I long for what I've lost

For that which can never be.

I cloak the horror of what I am

and pray you never see.

He sat in his favorite chair before the fire, gazing, unseeing, into the flames. She permeated his house, his thoughts, his dreams. Never before had a woman affected him like this, taking hold of his every waking moment, tormenting him with her nearness. He spent his nights hovering near her while she slept, watching her, listening to her breathe, to the beat of her heart, the sound of the blood flowing through her veins. She smelled always of flowers. Even when the hunger lay dormant within him, he was drawn beyond his power to resist being with her, to touch the smoothness of her cheek, to run his fingers over her lips and imagine his mouth there.

She was so beautiful, this child-woman who wandered through his house by day and sustained him through the night. He knew her thoughts, heard the tears she sometimes shed in the night. It pleased him to satisfy her every want, to dress her in fine clothes, to provide the best food and wine that money could buy. He took pride in her ability to learn, and ordered books and music he thought would please her.

It was the least he could do, he thought, for she gave him life, and no matter how he tried, he could never repay her for that.

He knew the moment she fell asleep. He heard the change in her breathing, felt a change in the house itself, as if the life went out of it while she slumbered.

He would not go to her tonight. He would take to the streets and ease his craving there. Yet even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew it for the lie it was. Already, he was rising, her innocence calling him, beckoning him, the single light in the darkness of his existence.

Soundlessly, he climbed the stairs and opened the door to her room. She locked her door each night, but no lock made could keep him out.

And then he was standing beside her bed, gazing down at her. It was a warm night, and she had thrown off the covers. Her nightgown had ridden up, exposing a long length of softly rounded thigh.

His body stirred to life, hunger and desire riding him with whip and spurs as he sat down on the bed beside her.

He was bending over her when he realized that she was awake and staring at him.

Certain she was dreaming, Rhianna closed her eyes and opened them again. The tall dark figure was still there, hovering over her, like smoke.

"Lord Rayven?" She couldn't see his face in the darkness, yet she knew somehow that it was he.

"Go to sleep, Rhianna," he murmured. "You're very tired. Your eyelids are heavy, so heavy you can no longer keep them open."

"No..."

"Sleep, sweet Rhianna. Sleep is what you need."

His voice, deep and melodic, winding around her like a soft cocoon.

Her eyelids fluttered down, and she was following a narrow path through the darkness. She tried to turn back, but her feet refused to obey. Her heart was racing; she could hear the blood pounding in her ears as she drew ever closer, wondering who awaited her in the shadows tonight, the man who took her in his arms and held her as if she were a precious gift, or the one who preyed upon her flesh. Would she awake feeling loved and protected, or sobbing with fright? Or would this be the night she wouldn't awaken at all?...

She came awake to the sound of her own cries. Disoriented, she looked around, her pulse gradually slowing as she realized the nightmare was over and she was safe in her room.

She glanced at the door. The key was still in the lock. It had all been a dream, and yet this one had been so real, so vivid, she would have sworn Lord Rayven had entered her room last night, that she had awakened to find him sitting on the bed beside her, his dark eyes glowing with an unholy light as he bent over her.

Rhianna shook her head to clear the images from her mind. Just a dream. That's all it had been, just a dream. She brushed a lock of hair from her neck, her fingers pausing as they encountered what felt like an insect bite.

She spent the day in her room and tried to study her lessons, but she couldn't concentrate. She tried to take a nap, but sleep eluded her. She had no appetite for lunch.

Bevins looked in on her several times, his brow lined with concern. Once, she asked him to look at the marks on her neck. A shadow passed over his eyes as he examined the tiny wounds. It's nothing, miss, he had assured her. A bite of some kind, I would say. Perfectly harmless.

At dusk, she shook aside her lethargy, bathed, and dressed for supper.

Bevins had just served the first course when Rhianna felt a sudden tingle. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Lord Rayven standing in the doorway, dressed, as before, in impeccable black.

"My lord." She started to rise, startled by his unexpected appearance, unnerved by the fact that he was a man of title and property, while she was nothing more than his servant, no matter that she had yet to serve him in any way.

He motioned for her to remain seated as he took the chair across from her. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Of course not. It's your house, after all."

She toyed with her napkin as he settled back in his chair. A moment later, Bevins entered the room bearing a crystal decanter and a wineglass, which he set in front of Rayven.

"Thank you, Bevins," Rayven said. "That will be all."

"As you wish, my lord. Good evening, miss."

When they were alone again, Rayven studied the girl's face, noting the faint smudges beneath her eyes.

"You are well?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And are you happy here?"

