Blood Rose. Sharon Page

Men in evening dress, in capes, in robes. So many men on the move it was almost impossible to search them for her vampire captors. All were surrounded by women—women fawning on them, touching them, whispering to them.

      It still startled Serena to see the lusty smiles on the women’s faces—women who should be terrified. It was like watching rabbits leap into foxes’ jaws.

      Serena glanced up. On her left, Drake Swift was slowly scanning the crowd. On her other side, Lord Sommersby did the same.

      Did she see Roman? No. To Serena’s astonishment, one dark-haired man, wearing a cape, tossed a blond woman onto the stage. The woman giggled, and her expression was a blend of lust, excitement, and playfulness. She was delighted to be a vampire’s plaything. The man pushed her back, and she flopped back on the stage, arms outstretched. Her breasts were exposed, her waist cinched impossibly small by the corset, her nether hair exposed. The man shoved her legs apart—wider, wider, until the woman let her head fall back. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the woman’s quim.

      Applause and cheers abounded.

      Serena knew what that act felt like. William Bridgewater had done it to her—she had been shocked and enthralled. At the time, her heart had been as excited as her body. She had believed it an expression of love. She had been quite wrong.

      She could not look away from the moaning woman as the vampire feasted on her cunny. He pulled the jade’s hips to his mouth, the way an uncouth man would lift a soup plate. The woman’s eyes shut tight, her hands fisted. She banged those fists against the polished floor of the dais.

      “Oooh!” The vampire’s plaything cried out in pleasure. Her limbs went slack, her head lolled. The vampire slid his hands up to her waist. He stood, lifting the woman, his face still in her quim as—

      “What do you see, little lark?”

      Serena blinked at Drake Swift’s voice. Startled, she saw Mr. Swift stood behind her. He had approached her and she hadn’t noticed. His black-gloved hands rested beside hers on the rail.

      “I do not see any of them—any of the vampires who captured me.” She tried to be as nonchalant as he, but her face flushed. At least her mask disguised some of the red heat on her cheeks. She wanted to appear unmoved by what she saw. She didn’t want to appear to be just a “delicate” woman.

      “We should go and find the library,” she urged.

      “You are a remarkable woman. Tougher than any I’ve met.”

      She wondered at that—he had grown up in Covent Garden. Women there were tough.

      “Have you ever wondered why we really kill vampires?” he asked.

      Serena frowned and shivered—because vampires killed mortals. Why else? But she knew he was teasing. She was aroused. Burning. But also terrified—what would he do if he knew she might be a vampire?

      “Because they have all the fun.” Mr. Swift’s voice held naughty wickedness.

      He wanted her to step unwisely into sexual banter. The drug was still in her head, still making it hard to think. She was watching sensual acts and beautiful lovers, and each time she moved the silk of the robe skimmed her nipples, brushed her nether curls, and maddened her.

      “Do you really believe that?” Serena challenged, because naughty boys required a firm hand.

      Drake Swift laughed. “Sometimes, my dear, I am tempted to get bitten.”

      She recoiled at that, remembering the horrifying sight of Guilliame biting him. Was that why he discounted the bite?

      Anger flared—how easy for him to joke. Mr. Swift did not fear he was truly a demon.

      Then she saw him—Roman. Flitting through the crowd, his long dark hair flapping with his hurried steps. He now wore a robe. A tall woman emerged from the throng and grasped his arm. A woman strong enough to stop Roman in his tracks.

      Serena pointed. “Look, there is one of the vampires who captured me. The one with the long hair, with that woman in the topaz gown—”

      She felt the excitement ignite in Drake Swift. “Wait, little lark. Watch awhile. We will see what he does.” He stepped behind her and braced his arms on either side of her. “Learn about your foe before attack.”

      “You don’t do that,” she protested. “I’ve heard that you race in madly, and by a miracle, somehow you survive.”

      “Didn’t Sommersby warn you not to listen to everything you hear, my dear?” Mr. Swift bent close. “Does it frighten you to watch him?”

      “No—yes,” Serena admitted. She could feel the bite of the manacles on her wrist and ankles again and felt the fear of being vulnerable. And a deeper fear—that she was vampire, too.

      “Fight it, angel. If you want to hunt, you have to learn to fight your fear.”

      Serena found Roman again, in the crowd. The tall woman had left him, and he stood watching the stage, his arms crossed over his chest. She was afraid to look too long. Roman would sense her.

      She glanced up and saw Lord Sommersby a few yards away, walking slowly alongside the gallery railing, watching the scene below.

      She should call out to him. Tell him where Roman was. But she knew once she did that protective Lord Sommersby would ensure she had no part in pursuing him. He would get her out of here, and she’d have no chance to find the library.

      Horror rushed like ice water through her veins—if Sommersby and Swift captured Roman, Roman would tell them what she was.

      The madam—the tall woman with the shimmering topaz gown, the pile of raven black curls, the magnificent diamonds—clapped her hands.

      At the sharp clap, many of the corset-clad girls scurried to the center of the room. Giggling, the girls began to kiss. The madam spanked one on her bottom with harsh slaps of her open palm, and the girl turned, presenting her now-rosy derriere. She still lushly kissed the other girl, mouths wide open. Grunts and murmurs of male appreciation filled the room, especially when the madam picked up a black leather switch. The girl held her cheeks apart, and the madam thwacked the girl’s rear thoroughly with the leather straps. After the girl’s buttocks were flushed red, the madam lifted a device from a table, a long rod of black with a tail of peacock feathers and two gold chains attached. Graceful fingers dipped the rod into a tall brass container and withdrew it. Clear, viscous liquid dripped from the tip.

      “What is she doing?” Without thinking, Serena asked the question of Drake Swift.

      She immediately regretted letting the words slip out.

      “Penetrating her arse.”

      A quiver of heat and agony shot through Serena.

      The madam pushed with hearty force until the rod disappeared deep into the girl’s bottom. The girl was rocking and panting with each thrust, her loose auburn hair tumbling over her back.

      Once the rod was within to the hilt, the woman—the madam—looped two chains around the girl’s bare thighs. She attached two to the girl’s corset. The girl giggled with delight, waggled her bum, and began to spin and dance around the room. Peacock feathers swirled and spun with her wild motions.

      Mr. Swift breathed heavily. Serena felt the warmth of those deep breaths against her ear.

      “Does that not hurt?” she asked. Her own bottom tingled.

      “It pleasures her,” he insisted. “She will perhaps reach orgasm many times. Eventually she will wish to remove it, for it is large and is spreading her wide. After several hours, she will yearn to stop. That is when she will be selected by a vampire as his companion and he will heighten her pleasure.”

      Serena could not understand why the thought of such a bizarre thing made her own body weak and shivery.

      The madam continued to slap the girls on their bottoms and continued to slide