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MILLS & BOON
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After escaping from an abusive relationship, the last thing Neve Logan wants another man. Then fate brings her a magic looking glass containing a mirror slave who is compelled to satisfy Neve’s deepest desires….
Adrian Dulac has spent centuries doing the bidding of cruel masters, and is wary of the beautiful woman who craves nothing more than his touch—and their mutual pleasure. He knows Neve will be a delightfully wanton lover if she can manage to let go of her fears. She is the first mistress Adrian wants to please, but will past hurt derail the possibility of a future together?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter One
The panic attacks were sneaky things.
One moment, Neve Logan would be fine, browsing in a store or walking to get her morning coffee. The next, she would be nearly frantic from the crushing fear that made her desperate to run somewhere—anywhere—to get away.
Like now.
Neve felt the familiar bands clamp around her chest, tightening, squeezing all the air from her lungs. Her breath hitched, and the hand that held her water bottle quivered when her hand clenched convulsively, making the plastic crunch. Suddenly it seemed like every eye in the small park where she often stopped on her way home was on her, the light was too bright, the noise painfully loud. And all the while, there was the sense of impending doom, of some violent disaster creeping up on her that she could neither avoid nor escape.
It took everything she had to rise stiffly from the bench where she’d been sitting and walk in deliberate, measured steps away from the park, never even breaking stride when she tossed the bottle in the trash. By the time she hit the sidewalk, her steps were staccato clicking on concrete. All it took was the sound of a male voice, sharp and raised, to send her into flight. The fears, carefully boxed up since the last attack, all came tumbling out at once. What if it was Jamie? What if they’d let him out of jail early and he’d come to find her, to finish what he’d started? What if he’d been watching her again, learning what her routine was, where she liked to spend her time alone….
Neve’s heels clicked against the sidewalk as she raced blindly away from the park, ever faster, twisting and turning down streets that quickly became unfamiliar. By the time the fear ebbed enough for her to get a handle on it, she had no idea where she was. Her daily trek to and from work was a comfortable, well-worn path for her. But this hadn’t been her city for very long…and she hadn’t made much effort to explore. Now, it looked like she was going to pay for it.
Neve forced herself to stop, resting a hand against the brick wall of the building beside her and feeling vaguely ashamed, as she always did, that she’d let him get the better of her again. Even now, when she’d done everything she could do to pick herself up and start over, when he was rotting in a cell like he deserved, he was winning.
Pushing aside the self-defeating little voice that nagged at her, Neve looked around while she locked down the fear again, let her heartbeat slow. She’d run into a street that was little more than an alley—narrow, one-way and perfectly quiet. It was a little…eerie.
“Honestly,” she grumbled, hitching her messenger bag higher up on her shoulder and walking slowly forward. “At this rate, I’m going to end up a complete freak show.”
Knowing that she wasn’t, that she was far more than what a violent stalker had tried to make her, brought her fully back to herself. She was no victim. She’d survived thanks to a neighbor who’d heard her and called the cops before Jamie had gotten the gag in her mouth. She would get through this. Somehow.
When she passed the window of the little shop, stuffed with odd objects in a fascinating and somehow stylish jumble of colorful clutter, her feet stopped. Just…stopped. Neve blinked, frowned. She hadn’t even really been aware of the store, and she certainly hadn’t intended to stick her nose to the window. Panic attacks didn’t really put her in a shopping kind of mood. Except she found herself compelled to look in, almost as though someone had called her name.
One hand lifted to touch the glass, upon which was painted what Neve assumed was the shop’s name: Wicked Little Things. The kind of name that put her in mind of a place that might sell, say, bondage wear, she thought with a sudden grin. Except what she saw, beckoning, were more like antiques. Jewelry, much of it very ornate and undoubtedly expensive. A painted box. An intricately carved walking stick. A mask that could have been from a nineteenth-century masquerade.
Money was tight, as usual, but it had been too long since she’d treated herself. Maybe she’d take a peek and see if she could afford something pretty, even if it was only a little thing.
A small silver bell announced her entrance, but there was no sign of another soul as Neve stepped inside. Immediately she was struck by the warmth, the faint scent of sandalwood and the pervasive silence that was less threatening than simply… waiting. Which seemed like a foolish thing to think, but she couldn’t shake it.
She walked slowly around the shop, taking in the dark wood that gleamed in the dim light, the shelves that climbed the walls to the high ceiling. Lower shelves and display cases were scattered about the room, interspersed with the larger pieces for sale. Neve let her fingers brush over a massive stone gargoyle, then sucked in a breath and jerked her hand away. What looked like cold stone had felt strangely warm, almost alive beneath her hand. And it hadn’t felt friendly.
“You don’t want that,” a voice said beside her.
