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Most people would call the ability to read minds a gift. Not Iris. She hates knowing what people are thinking all the time.
As if that weren’t bad enough, that so-called gift has led to being a guinea pig for a
prominent doctor's wild, psychological experiments. When she finally escapes his clutches, she lands in the office of one Langdon Fox, a wealthy, influential, and downright handsome vampire who offers to keep her safe.
Except Iris can’t tell if he’s sincere because she can’t read his mind. Which should make her elated, if she weren’t so worried that he has plans of his own. Plans that might not be in her best interest. But one thing she knows for certain is how his “indecipherable” touch ignites a passion in her that she’s never experienced before.
Langdon wants nothing more than to help and protect Iris but his dead heart begins to skip beats whenever he’s near her, creating too many distractions. And now he worries that his uncontrollable desire for her will sabotage his efforts in keeping her alive.
As if that weren’t bad enough, that so-called gift has led to being a guinea pig for a
prominent doctor's wild, psychological experiments. When she finally escapes his clutches, she lands in the office of one Langdon Fox, a wealthy, influential, and downright handsome vampire who offers to keep her safe.
Except Iris can’t tell if he’s sincere because she can’t read his mind. Which should make her elated, if she weren’t so worried that he has plans of his own. Plans that might not be in her best interest. But one thing she knows for certain is how his “indecipherable” touch ignites a passion in her that she’s never experienced before.
Langdon wants nothing more than to help and protect Iris but his dead heart begins to skip beats whenever he’s near her, creating too many distractions. And now he worries that his uncontrollable desire for her will sabotage his efforts in keeping her alive.
Read the first chapter now.
Chapter 1
Iris
I scanned the dimly lit and long corridor in this massive labyrinth of a building where important business meetings and social gatherings brought in so many of the successful entrepreneurs of San Francisco as well as others from all over the world. Relieved it was vacant, I sucked in a deep breath and entered. Keeping my back to the wall, I hurriedly shuffled down the hall, driven by fear.
Fear of being discovered.
Fear for my freedom.
Fear for my life.
I kept moving, caught in a nightmare of horrors, searching for a place to hide from the madman. The madman who’d been my foster father back when I was in high school. The madman who’d proclaimed I was the crazy one. The madman who wanted to dissect my brain to save his wife’s life.
That was the biggest fear, driving me through this befuddled building riddled with offices and conference rooms, a labyrinth of hallways.
The sound of a door opening then closing in the distance brought another wave of panic. I held my breath, praying whoever it was wouldn’t head in my direction. I tried a doorknob only to find it locked.
Tired and weak-kneed from exhaustion and lack of food, I clutched the napkin loaded with hors d’oeuvres to my chest. Food I’d taken from the buffet in the ballroom one floor below; some stuffed-shirt charity event I’d snuck into.
I tried another door on my right, halfway down the hall; also locked. Panic sizzled along the shores of my spine, fear that someone would discover me and turn me over to the authorities, who would then turn me over to him. My foster father, a temporary caretaker whose responsibilities for me should have expired three years ago when I turned eighteen. Except he was a manipulative as well as renowned and honored psychiatrist, which meant as far as the state was concerned, he was still considered my guardian.
Being turned over to his custody would be a dire situation that would definitely lead to either turning me into an invalid or worse—my demise.
My breath choked in my lungs, along with the tension, the trepidation, the terror fueling the firestorm igniting every nerve in my body.
If only I could read objects the way I could minds, I wouldn’t need to try every single doorknob in this long-ass hallway.
I headed to the last door, my only remaining option, and prayed the knob would turn.
When it did, I slipped inside, quickly and quietly closing the door behind me.
I stood still for a few flustered seconds, allowing my eyes to adjust to the light cast from a full moon flowing in through a wall of windows. I glanced around the office. Tables. Chairs. A couch. And a large, exquisite antique desk.
The sound of footsteps clicking on the other side of the door had me dashing around the desk and diving underneath. My head hit the bottom of the drawer. I whimpered, but not too loud. I scrunched my shoulders and scooched all the way against the back and counted my blessings for the small space that hid me from view.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears, the rhythm so loud I thought my brain might explode. How would the inside of my skull look splattered all over the bottom of the desk? A vision I wasn’t keen to see.
