Page 11 of Feral Possession
Staring at the colorless palette before her, the enormity of what Dove had lost really sank in. Her room at Vivian’s was rich with color and so cluttered with trinkets she could scarcely find a place to take her jewelry off at night. Her favorite treasures had little monetary value. Most were keepsakes from places she’d visited.
Vivian herself exuded love, light, and laughter. From the moment Vivian rescued her, Dove’s life had been a titillating mix of savory and sweet. Experiences steeped in colors so vibrant, at times they’d made Dove weep. Thanks to Vivian’s psycho ex, Dove was currently saddled with a vampire who could provide none of those things.
Dove had admitted to Marcus she felt like she was stumbling through their first day. In reality, this was how she moved through life. No plan, no direction, no commitment, or responsibility. Every day was a new experience to be lived, tasted, touched, experienced on a sensory level. Marcus seemed determined to live as though he were in a deprivation tank.
“Alright, Ida.” Dove exhaled a resigned sigh. “Lay it on me. We may as well get this over with. What are these rules your master wants me to understand?”
Ida wrinkled her nose, her tone apologetic. “All noise must be kept to a minimum. No alcohol, no drugs, no junk food, no sweets. You’re to eat three nutritious meals a day, all of which I shall prepare for you. At night, you’re to be in your room by eight p.m., at which point I will lock you inside. At six a.m., I’ll return to unlock your door. His lordship expects you to be out of bed no later than seven.”
Ugh. It was even worse than when Dove had lived at Havenwood. One of those rules stood out in her mind as stranger than the rest. “You’re going to lock me in at night?”
Ida wrung her hands, her gentle eyes rounding. “Yes, child. Believe me, you don’t want to get caught wandering around this place after dark. It isn’t safe. Also, you’re to steer clear of the east wing.”
Dove twisted her lips. “Let me guess, that’s where Lord Steele spends his time.”
The housekeeper nodded sharply. “That’s right. He’s a private man. It’s important you don’t disturb him.”
“No worries there.” The less Dove saw of her hooded keeper, the better. All she had to do was lie low in Marcus Steele’s uber secure penthouse while Vivian took care of business. While doing so, she’d share her super-charged blood with Marcus, healing his injuries. Before she knew it, she’d be clicking her ruby slippers, headed for home. Far away from the moody aristocrat.
Marcus drew a fortifying breath, braced his aching frame as much as his injuries allowed, and entered his study. At his appearance, Tiberius Steele didn’t look up, flicking the screen on the tablet he held in his hand. He sat behind Marcus’s sleek, black desk, a scowl set into the lines of his face. His expression so like his deceased brother’s it was unsettling.
As usual, Tiberius looked the part of the powerful underworld leader, in his professionally coordinated suit with a white rose pinned to his lapel. While the magister’s head was clean-shaven, his angular black beard was expertly trimmed. Not even in Marcus’s youth had he seen his uncle disheveled. Appearances had to be maintained, always.
“Uncle, I wasn’t expecting you.”
Tiberius spoke to the tablet’s screen, his tone flat. “When I arrived here, your servant informed me you weren’t seeing guests. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise, that the nephew I took in as an orphaned youth, raised as though he were my own son, refused to welcome me into his home.”
Marcus limped to one of the chairs, sitting across the desk from his uncle. “Had I known you were coming, I could have better prepared.”
Tiberius’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “You expect me to believe you’d have welcomed me with open arms? The male whose phone calls you never answer?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been busy, alright. Busy shirking your duty to House Othonos. Tell me, where were you just now? Off chasing after Helen again?”
The question rankled. Marcus no longer answered to Tiberius Steele. “I was collecting my new Chosen from Vivian Laurent.”
Tiberius’s dark brows furrowed. “I knew Vivian was in a bind after that nonsense with the hellhounds. Still, I didn’t expect her to do anything this desperate. Nor can I believe you accepted.”
“You disapprove of my claiming a Chosen,” Marcus stated. Then again, Tiberius had disapproved of many things since Marcus refused to renew his uncle’s term as House advisor. It was a difficult choice but necessary if Marcus was to forge his own path. While he was grateful for all his uncle had done for him, he no longer needed his tutelage.
Tiberius scoffed, “You say that as if I don’t see what you have planned for the girl. It isn’t faerie blood you need to heal, but the care of experienced physicians. It’s time you revisited my team at Legacy for another treatment.”
Experienced physicians? Hardly. The members of his “team” were more like a gang of back-alley witch doctors. Marcus could still remember their blurry shapes hovering over his broken body, their deep voices chanting. The stench of noxious potions searing his scorched flesh. “Visit them so they can add me to their list of failed experiments?”
Tiberius leaned forward, jabbing his finger into the desk. “You weren’t so critical of their skills when they were saving your life. If not for my laboratory, you’d be a pile of ash right now. If you’d only listened to me and invested in Legacy instead of that ridiculous casino, none of this would have happened.”
This again. Marcus gripped the silver handle of his cane, his leather gloves creaking. He lacked the patience and energy for yet another debate on the topic. “We’ve been over this. There’s no money to be made in resurrected artifacts, moth-eaten books, and research into long-extinct races. Legacy’s profit margins are in the red.” Numbers didn’t lie, unlike deceptive CFOs.
“You know as well as I do that an asset’s value cannot always be measured in dollars.”
“True.”
Tiberius had drilled the knowledge into Marcus at a tender age. Since then, he’d negotiated many deals based on an individual’s personal currency.
“Except, House Othonos disagrees.”
The shadows beneath Tiberius’s eyes darkened, his demeanor growing somber. “Legacy is an investment in our future. If we forget our past, we’re doomed to repeat our mistakes.”