Neve jumped with a sharp yelp and stumbled back a few steps before realizing how badly she’d overreacted. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Were her nerves ever going to be right again?
“Sorry,” Neve stammered. “Sorry, I just…it was so quiet in here, you startled me.”
“It’s not a problem,” replied the woman who was watching her with a small, knowing smile. She was, Neve thought as she looked back at her, the most gorgeous woman she’d ever seen. Hair the color of flame tumbled down her back in a riot of curls, and jade-green eyes, almost catlike, dominated a face that managed to be both sharply featured and stunning. She was dressed simply, in a plum-colored velvet dress that went from neck to ankle and still managed to convey the beauty of the form beneath.
“Do you need a moment?” the woman asked, arching a slim red brow. “A drink of water, a place to sit?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Neve blurted out, embarrassed that she was so obviously rattled. “Thank you, though. I was just admiring the things you have in here. It’s really…unusual, what you’re selling.”
“Unusual, yes. Dangerous, some would say. But things worth having are often worth bleeding a little for, don’t you think?”
A smile, both inviting and knife-like. Neve had to fight back a shiver. That smile held the promise of as much cruelty as compassion.
“Um, I prefer to avoid blood if at all possible,” Neve said.
“A wise decision.” The woman’s laugh was warm and genuine, but Neve still felt nerves flutter deep in the pit of her stomach when a slim hand was extended. She took it, and felt the hum of power ripple right up her arm.
And yet, she had no interest in pulling away. A sense of peace and calm enveloped her almost immediately, a pleasant fog that made her feel as though she’d just been wrapped in a lovely dream.
“I’m Morgan. Morgan le Fay,” the woman said, in a voice as rich as the velvet she wore. “Welcome to Wicked Little Things, home of the maligned, the misunderstood and, of course, the magical.”
“Neve Logan,” Neve heard herself saying, though she felt oddly detached from her body. “Did you say magical?” This didn’t seem like one of those little Wiccan shops she and her friends occasionally liked to visit. Then again, there was something really odd about this place…and Morgan, who seemed to have named herself after the most famous witch of all. Couldn’t be her real name. No way.
Morgan shrugged, a dainty lift of the shoulders. “Someone has to take care of them. They’re all hopeless on their own. And we can’t all be knights on white chargers.” Those amazing eyes narrowed. “Or brats who yank swords out of stones. But I digress.”
Neve lifted her eyebrows, feeling lost as well as foggy. “I’m sorry…take care of who?”
Morgan shook her head, an inviting smile replacing the irritation of a moment before. “Never mind.” She tilted her head to regard Neve, her eyes piercing. “Hmm. Let me see. Battered, but not broken. Brave and strong beneath the wounds. A good heart—that’ll be a switch for him. And of course, lovely. You’ll be just his type, not that I’ll get any thanks for it. No wonder you were drawn here. The Fates always know, meddling old biddies that they are.”
Neve swayed on her feet, beginning to drift into sleep. “What?”
“Oh, pardon me,” Morgan said, quickly withdrawing her hand. “I haven’t had a customer in a bit. Not one who I’d sell to, at least. I sometimes forget that a little goes a long way.” She turned her head, glanced toward the shadowy back corner of the shop.
“Come with me, Neve Logan. I’ve got just the thing for you.”
And despite the fog enveloping her thoughts, Neve was strangely certain that Morgan did.
Chapter Two
Adrian did not know how long he’d slept, but he knew the moment he awakened that he had a new master. Shifting his naked body in the tangle of silken sheets, he opened his eyes and looked drowsily, resentfully, at the glow now emanating from the floor-length mirror on the wall opposite. The magic mirror, bane of his very long existence.
Adrian groaned low in his throat and sat up, looking around the tower room he’d been confined to for more than a thousand years. He’d stopped keeping track at three hundred. At that point, it had been too depressing to continue counting.
The slide of silk against his newly awakened body had his cock stirring in wasted arousal. Adrian gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it, the rush of need he’d never fully been able to get rid of. After so long alone, he’d thought he might simply lose all interest in sex, in the thought of pumping into a willing woman’s softness until he spent himself. But if anything, his need had only grown keener. And it was dangerous, so dangerous for a slave to allow himself to want.
It had nearly been his downfall once already. He’d sworn never to let that happen again. He couldn’t, or he would become nothing but a shattered mind trapped in this miserable glass.
He got to his feet, glancing at the flickering candles that never went out, and were never spent. Adrian let his gaze wander over the familiar trappings of his long life, feeling deep in his bones that he had slept much longer than usual this time even though nothing had changed here. That was no measure: nothing ever changed here. Books were stacked haphazardly in a bookcase, gifts from various masters and all read hundreds of times. A comfortable chair, a table covered in various implements useful to a mage like himself—or rather, useful in keeping him in the good graces of those he was forced to serve. A small table with a single chair, where he could dine on anything he liked with nothing more than a spoken request. A massive tub. A darkened fireplace. And tall, thin windows barely more than slits in the stone through which he could look out on the illusion of an endless night in a world that had once been his.