My stomach screamed. I had to eat. I bit into one of the crackers, closing my eyes, savoring the salmon-flavored cheese spread on top. I immediately popped the rest of it into my mouth. The satisfaction of eating something that yummy was almost good enough to calm the pounding of my heart.
Except for my chewing, I sat there, barely moving any of my other muscles, losing track of time. I had no idea if a minute or an hour had passed.
When I was eight years old, I jumped into the community swimming pool and let myself sink all the way to the bottom. The silence was intense—clogging, choking—an eerie deadness. But I stayed there until I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I remember being disappointed that my thoughts never dulled, never left me, never drained from my mind.
When we die, do our souls lose their ability to decipher sentiments and sensations?
Sensations like a kiss or an embrace?
Two things I hadn’t experienced since my mother passed away. And I missed them.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pictured my mom. She’d left this world when I was ten. Had she retained her opinions that she’d so often preached to me during her life on earth?
When I was in the orphanage, I overheard someone say she was in a better place. Heaven. But considering the way she’d lived toward the end, I wasn’t so sure she hadn’t gone the other way.
Did she remember me?
Did she remember anything?
What about her appetite for alcohol and pills over those last few years after my father died? She’d blamed her addictions and our swift decline into poverty on his sudden death. Did she still crave the pills? Or was she finally at peace? Had she achieved that bliss she’d sought with every high?
I stuck the last salmon-coated cracker into my mouth. They were so delicious; I wished I’d taken more. There had been enough food on the buffet to feed the entire city of San Francisco. It was an event to raise money for leukemia. A charity event similar to the one I’d attended the other night, with my foster father and his son. A fabulous gala with dancing, flowing champagne, and a guest list full of handsome, single men ready to take their turn whirling around the floor. One of many events that I’d been fortunate enough to attend, a bonus of having been fostered by a prominent and wealthy family.
Except, that event two nights ago had, unfortunately, ended on a sour note. One where my life was on the line.
I’d gone from enjoying appetizers and fine wine to being strapped to a surgical table, and had managed to escape with only the dress on my back.
Though the chiffon was a little rumpled, no one here questioned my presence.
I swallowed the savory-topped cracker and sighed.
It was the first meal I’d had since I fled.
I was safe. Lucky, for now.
“Lucky Iris,” my mom would say when I was little and things were going our way.
Not so lucky last night. Last night I slept in a bathroom at a gas station. It hadn’t been all that bad, though. At least it had been a reasonably clean one with an actual flushing toilet, not one of those endlessly bottom-looking holes in the ground. And it had a sink with running water, albeit cold.
But tonight, if I was lucky, I could stay in this room for the entire night. Even stretch out on that brown leather sofa, after I was sure everyone was gone. I might even help myself to some of that alcohol I suspected was in the crystal decanter on the credenza. I didn’t know what kind of liquor it was, but the bottle was surrounded by a few fancy crystal glasses. Fancy enough for something good to be poured into them. This office was definitely an upgrade from last night.
I sat on the hard floor, nibbling on the appetizers like a scared rodent would nibble on a chunk of cheese, praying no one would discover me.
I popped one of the blue cheese stuffed olives into my mouth and had just made myself comfortable when footsteps stopped by the door.
My prayers must have gone unheard because a few seconds later, the office door creaked open. I drew in air, holding it, afraid somebody would hear my breathing. Terror detonated inside me like a firecracker, and holding my breath became impossible. I slowly let out the air in my lungs as quietly as possible. The light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating the floor surrounding the desk. The door closed, and the entire room lit up like it was daytime. My pulse pounded louder than a raging waterfall in Yosemite after a winter of constant snow.
Footsteps clicked across the hardwood floor and stopped in front of the desk. The tips of a man’s leather shoes almost jabbed me in the thigh. I made my breath as shallow as possible and watched the expensive shoes turn away from my hiding place. One crossed over the other, giving me the impression of him leaning his backside against the desk.
“No, Damian.” The sudden sound of his voice startled me until I realized he was talking on the phone. “It went well. Most of the guests are gone now except for a few die-hard stragglers, and I’m sure we’ve reached our goal tonight. I’ve stepped into my office to check the figures.”
