In short, that meant that she’d brought the perfect dresses, but in the meantime, she’d planned a vendetta because she was just that insecure.

“She’ll try the dresses, Agnes.”

Michael’s tone was final, commanding, and every part of Cece responded to it. If ordered to by that voice, she’d kneel and crawl for him.

Get out of the funk,
she admonished herself.

There were three dresses, all of them made of a little bit of heaven.

The first one was a short black number with a sleeveless satin bustier and a tulle skirt with an over layer of red and green tartan. Her scars were completely on display and she didn’t give a damn.

She put it on and pledged to sell both of her kidneys for it if it was what it took.

As it turned out, there was no need for that.

“We’ll take it.”

Agnes was in a hurry to agree; she smiled.

“Good choice; it’s a Chanel, just off the runaway.”

“We’ll take it,” Michael repeated, “But it’s not suitable for the ball.”

Cece couldn’t image one situation where that dress wasn’t suitable; she wouldn’t mind wearing it every day of her life and death. She’d be the sexiest corpse of all times at the wake. 

“Too casual,” Michael clarified, responding to her unsaid protest.

Casual. He’d said
casual.
She took it as a personal insult. That dress was anything but.

“You can get away with it at a Hollywood premiere, not at a gala. Let’s try the rest.”

As he was footing the doubtlessly humongous bill, she just nodded.

The second outfit wasn’t her thing. It was made of sheer material and lace, strategically placed to make it seemed like she wore nothing at all. It fell to her feet, and hid all the goods, but she couldn’t help herself from thinking that it made her seem like nothing more than a very, very expensive hooker.

Then, she turned to Michael and saw the look he sent her.

It was she who turned to Agnes and added, “We’ll take it, too.”

She couldn’t boast to know him very well, but there was no doubt that he’d been about to say just that.

“That’s a Zuhair Murad from thirty years ago. There aren’t many left, so you’ll definitely make a splash in that…”