This Same Earth
Page 68“Good luck with that,” she choked out, disgusted by the chill that seemed to course over her skin at his proximity. “Even Gio—”
“Does not have the resources I do when it comes to finding people,” he said with a condescending smile. “He’s too virtuous. And once you tell me exactly what he knows about your father from his search, the combined information should be enough to put me well ahead in the race.”
“Don’t count on it. What makes you think I’m going to tell you—”
She choked on the words when his cold fingers grasped her neck, and she began to shake when she realized he was right. She would tell him anything.
Anything he wanted.
He knelt before her and let the cruel smile twist his lips as he forced his influence on her.
“No wasting time with friendly banter, Beatrice. I’ve been waiting too long to get what is mine, and I have little faith that our location is a well-kept secret. I need that book your father has. I’ve made promises that some are starting to doubt. And I will not—” She winced when his grip around her neck tightened. “—be denied any longer.”
His touch was not the soft caress of Giovanni or even the sick, teasing touch she remembered from the last time he’d held her. It was the cold burn of ice that gripped her throat; the sensation quickly spread over her skin and nausea turned her stomach.
The ache spread from his fingers, around her neck, and up to the base of her skull as she stared into his frigid, blue eyes. She couldn’t speak, but her teeth began to chatter and the goose bumps spread down her body. It was as if his touch had frozen her and, as the creeping cold slipped into her mind, Beatrice knew she was powerless to stop the invasion.
“Where is your father?”
Her teeth chattered when she answered. “I—I don’t know.”
“Has Giovanni been in contact with him?”
“Postcards.”
“Explain.”
“Dad left clues for Gio, and he sent me…postcards.”
“Who sent you postcards, Beatrice?”
“G—G—io sent me postcards,” she rattled. “From the places he f—found clues.”
Beatrice could feel the tears trickling down her cheeks, and she was surprised that they didn’t freeze against her cold skin. But as she saw the spotted condensation on the porthole, she realized that no one in the room was cold except her. In fact, if someone touched her skin, she imagined it would still be its normal temperature. But Lorenzo told her nerve endings she was freezing, and her body reacted accordingly.
“What kind of clues?”
“He—he wouldn’t tell me.” Beatrice wondered if the knowledge of her vulnerability was what had caused Giovanni to hold back the information, and she was suddenly grateful for his stubborn, determined, forward-thinking ass.
“He sent you the postcards?”
“Yes.”
“From where? I want every location he sent a postcard from. List them all.”
Warsaw.
Johannesburg.
Lima.
San Francisco.
Tripoli. Santiago. Shanghai. Stockholm. Budapest. Novosibirsk.
She told him everything she knew.
And as she told him, Lorenzo came to sit next to her on the small bed, putting an arm around her as he played with her hair. He twisted it in his right hand while his left hand played with her fingers.
“Your skin is so lovely, Beatrice. Have I ever told you that?”
“N—no.”
“It is. It’s no wonder he likes you. I can see his bite marks on your neck now.” He bent down to run his lips against her skin, inhaling deeply. “Do you like it? When he bites you?”
She wanted to pull away. To strike him. But she was utterly frozen and had no choice but to answer as the cold fingers of Lorenzo's amnis stroked her mind.
“Does his bite make you come?” he purred into her ear.
Beatrice tried to resist. She pictured walls going up in her mind, blocking the creep of his influence, but the twisted fingers flowed over and around the walls, forcing her to answer.
“Y—yes,” she whispered.
“How delicious you smell. Sweet, but not overpowering. Very much like I remember your father tasting. Maybe I should have kept him like my father keeps you. Quite convenient having a regular meal.”
The angry tears still fell down her face as she realized how powerless she was.
“Of course,” he whispered her hidden fear as his fingers slid up her arm. “I could just keep you. Maybe my father is on to something with his human women. Who cares if you bruise a little when I’m done with you? If you’re interesting enough to keep him occupied, perhaps you are worth my time.”
“N—no!” Just the thought churned her gut. “I don’t want—” And yet it didn’t seem to matter what she wanted. She could feel the suggestion take root in her mind, and her arm lifted until her fingers were nestled in the soft golden curls on his head. She stroked them, and he hissed in pleasure.
“Such lovely, delicate hands, Beatrice. Why are your knuckles so bruised, precious girl? Surely you haven’t been practicing your ridiculous martial arts like you did in California. Surely you know...” His lips brushed against her cheek, and he whispered into her ear, “You cannot fight me.”