I place the book on my bedside table and make my way to Jasper’s room.
“COME IN, EDEN.”
My hand pauses where it’s raised ready to knock on Jasper’s door, then drops to press against my stomach. I glance around the hall for a camera but can’t see one. Perhaps Jasper’s latest book delivery was a hint, a telling clue that he truly isn’t human, but rather some kind of ancient, beautiful vampire lying in wait for his unsuspecting prey.
Only, I’m more than a little suspicious of Jasper.
And I only feel about sixty percent like prey.
Steeling myself, I open the door.
Large, elegant, and understated. Jasper’s room is decorated thoughtfully, and surprisingly cozily. There’s a lovely picture of him with an older couple who I assume must be his parents in front of a beautiful palace, and a hand-knitted blanket is draped over one of the armchairs. The chessboard is set up on an artful table by a toasty-looking heater, and delicate classical music wends through the room. Soft light turns the rich colors misty. Romantic.
There are no whips, or chains, or bloodied nail marks on the walls.
If he’s a vampire, he’s a very tidy one.
I decide it’s safe to step inside.
Jasper stands beside a small kitchenette, pouring from a teapot that seems to be fused by veins of gold. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem more pronounced today, and there’s an exhausted drag to his movements, like his limbs are falling asleep before his brain has agreed it’s time.
The familiar scent of chamomile soothes me . . . though the cream sweater he’s wearing riles my insides back into instant, passionate riot. It looks gloriously soft, and I have the absurd urge to bury my face in him.
It.
In it.
“I think I’ve read about that,” I offer into the lengthening silence, hoping he doesn’t notice how flustered I am. When he looks up at me from under sinfully sooty lashes, my mouth goes dry, and it takes me a moment to gesture at the teapot he’s holding. “It’s broken pottery, isn’t it? Mended with gold and lacquer?”
“Kintsugi,” he says, setting it down. “It’s a Japanese art form.”
He hands me a cup and saucer. Our fingers don’t brush, but I track the near miss with obsessive focus.
“To show that sometimes the greatest beauty lies in our flaws. The most strength, in the ways we break.”
They’re pretty words, but they ring hollow, and his expression is so carefully still, I know he’s hiding something.
Again.
“Talk together freely,” my sweet behind.
I bite the corner of my lip, then bury my face in my cup.
“What was that?” Jasper muses, and I lift my eyes over the rim to see him taking me in with those sharp, sharp eyes.
The hot liquid burns my tongue as I swallow too fast. “P-pardon?”
“If you have a concern, Eden, I would prefer you voiced it.” His lips compress unhappily.
“I— I’m sorry. I just . . . ”
Why am I always on the wrong foot with him? Will he turn me over his knee if I make him unhappy enough? That was what Lucky said, right? Unlike Lucky, though, I’m not sure my body “wants the pain.”
There’s no way he brought me into his private room on his day just to play a board game. Right?
My eyes stray to the very large, very inviting-looking bed on the far side of the room.
I clear my throat and snap my eyes back to Jasper. “You don’t sound like you believe the philosophy.”
“No?” He stirs steaming ripples in his cup, and I’m mesmerized by the graceful curve of his wrist. “No, I suppose I don’t.
At least, not with regard to myself. I have flaws I’m not so proud of, Eden. I’ve broken in ways that shame me. I haven’t yet found a way to turn them into something I can find beautiful.”
I stare at him, taken aback by the raw honesty in his tone. Cryptic as ever, yes . . . but it feels like a confession.
“I think you’re beautiful,” I whisper, before I can think better of it.
With a startled blink, Jasper looks up at me, face softening, and my cheeks begin to burn. “Darling girl,” he murmurs.
A shiver skates down my spine, then erupts over my skin.
Those dark eyes move over me like a caress, and he steps in, cupping the back of my neck with his free hand. He’s tall, standing above me, but he doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t loom like some of the others. Subtle pressure eases me forward, and I sigh a breath as he directs me to an armchair.
There’s something erotic about the press of his fingertips on the sides of my neck, in the confident lack of force by which he moves me. By the time I’m at the chair, my knees feel weak, and my teacup trembles on its saucer.
“Sit, Eden.”
My knees drop out.
I think about taking another sip to ease my parched throat, but then think better of it. I need a bucket of ice, not to raise my temperature any further.
Jasper takes a seat across from me, on the opposite side of the chessboard, and sets his saucer down on the side table.
Sitting back in his armchair, he crosses one leg over the other. The tiny teacup seems unbearably delicate in his elegant fingers.
I set my saucer down too and examine the board. Apparently, we really are playing chess. “How do we play?”
Jasper shakes his head neatly. “Chess isn’t a game so much as it is a battle of minds.”
Comforting.
“Okay.” I clasp my hands together on my lap. “Let’s spar.”
Chapter 22
Eden
SURVIVAL TIP #281
Don’t enter a battle if you don’t know the lay of the land.
You’ll lose.
A t the word “spar,” Jasper’s eyes narrow on me, and I give him a demure smile, remembering the way I watched Beau knock him to the ground again and again yesterday morning.
“Did you—？”
I take a sip of my tea as I grin, and pink rolls into Jasper’s cheeks.
With a grimace, Jasper explains the rules to me, and he was right—the orderliness and the strategy concept are appealing.
He lets me choose a color, and his slight smile when I choose black tells me instantly that I picked wrong.
Biting my lip, I duck my head again and survey the grid—numbers down one side, letters down the other—and I move my black pawn to E5. Jasper moves his knight to F3, putting my newly moved pawn under threat. Scanning the board again, I move my pawn to D6 to protect it.
When I glance up through my lashes again, Jasper gives me a slight nod, and a smidge of my anxiety eases. He’s overwhelming, sitting back like an indolent prince, and playing a game of wits against him seems like an unwinnable exercise.
Is this really how he wants to spend his day with me? Or is this just the warm-up? Something to lull me into a sense of safety before he pounces?
He’s quiet now, but I can’t tell if that’s because he’s not one who needs to fill silences, or if it’s because he’s waiting.
Maybe it’s part of his psychologist training, to let others speak first.
“Do you play often?” I ask as he moves another pawn, taking it to D4.
I frown, studying the move. I could take that pawn, but it would open up the board for him. I think. Biting my lip, I try to play out the next few possible moves in my head.