His office?
During the next few seconds of silence, I was certain he could hear my heartbeat while I assumed he was listening to the person on the other end of the line. To help quiet my nervous breathing, I nibbled at a hangnail on my forefinger. I didn’t normally bite my nails. But lately, normal wasn’t part of my day-to-day routine, and bi-weekly manicures were a thing of the past.
“I know you’re excited,” the man went on, “but please try to contain yourself. This must remain between us.”
My ears perked up. I pulled my finger away from my mouth and listened with more interest.
“I only confided in you because I’ll need your help … No, I’ve only recently acquired my patronage with the Ouroboros Society … Of course, I don’t have a Chosen yet. These things take time … That’s not how it works … Yes, as we discussed, the decision is mine when I think there is someone worthy.”
He laughed like a kid who had just advanced to the next level in his favorite video game, and I thought about Rory, the nine-year-old boy I’d had a crush on back when life was normal. Back before the thoughts of others could invade my mind. Rory lived next door, though a year older than me; he didn’t mind hanging out playing Super Mario 3D World once in a while. He always beat me, and he would laugh in a teasing way but never mocking me.
I heard pages flipping quickly, and I imagined the man skimming sheets of a notebook or maybe a calendar. “Ha-ha, you do have a way with words, Damian. I’m sure she won’t be butt ugly, as you put it. Though I do agree with you, women of that standard do tend to be … No, I wasn’t going to say homely, let’s just say less fortunate and maybe not as well pruned or sophisticated as most of the women who travel in the more influential circles that you’re used to.”
Was this guy serious? Not as well pruned? What did that mean? Was he talking about women or bushes? What a xenophobic ass.
And what was the Ouroboros Society, and what was a Chosen?
“You’re young still, so I’ll forgive your judgmental presumptions. I believe all women should be treated with the utmost respect and as our equals.”
Hmmm … maybe this guy wasn’t an ass after all.
My leg started to cramp, and I shifted to ease the pain. But when I moved, a blue cheese stuffed olive escaped from the napkin and rolled out from under the desk. I froze and stopped breathing as it traveled out to the tip of one of his shoes and stopped.
I considered reaching for it, but the man would surely see my hand. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the olive.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
“It’s possible that it could be months before …” He paused.
Oh no.
He planted both feet on the floor and turned toward the desk. “I have to go now.”
His footsteps came around the desk, stopping where I sat. An Olympic-sized barbell sank to the bottom of my stomach, pulverizing the cheese and crackers into a sludge that threatened to come back up. I squirmed against the wood, wishing I could somehow flatten myself into it to make myself invisible. Even if I could, the thumping of my heart would surely give me away.
Thurump—Thurump.
Thurump—Thurump.
I placed my hand over my heart. It was pounding so hard in my chest I was sure it would punch a hole through my breast. He rolled the chair aside, and his face appeared before me. His expression shifted from what-the-hell shock to who-the-hell-are-you friendly fascination.
But I didn’t think I should trust that friendly fascination. I wanted to get up and run from the room, but there was no way out except through him.
Fear of being discovered.
Fear for my freedom.
Fear for my life.
I kept moving, caught in a nightmare of horrors, searching for a place to hide from the madman. The madman who’d been my foster father back when I was in high school. The madman who’d proclaimed I was the crazy one. The madman who wanted to dissect my brain to save his wife’s life.
That was the biggest fear, driving me through this befuddled building riddled with offices and conference rooms, a labyrinth of hallways.
The sound of a door opening then closing in the distance brought another wave of panic. I held my breath, praying whoever it was wouldn’t head in my direction. I tried a doorknob only to find it locked.
Tired and weak-kneed from exhaustion and lack of food, I clutched the napkin loaded with hors d’oeuvres to my chest. Food I’d taken from the buffet in the ballroom one floor below; some stuffed-shirt charity event I’d snuck into.
I tried another door on my right, halfway down the hall; also locked. Panic sizzled along the shores of my spine, fear that someone would discover me and turn me over to the authorities, who would then turn me over to him. My foster father, a temporary caretaker whose responsibilities for me should have expired three years ago when I turned eighteen. Except he was a manipulative as well as renowned and honored psychiatrist, which meant as far as the state was concerned, he was still considered my guardian.
