The Key (Sanguinem Emere) Read Free

with a wan, distracted smile, his attention drawn away. She leans up to his cheek and that green haze falls over me again. I kick myself internally for my idiotic reluctance.
    Dimitri’s face, however, turns back to me with a wicked smile, which speaks volumes of temptation, and I can feel his fingers interlacing with my own as he bends to my lips.
    I sway gently, overwhelmed by him, encompassed by him, lost in him. His unobtrusive cologne, the chilled velvet of his skin, the roughly tender abrasion of his beard. All this barely broken by the insistent notes of Delilah’s voice as she mutters near to me, “Have fun, Duckling.”
    A thrill tickles through my nerves as he retreats, his hand still holding mine, and the green monster in me chuckles as I see a myriad of female eyes beyond his face, glaring balefully at me.
    “Come,” he pulls me along with him.
    I follow.
    The staircase is dark, but he seems to deftly feel his way along the wall with one hand. The music blaring from Delilah’s stereo vibrates through him and into my palm. As we ascend to the landing I can hear noises emanating from one of the rooms to our right. Thank god he cannot see my face in the darkness. From the heat in my cheeks, the blush must be back and beacon-like.
    He directs me instead down the left passageway and opens the first door, neglecting to flick the light switch.
    The shadow wraps itself around me as the click of the door signals an end. To my hesitation? To my reputation?
    I can’t begin to try and fathom the amount of gossip most likely flooding the mouths of individuals whose opinions I hold dear, and those that I do not even recognise, still entrenched in Delilah’s shindig. The man circling me in the dark is high-profile and I am a Lamb of high-profile figures. But I never suspected I would be here with him. Alone in a bedroom, conveniently bedecked with fresh linen, satin sheets and alcohol (to misdirect the shame) by my unabashedly scandalous friend.
    When I first encountered Dimitri Kron four weeks ago, I had to have him.
    But not like this.
    Playboy, billionaire and attractive bachelor, Dimitri is one of those high profile men that seems to have no place in the halls of fame and yet he still succeeded at being graced with the ambiguous title, Socialite. Apart from one or two charity auctions, a magnificently decadent lifestyle and an assortment of scandals severe enough to make one’s hair curl, Dimitri’s foray into the media has been quiet. And yet he has been known for years, as the man everyone loves to hate.
    The eager journalist in me, the small corner of my being devoted to garnering a story to make the others display some semblance of respect towards me, begged Delilah to introduce me to him. The girl knows everyone. At the ripe young age of eighteen, Delilah also fell under the mantle of Socialite and has flourished under its tender care ever since. She obliged me in my wish to have a cocktail or six with the infamous Dimitri and I approached the event with a fair amount of study beneath my belt. I knew that he claims to be distantly related to the Kron noble family, and that he is suspected to live with a number of women who all seem to fawn over him and revel in the attention granted to them by the jealous media. I knew that he styles himself something of a Hue Hefner, although his sole contribution to the media has been to provide ample fodder for the scandal rags who love to berate his decadent lifestyle one week and praise him on his genuine nature the next. I knew that he was voted most eligible bachelor last year and that he has hosted the Southern Debutantes’ Ball for three years running (the proceeds of which were deposited directly into the funds account for National Animal Welfare).
    What I had been unable to uncover was his past before his foray into our city, or for that matter how long he has been here. The details of his lifestyle are murky and uncast, almost deliberately so, which I had assumed