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By Root 3914 0

mask and lifted it over his head. We were standing enough to one side so that I could see that perfect profile. His golden hair—and I mean golden—was braided along the back of his head so that nothing interfered with the view. I was used to looking at Asher through a film of hair. Without it, the lines of his face were like sculpture, something so smooth and lovely that you wanted to touch it, trace the movement of it with your hands, layer it with kisses. Even after the little show he’d put on, he was still beautiful. Nothing seemed to change that when I looked at Asher.

“Very nice,” Narcissus said, “very, very nice, but I have many beautiful men at my beck and call. Perhaps not as beautiful, but still . . .”

Asher turned to face the man. Whatever Narcissus was about to say died in his throat. The right side of Asher’s face looked like melted candle wax. The scars didn’t start until well away from the midline of his face. It was as if his torturers all those centuries ago had wanted him to have enough left to remember the perfection he’d once been. His eyes were still golden-lashed, his nose perfect, his mouth full and kissable, but the rest . . . The rest was scarred. Not ruined, not spoiled, but scarred.

I remembered Asher’s smooth perfection, the feel of that perfect body rubbing against mine. Not my memories. I had never seen Asher nude. I had never touched him that way. But Jean-Claude had about two hundred years ago. It made it impossible for me to look at Asher with unprejudiced eyes, because I remembered being in love with him, in fact, was still a little in love with him. Which meant that Jean-Claude was still a little in love with him. My personal life just can’t get more complicated.

Narcissus drew a shuddering breath and said in a voice gone hoarse, eyes wide, “Oh, my.”

Asher threw the hood on the bed and began to unzip the front of the leather shirt, very slowly. I’d seen his chest before and knew that it was much worse than his face. The right side of his chest was carved with deep runnels, the skin hard to the touch. The left side, like his face, still had that angelic beauty that had attracted the vampires to him long ago.

When the zipper was halfway down his body, baring his chest and upper stomach, Narcissus had to sit down on the bed as if his legs wouldn’t hold him.

“I think, Narcissus,” Jean-Claude said, “that after tonight you will owe us a favor.” His voice was empty when he said it, devoid of anything. It was the voice he used when he was at his most careful, or his most pained.

Asher asked in a careful voice that didn’t quite match the striptease he was doing, “What level of pain does Narcissus enjoy straight—how do you say—out of the box?”

“Rough,” Jean-Claude said. “He can control his desire and not step outside the bounds of his submissive, but if he is to be topped, then rough, very rough. You do not need a warming up period for this one.” Jean-Claude’s voice was still empty.

Asher looked down at Narcissus. “Is that true? Do you like to start out with a . . . bang?” That last word was slow, seductive. One word, and it held worlds of promise within it.

Narcissus nodded slowly. “You can start with blood, if you’ve the balls for it.”

“Most people have to work up to that for it to be pleasurable,” Asher said.

“I don’t,” Narcissus said.

Asher finished unzipping and lowered the shirt off his arms, held it in his hands for a moment, then struck out with a movement so quick it was only an after-image blur. He slapped Narcissus across the face with the heavy zipper once, twice, three times, until blood showed at the corner of his mouth and his eyes looked unfocused.

I was so startled by all of it that I think I forgot to breathe. All I could do was stare. Jean-Claude had gone very still between Richard and me. It wasn’t the utter stillness that he was capable of, that all the old masters were capable of, and I realized why. He couldn’t sink into that black stillness of death with the lingering touch of the “life” we’d pumped through him.

Narcissus used the tip of his tongue to taste the