be so formal,” I said, and stepped by him.
“Miss,” Mr. K said, but I was already through the foyer and then I turned toward the sunken living room.
It took me a moment to register the scene. A three-piece jazz band played while people chatted. A few had the too-smooth color of spray-on tans as they quaffed dark red drinks. Among the others, I saw bruises and scabs, the marks of blood tastings.
Ian wasn’t in the room. Someone whispered, “That’s Milagro,” and someone else said, “Mmm, mouthwatering.”
I ignored the comments and walked out of the room.
Mr. K said, “Please, Miss Milagro, allow me—” He tried to block my way and I moved around him, heading to the master suite.
The door was ajar and I pushed it open, saying, “Ian …”
He stood by the stone fireplace, facing out to the room, and Cricket was in front of him, her back to him, in a filmy paleyellow spring dress. His mouth was on her shoulder, his hands gripping her arms.
Cricket’s head was thrown back and her eyes were closed like a martyr in spiritual ecstasy, the thin straps of her dress falling off and exposing most of her breasts. Her hips were pushed back against him, moving in a slow grind.
Ford sat in an armchair, clutching a tall cut crystal tumbler, transfixed.
I felt as if I’d stepped off a cliff.
I wanted to kill Ian and I wanted to cry, but I was paralyzed, telling myself, This isn’t happening .
Ian lifted his mouth from Cricket’s tan shoulder, showing a red gash on her golden skin. He licked a spot of blood off his lip.
“Hello, darling,” he said, and gently urged a dazed Cricket toward her husband.
She fell into Ford’s lap and took his drink from him.
Ian came to me and I stayed stiff in his embrace, just as he remained stiff from Cricket’s friction. His warm lips nuzzled my cheek, my neck, and I could smell the blood on his breath, his subtle spicy cologne, and the scent of his flesh.
I knew he drank from people, from women, but I hadn’t witnessed him doing it since we’d been together. Although we never discussed it, I’d hoped he’d stopped. I thought I would be enough for him.
A stray blond hair was on Ian’s dark shirt, and I felt queasy. “You’re busy,” I said. “I should have called.”
“You’re always welcome. Let me introduce you.”
“No thanks. I’ll leave you to your friends.” I turned to leave and Ian grabbed my wrist, sending unwanted sensations through me. I stared at his hand, and he let go.
“Milagro, tell me why you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.” I heard the words as if at a distance, spokenby someone calmly, yet all I felt was rage and hurt. “How you convinced them to do this …” His mouth on her, his hands on her, her ass rubbing him, her body open to him.
“Come now, Milagro, you’ve had sufficient time to accept my nature, our nature. You can see that we’re all enjoying this.” He glanced back at Ford kissing his wife as she snuggled against him.
Yes, that was the problem: they were all enjoying it too much.
Ford smiled goofily at me and said, “I like to watch.” He ran his hand down his wife’s arm, and I saw the bruises and scabs there. Ian must have been drinking from her for days. What else had he done to her, with her?
Cricket’s eyes flicked to mine and she gave me a confident, bold gaze, a “wouldn’t you like to know?” look.
I walked out of the room as fast as I could, needing to get outside and away.
Ian caught me in the foyer. “Milagro!”
“What?” I snapped.
“Don’t run away, querida ,” he said quietly. “Cricket means nothing, but can’t you see that Ford is special? He’s very fond of you. He would be thankful to be your thrall.”
“Why do you keep pushing me toward him? Maybe it’s you who wants to watch. I don’t want a thrall.” I was mesmerized by the gold hair on Ian’s charcoal shirt.
Cricket and Ford came into the foyer. She rolled a scalpel in her manicured fingers. Oswald had
“Miss,” Mr. K said, but I was already through the foyer and then I turned toward the sunken living room.
It took me a moment to register the scene. A three-piece jazz band played while people chatted. A few had the too-smooth color of spray-on tans as they quaffed dark red drinks. Among the others, I saw bruises and scabs, the marks of blood tastings.
Ian wasn’t in the room. Someone whispered, “That’s Milagro,” and someone else said, “Mmm, mouthwatering.”
I ignored the comments and walked out of the room.
Mr. K said, “Please, Miss Milagro, allow me—” He tried to block my way and I moved around him, heading to the master suite.
The door was ajar and I pushed it open, saying, “Ian …”
He stood by the stone fireplace, facing out to the room, and Cricket was in front of him, her back to him, in a filmy paleyellow spring dress. His mouth was on her shoulder, his hands gripping her arms.
Cricket’s head was thrown back and her eyes were closed like a martyr in spiritual ecstasy, the thin straps of her dress falling off and exposing most of her breasts. Her hips were pushed back against him, moving in a slow grind.
Ford sat in an armchair, clutching a tall cut crystal tumbler, transfixed.
I felt as if I’d stepped off a cliff.
I wanted to kill Ian and I wanted to cry, but I was paralyzed, telling myself, This isn’t happening .
Ian lifted his mouth from Cricket’s tan shoulder, showing a red gash on her golden skin. He licked a spot of blood off his lip.
“Hello, darling,” he said, and gently urged a dazed Cricket toward her husband.
She fell into Ford’s lap and took his drink from him.
Ian came to me and I stayed stiff in his embrace, just as he remained stiff from Cricket’s friction. His warm lips nuzzled my cheek, my neck, and I could smell the blood on his breath, his subtle spicy cologne, and the scent of his flesh.
I knew he drank from people, from women, but I hadn’t witnessed him doing it since we’d been together. Although we never discussed it, I’d hoped he’d stopped. I thought I would be enough for him.
A stray blond hair was on Ian’s dark shirt, and I felt queasy. “You’re busy,” I said. “I should have called.”
“You’re always welcome. Let me introduce you.”
“No thanks. I’ll leave you to your friends.” I turned to leave and Ian grabbed my wrist, sending unwanted sensations through me. I stared at his hand, and he let go.
“Milagro, tell me why you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.” I heard the words as if at a distance, spokenby someone calmly, yet all I felt was rage and hurt. “How you convinced them to do this …” His mouth on her, his hands on her, her ass rubbing him, her body open to him.
“Come now, Milagro, you’ve had sufficient time to accept my nature, our nature. You can see that we’re all enjoying this.” He glanced back at Ford kissing his wife as she snuggled against him.
Yes, that was the problem: they were all enjoying it too much.
Ford smiled goofily at me and said, “I like to watch.” He ran his hand down his wife’s arm, and I saw the bruises and scabs there. Ian must have been drinking from her for days. What else had he done to her, with her?
Cricket’s eyes flicked to mine and she gave me a confident, bold gaze, a “wouldn’t you like to know?” look.
I walked out of the room as fast as I could, needing to get outside and away.
Ian caught me in the foyer. “Milagro!”
“What?” I snapped.
“Don’t run away, querida ,” he said quietly. “Cricket means nothing, but can’t you see that Ford is special? He’s very fond of you. He would be thankful to be your thrall.”
“Why do you keep pushing me toward him? Maybe it’s you who wants to watch. I don’t want a thrall.” I was mesmerized by the gold hair on Ian’s charcoal shirt.
Cricket and Ford came into the foyer. She rolled a scalpel in her manicured fingers. Oswald had
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