And of course, there was the bed: massive, sumptuous…and something his first mistress had enjoyed making use of. She had used him so much, and so poorly, that he had appeared to every master since as nothing more than an inhuman spirit at the glass. It had, at least, allowed him some measure of peace in this wretched, enchanted place. The few women he had served since had simply used his power to draw other unfortunates to their beds. But he had known that eventually, one would ask to breach the glass barrier again. And he would be forced to let her in.
To be a slave in every sense, to serve her physically whether he wished to or not.
Pushing aside the dark thoughts, Adrian padded across the rug to the glowing glass, pausing only to draw on a simple robe that he’d draped over the back of his reading chair. He didn’t want to look: he’d served so many masters and mistresses, and all had been greedy, violent creatures, consumed with gathering more power and crushing others beneath it. For a long time, he’d watched in fascinated horror, able to see out, though they could not see in. Eventually, he’d had to turn away.
Nothing good ever came of those he served. Fitting, as he was so very cursed himself.
With a feeling of dread deep in his stomach, Adrian touched the glass, and the curling mist beyond cleared. What would he be doing this time, he wondered? Murdering enemies? Corrupting innocents? He expected to look out and see nothing more than the human embodiment of more cruelty, which was all he had known for ages.
But what he saw stopped him cold.
Hair of raven black. Lips as red as the rose. Skin as white as snow.
Adrian watched, fascinated, as a woman whose beauty could only be called exquisite examined the other side of the glass, seemingly without a single clue he was within. She was dressed strangely to him, though he had come to expect such things. He liked these clothes, the breeches that hugged slim curves, the fitted shirt that clung to a generous pair of breasts and a long, slender waist. Loose waves of midnight hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she shoved it back with one hand while she examined something, some carving in the frame beyond. Big, thickly lashed eyes of deep sapphire-blue looked at the glass, looked through him.
Still, in the brief moment her gaze touched his, Adrian felt heat suffuse his body in one dizzying rush. What fresh torment was this to be? She was bound to be as bad as the rest. An enchantress, probably, like Melisande, his first mistress. The one who had bound him to this accursed place. But Melisande was nothing but a pale shadow of this woman, a cruel and artificial beauty who had gone to extreme and bloody lengths to keep her looks.
No, he had only seen this woman’s equal once, long ago. That one had never known he even existed, which was just as well…considering his power had been used to attempt her murder.
As he watched her look over the mirror, frowning lightly, he noted that she looked…confused. Displeased. And still, she made no attempt to call him. Biding her time, he supposed. Making him wait.
Finally, she settled her hands on her hips, shook her head and turned away.
When she began to take her clothes off, Adrian’s mouth went dry.
She doesn’t know I’m here, he thought, then shook off the forgiving notion. Of course she knew. She was playing with him. And though it shamed him, angered him, he was ripe to be played in such a way.
Adrian watched her pull the shirt over her head, the thin material sliding up to reveal more porcelain skin marred only by a thin black strap across her back. The strap was quickly hidden by that mass of shining hair. Her shirt was tossed onto the bed beyond, a simple piece of furniture not at all suited to the sorts of things he found himself wanting to do to this woman. For the first time in centuries, his thoughts drifted to the chest at the foot of the bed, to the silken ties and velvet whips…and the sharper things. The heavy chains. The cat-o’-nine-tails.
His blood went cold, even as his cock rose to full attention, throbbing insistently. His body had betrayed him at first with Melisande, too, he remembered. But not for long. Not once her pleasure could only be achieved through his pain.
Gods, he was a fool.
His new mistress slid the pants she wore down shapely legs, leaving an intriguing scrap of black silk that covered…very little. Adrian braced one hand against the wall, gritting his teeth. He had to look. He had to master this temptation before it got out of hand. In all his years as the mirror slave, only Melisande had tried to use his body to destroy his soul. It would not happen again. He would feel nothing when he looked at this wench. Nothing.
Then she turned back, and he forgot to breathe. The blood pounded in his ears. One hand fisted at his side. Seemingly unaware, she turned this way and that, examining her perfect form with a critical eye. Then she skimmed her hands up her waist, beneath breasts pushed up by the fascinating, lacy undergarment that he wanted to remove with his teeth.
Adrian hitched in a single breath. Enchantress. She had to be. Desire nearly took him to his knees, a position he had sworn never to be in again. Adrian swallowed back a soft moan, hating that anyone was still capable of making him feel like this, want like this. Knowing she would walk away while he spent himself, alone in the dark.
Then her ruby-red lips moved, and the words he both wanted and dreaded echoed from her world into his.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”
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