Being turned over to his custody would be a dire situation that would definitely lead to either turning me into an invalid or worse—my demise.
My breath choked in my lungs, along with the tension, the trepidation, the terror fueling the firestorm igniting every nerve in my body.
If only I could read objects the way I could minds, I wouldn’t need to try every single doorknob in this long-ass hallway.
I headed to the last door, my only remaining option, and prayed the knob would turn.
When it did, I slipped inside, quickly and quietly closing the door behind me.
I stood still for a few flustered seconds, allowing my eyes to adjust to the light cast from a full moon flowing in through a wall of windows. I glanced around the office. Tables. Chairs. A couch. And a large, exquisite antique desk.
The sound of footsteps clicking on the other side of the door had me dashing around the desk and diving underneath. My head hit the bottom of the drawer. I whimpered, but not too loud. I scrunched my shoulders and scooched all the way against the back and counted my blessings for the small space that hid me from view.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears, the rhythm so loud I thought my brain might explode. How would the inside of my skull look splattered all over the bottom of the desk? A vision I wasn’t keen to see.
My stomach screamed. I had to eat. I bit into one of the crackers, closing my eyes, savoring the salmon-flavored cheese spread on top. I immediately popped the rest of it into my mouth. The satisfaction of eating something that yummy was almost good enough to calm the pounding of my heart.
Except for my chewing, I sat there, barely moving any of my other muscles, losing track of time. I had no idea if a minute or an hour had passed.
When I was eight years old, I jumped into the community swimming pool and let myself sink all the way to the bottom. The silence was intense—clogging, choking—an eerie deadness. But I stayed there until I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I remember being disappointed that my thoughts never dulled, never left me, never drained from my mind.
When we die, do our souls lose their ability to decipher sentiments and sensations?
Sensations like a kiss or an embrace?
Two things I hadn’t experienced since my mother passed away. And I missed them.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pictured my mom. She’d left this world when I was ten. Had she retained her opinions that she’d so often preached to me during her life on earth?
When I was in the orphanage, I overheard someone say she was in a better place. Heaven. But considering the way she’d lived toward the end, I wasn’t so sure she hadn’t gone the other way.
Did she remember me?
Did she remember anything?
What about her appetite for alcohol and pills over those last few years after my father died? She’d blamed her addictions and our swift decline into poverty on his sudden death. Did she still crave the pills? Or was she finally at peace? Had she achieved that bliss she’d sought with every high?
I stuck the last salmon-coated cracker into my mouth. They were so delicious; I wished I’d taken more. There had been enough food on the buffet to feed the entire city of San Francisco. It was an event to raise money for leukemia. A charity event similar to the one I’d attended the other night, with my foster father and his son. A fabulous gala with dancing, flowing champagne, and a guest list full of handsome, single men ready to take their turn whirling around the floor. One of many events that I’d been fortunate enough to attend, a bonus of having been fostered by a prominent and wealthy family.
Except, that event two nights ago had, unfortunately, ended on a sour note. One where my life was on the line.
I’d gone from enjoying appetizers and fine wine to being strapped to a surgical table, and had managed to escape with only the dress on my back.
Though the chiffon was a little rumpled, no one here questioned my presence.
I swallowed the savory-topped cracker and sighed.
It was the first meal I’d had since I fled.
I was safe. Lucky, for now.
“Lucky Iris,” my mom would say when I was little and things were going our way.
Not so lucky last night. Last night I slept in a bathroom at a gas station. It hadn’t been all that bad, though. At least it had been a reasonably clean one with an actual flushing toilet, not one of those endlessly bottom-looking holes in the ground. And it had a sink with running water, albeit cold.
But tonight, if I was lucky, I could stay in this room for the entire night. Even stretch out on that brown leather sofa, after I was sure everyone was gone. I might even help myself to some of that alcohol I suspected was in the crystal decanter on the credenza. I didn’t know what kind of liquor it was, but the bottle was surrounded by a few fancy crystal glasses. Fancy enough for something good to be poured into them. This office was definitely an upgrade from last night.
I sat on the hard floor, nibbling on the appetizers like a scared rodent would nibble on a chunk of cheese, praying no one would discover me.