Her gaze slid away from his. "I am not unhappy, my lord." She gestured at the platters of meat and fowl in the center of the table. "Will you not eat something, my lord? Bevins is a very fine cook." She felt her cheeks flush. "I don't suppose I need tell you that."

A faint smile hovered over his lips. "Thank you, no. How are your lessons coming along?"

"Nicely, I think. Bevins says I have a talent for music, but it's reading I love."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, yes! Tales of brave knights and fair ladies, far-off lands, dragons and sorcerers."

Rayven's hands clenched in his lap as he watched her face, so alive, so expressive. So young. Heat flowed through him as she went on, her voice filled with the excitement of discovery. Had he ever been that young, that eager to learn?

Rhianna bit down on her lip, suddenly conscious of Rayven's gaze on her face. His eyes, as black as midnight mist, seemed to be searching her very soul.

"I'm... I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't mean to run on like that. It must seem silly to you."

"Not at all. Perhaps..." He took a deep breath. "Perhaps you would read aloud to me this evening."

"Oh. I... I'm still learning. I'm afraid you would soon be bored."

"It would please me very much, Rhianna."

"Very well then, if you're sure."

"Quite sure."

"Would you care for a glass of wine, my lord?"

At his nod, she lifted the decanter and filled his glass, noting, for the first time, that the wine was dark and red. Like blood.

His fingertips brushed hers as he took the glass from her hand. She was startled by the little frissons of heat that leapt from his skin to hers, by the jumbled images that filled her mind, images of a man writhing in pain, bleeding, screaming.

As quickly as it had appeared, the vision was gone, leaving her to wonder if she had seen anything at all.

Rayven leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed upon her face. Had she felt it, too, the mystical flame that had sparked between them? He had glimpsed a well-spring of hope within her, a yearning for a home and family of her own, longing for the home she had left behind. What, if anything, had she sensed in him?

Rhianna took a deep breath, unsettled by the tension between them. "Would you mind if I shared your wine?"

"I doubt you would find it to your liking."

She glanced at the dark liquid in the decanter, then reached for her own glass, which was filled with water.

"Finish your supper, Rhianna," he said. "You need to keep up your strength."

"Why? I never do anything more strenuous than play the piano."

"Because you're hungry."

Obediently, she picked up her fork and began to eat. She was hungry, after all.

Later, he sat in a chair before the fire, sipping from his wineglass, while she read to him. Time and again, she glanced in his direction, expecting him to be bored or asleep, but always she found him watching her, his fathomless black eyes burning with a strange fire, a warmth hotter and more penetrating than the heat radiating from the crackling flames in the hearth.

"Tell me about yourself," he said, surprising them both.

"There's little to tell, my lord. I have four sisters, all younger than I." Her voice turned bitter. "My father sold me. Surely that tells you all you need to know."

"It tells me he needed money."

"He could have sold his horse."

A wry smile curled Rayven's lip. "And would you have pulled the plow in the horse's stead?"

She lifted her chin defiantly. "I have done so in the past."

Her admission touched a chord within him. Proud, she was, in spite of her poverty.

"You'll never have to do so again."

"Why did you buy me?"

Rayven shrugged, unable to admit the truth. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know." Her gaze slid away from his. "I thought that... I mean..."

" Go on. What did you think?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me." She heard the sliver of steel beneath his softly spoken command.

"I thought you bought me so I wouldn't have to disrobe in front of the others."

"You're very perceptive, sweet Rhianna."

"But why? You never..." Fire climbed into her cheeks, and she bent her head to the book.

"I never come to your bed?"

She didn't look up, but she nodded.

"And that bothers you?"

"Oh, no," she said quickly. It didn't bother her, not really, although it stung her pride to think he found her so ugly as to be completely undesirable.

"Rhianna, look at me."

Slowly, she met his gaze.

"You are a beautiful young woman," he said quietly. "But you are young. Far too young for me." His hands clenched in his lap. "Be glad I do not come to your bed." A shiver ran through her as his gaze held hers. "You would not like what would happen if I did."

She stared into his eyes, caught in their darkness, in blackness that was icy cold yet hotter than flame. It was like looking into eternity, she thought, into an endless black void filled with such yearning that she wanted to weep.

Muttering an oath, Rayven stood up. "Go to bed, Rhianna," he said curtly.

Frightened by the seething turmoil in his voice, she scrambled to her feet and hurried from the room.

Panic lent wings to her feet, and she fairly flew up the stairs to her bedchamber. Inside, she turned the key in the lock, then collapsed on the bed, feeling as though she had just escaped, though from what, she couldn't say.