No Pulse
No Pulse
“Why are you so cold?”
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
I jerked my hand away from his.
Lucien Ashcroft looked down at me, pale amusement flickering through his strange, colorless eyes.
His fingers were still wrapped around my wrist.
They were freezing.
Not cool.
Not the chill of someone who had been standing outside in the rain.
They felt like marble left overnight in a crypt.
He lifted one hand and traced the side of my throat with the tip of one finger.
I froze.
Then he bent his head.
Something sharp touched the pulse beneath my jaw.
My breath caught.
“Lucien...”
His lips brushed the shell of my ear.
“I told you what I was.”
His voice was low. Almost gentle.
“I’m a vampire, Evelyn.”
A pause.
“A dead man who has been walking this earth for several centuries.”
“Stop joking.”
I shoved at his chest.
He did not move.
Not even an inch.
Instead, his arm tightened around my waist until I was trapped against him.
I looked up.
And saw the fangs.
Two long, unmistakably inhuman canines extended beneath his upper lip.
My stomach dropped.
What the hell?
A shiver went through me.
Lucien noticed.
“Afraid?”
He leaned closer.
I pressed myself backward as far as I could, desperate to put distance between my throat and those teeth.
Every instinct in me screamed to reach for the narrow strip of steel hidden in the seam beneath my skirt.
I didn’t.
Instead, I forced my breathing shallow, let my eyes widen, and gave him exactly what he expected to see.
Prey.
His mouth curved.
“Unfortunately, fear won’t help you.”
His hand slid into my hair.
“You’re not leaving.”
My pupils widened.
“What does that mean?”
He straightened and looked down at me.
In the candlelight, his face was almost unnaturally pale. Beautiful in the cold, lifeless way of a marble saint carved for a tomb.
Then he smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
“It means I’m going to keep you here.”
My mouth went dry.
“And drink from you.”
His gaze moved lazily over my throat.
“Slowly.”
His voice softened.
“Perhaps I’ll start here.”
His fingertip pressed against the vein beneath my jaw.
“Then your wrist.”
He smiled again.
“We have plenty of time to decide.”
Cold sweat gathered along my spine.
“You’re insane.”
“No.”
His expression abruptly went blank.
“I’m bored.”
That was somehow worse.
His eyes settled on me again.
“And then you appeared.”
He seized my wrist.
The cold of his skin wrapped around me like a snake.
I tried to pull free.
Nothing.
He glanced at my struggle as if it were mildly interesting, then dragged me deeper into the castle.
“Let go of me!”
I clawed at his fingers.
He ignored me.
The corridor seemed endless, built of black stone and old wood, lit only by wall sconces and trembling candle flames.
Outside, wind battered the ancient windows.
Lucien finally pushed open a door.
A small bedroom waited beyond it.
Heavy curtains covered the windows. Dark red tapestries hung along the walls. The bed was enormous, its carved posts rising nearly to the ceiling.
Lucien reached beneath one of the pillows.
When his hand emerged, he was holding a pair of old black-iron restraints.
He looked at them thoughtfully.
“What do you think?”
My heart started pounding.
“About what?”
“Keeping you chained to the bed.”
I clenched my teeth.
“Do I get to say no?”
“No.”
He said it pleasantly.
That was when panic truly set in.
If he locked me to that bed, I was finished.
I fought.
I kicked.
I twisted.
I clawed.
None of it mattered.
Lucien handled me as if I weighed nothing.
Within seconds, one iron cuff closed around my wrist with a brutal click.
The other end fastened to one of the bedposts.
“There.”
He stepped back to admire his work.
“Much better.”
Then he reached out and patted my head.
Revulsion crawled over my skin.
I jerked away.
His expression changed instantly.
The humor vanished.
His hand snapped forward and caught my chin, forcing my face upward.
“Don’t do that.”
His voice had gone quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“I don’t like disobedience.”
“Then let me go.”
His thumb passed over my cheek.
“No.”
“I don’t care whether you like me.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You’re still mine.”
I stared at him.
“You’re completely deranged.”
“Perhaps.”
His mouth tilted.
“But if you die, Evelyn...”
His eyes dropped briefly to my throat.
“You’ll die here.”
A dimple appeared near the corner of his mouth.
It would have been charming on anyone else.
On him, it made my blood run cold.
Then he turned and walked away.
The moment the door shut, I grabbed a pillow and hurled it after him.
“Psychopath.”
The room stayed silent after Lucien left, but silence in Blackthorn Castle was never empty. It pressed against me like another hand. I counted to sixty before moving, then sixty again. Old buildings announced people: floorboards complained, pipes clicked, doors breathed in their frames. Lucien announced nothing. That made timing him impossible.
I let my breathing remain ragged even though there was no one in the room to perform for. Habits were safer when they did not switch off. Fear was real enough; I did not need to invent it. What mattered was deciding which part of it he was allowed to see.
The cuff had a simple warded keyway, older than the lock on my London flat. I could feel the hidden steel pick stitched beneath the hem at my thigh. I could have reached it. I could probably have opened the restraint in under a minute.
I did not.
A lock was not the same thing as a prison. A prison was the system around it: the corridors, the exits, the cameras I had not found, the people I had not identified, the boat or aircraft that had brought us here. Opening the cuff too early would tell Lucien exactly what I could do. Better to let him believe I was exactly what he wanted—a frightened woman improvising badly.
I turned my wrist against the iron and studied the red mark it left. My pulse was too fast. Good. Even my body was helping the lie.
Somewhere beyond the door, something scraped softly against stone.
I looked toward the sound and forced myself not to reach for the pick.
One objective at a time, Evelyn.
Find the map. Find the exits. Find the proof.
Then decide what had to burn.
I listened for Lucien again and heard nothing.
That was when I made myself a promise: he could control the room, the door, even the chain. He would not control what I noticed.
I traced the cuff’s keyway with one fingertip, memorizing it without opening it. The steel pick remained hidden.
Not yet.
The first move in a trap was often the easiest one to resist.
I closed my eyes for one second and pictured the route from the bedroom door to the corridor beyond. Even panic could be useful if I gave it a job. Count steps. Count locks. Count mistakes.
Meeting Lucien Ashcroft had been the worst mistake of my life.