I popped one of the blue cheese stuffed olives into my mouth and had just made myself comfortable when footsteps stopped by the door.
My prayers must have gone unheard because a few seconds later, the office door creaked open. I drew in air, holding it, afraid somebody would hear my breathing. Terror detonated inside me like a firecracker, and holding my breath became impossible. I slowly let out the air in my lungs as quietly as possible. The light from the hallway spilled in, illuminating the floor surrounding the desk. The door closed, and the entire room lit up like it was daytime. My pulse pounded louder than a raging waterfall in Yosemite after a winter of constant snow.
Footsteps clicked across the hardwood floor and stopped in front of the desk. The tips of a man’s leather shoes almost jabbed me in the thigh. I made my breath as shallow as possible and watched the expensive shoes turn away from my hiding place. One crossed over the other, giving me the impression of him leaning his backside against the desk.
“No, Damian.” The sudden sound of his voice startled me until I realized he was talking on the phone. “It went well. Most of the guests are gone now except for a few die-hard stragglers, and I’m sure we’ve reached our goal tonight. I’ve stepped into my office to check the figures.”
His office?
During the next few seconds of silence, I was certain he could hear my heartbeat while I assumed he was listening to the person on the other end of the line. To help quiet my nervous breathing, I nibbled at a hangnail on my forefinger. I didn’t normally bite my nails. But lately, normal wasn’t part of my day-to-day routine, and bi-weekly manicures were a thing of the past.
“I know you’re excited,” the man went on, “but please try to contain yourself. This must remain between us.”
My ears perked up. I pulled my finger away from my mouth and listened with more interest.
“I only confided in you because I’ll need your help … No, I’ve only recently acquired my patronage with the Ouroboros Society … Of course, I don’t have a Chosen yet. These things take time … That’s not how it works … Yes, as we discussed, the decision is mine when I think there is someone worthy.”
He laughed like a kid who had just advanced to the next level in his favorite video game, and I thought about Rory, the nine-year-old boy I’d had a crush on back when life was normal. Back before the thoughts of others could invade my mind. Rory lived next door, though a year older than me; he didn’t mind hanging out playing Super Mario 3D World once in a while. He always beat me, and he would laugh in a teasing way but never mocking me.
I heard pages flipping quickly, and I imagined the man skimming sheets of a notebook or maybe a calendar. “Ha-ha, you do have a way with words, Damian. I’m sure she won’t be butt ugly, as you put it. Though I do agree with you, women of that standard do tend to be … No, I wasn’t going to say homely, let’s just say less fortunate and maybe not as well pruned or sophisticated as most of the women who travel in the more influential circles that you’re used to.”
Was this guy serious? Not as well pruned? What did that mean? Was he talking about women or bushes? What a xenophobic ass.
And what was the Ouroboros Society, and what was a Chosen?
“You’re young still, so I’ll forgive your judgmental presumptions. I believe all women should be treated with the utmost respect and as our equals.”
Hmmm … maybe this guy wasn’t an ass after all.
My leg started to cramp, and I shifted to ease the pain. But when I moved, a blue cheese stuffed olive escaped from the napkin and rolled out from under the desk. I froze and stopped breathing as it traveled out to the tip of one of his shoes and stopped.
I considered reaching for it, but the man would surely see my hand. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the olive.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
“It’s possible that it could be months before …” He paused.
Oh no.
He planted both feet on the floor and turned toward the desk. “I have to go now.”
His footsteps came around the desk, stopping where I sat. An Olympic-sized barbell sank to the bottom of my stomach, pulverizing the cheese and crackers into a sludge that threatened to come back up. I squirmed against the wood, wishing I could somehow flatten myself into it to make myself invisible. Even if I could, the thumping of my heart would surely give me away.
Thurump—Thurump.
Thurump—Thurump.
I placed my hand over my heart. It was pounding so hard in my chest I was sure it would punch a hole through my breast. He rolled the chair aside, and his face appeared before me. His expression shifted from what-the-hell shock to who-the-hell-are-you friendly fascination.
But I didn’t think I should trust that friendly fascination. I wanted to get up and run from the room, but there was no way out except through him.
GET YOUR COPY NOW!
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©2022 Susan Griscom -- All Rights Reserved
