Illusion(39)

“Yes. He is responsible for cleaning our apartment and running my errands until he joins us in Bali.”

I had an image of Lukas running a vacuum and giggled loudly, splashing Stefan with water. His blue eyes sparkled and he pressed me against the bathtub, nibbling at my lower lip. We lingered in the tub until the water turned cold and my fingers were wrinkled, reluctantly bundling into a fluffy towel. I grabbed a wide toothed comb from the vanity and headed into the bedroom, sitting cross legged on the bed. Stefan joined me and plucked the comb from my fingers, sitting behind me to slowly comb through my long hair. His fingers were fast and gentle as I felt him separate my hair into three sections, methodically beginning to weave my hair into a long braid that hung down my back. He secured it with a rubber band and I turned to face him as he surveyed his work, a proud smile on his handsome face.

“How did you learn to braid hair?” I questioned, rubbing my fingers over the tight plaits.

“One does not live to be almost a thousand years old without knowing how to braid. During my human life we made our own ropes from bast and hemp which were braided together,” Stefan offered in explanation and shrugged. He placed the comb on the bedside table and reclined on the bed, running his fingers through his thick, damp hair.

“Do you miss your human life?” I asked, moving to lie on my stomach beside him. I rested my chin on his stomach, watching him intently. He stared down at me in surprise for a moment before his face took on that familiar faraway look when he was remembering something from his past.

“I do not miss being human and it is difficult for me to recollect much of my human life,” he said quietly and rubbed his finger across his lip, lost in thought. “I remember my father being a handsome, imposing man. He was a Jarl in our village, a nobleman. My mother was a beautiful woman with long blond hair and blue eyes. I had three brothers: Ragnarr, Sigarr and Snerrir, and a sister named Heiðr. I can recall being happy, even with my ability.”

“Go on,” I whispered. I was barely breathing, mesmerized by the deep timbre of his voice and his story.

He smiled faintly and continued. “I was 33 when our village came under attack. My father was killed and as I was the eldest, it was left for me to lead our village. We were victorious; however I was not so lucky that day. I was wounded in battle, left by my comrades to bleed to death on a funeral pyre on a cold spring night of that year. I can recall the pain of my wounds and staring at the stars, praying to Freya or Hel to end my suffering, though I should have been fighting for my life. Solveig intervened and made me what I am today.”

“Solveig was your maker, right?”

“Yes. She was kind as far as sires go. She was nearly 800 years old when she turned me and as the years passed, she lost her sanity. She began creating vampires and left them to obliterate entire villages and towns. The Council intervened and she met her final death when I was a little over 300 years old.”

Sucking in a shallow breath, I looked down at the silky, pale skin of his stomach instead of his eyes. “Did you love her?”

“Josephine, my love. Look at me,” Stefan murmured. I fearfully looked up and his sea blue eyes met mine. He reached over to stroke the side of my face. “Yes, I loved her. She was my sire and for a time, we were lovers. Do not do this to yourself. I love you and only you. What I felt for her cannot even compare to my depth of my love for you. Once I had my vision of you, no one else mattered. I understood 200 years ago that you would be the one I would be with until the end of my life. Do you understand?”

Nodding, I let Stefan pull me into his arms. He started crooning and humming to me in Swedish, comforting me. “I liten Reck ... för att nå henne riskerade jag mitt liv ofta ...Fast jag dräpas inom armar min älskade, Sova i Sif-of-siden-klänningar "omfattar: För den blonda kvinnan känner jag älskar ändlösa.”

His deep voice was lovely to listen to, regardless of what he said. “What did you sing to me?”

His lips curled into a smile against my temple. “When I was human, men did not write or recite love poems. It was forbidden to do so. I am sure it is safe to do now.” He tipped my face up to look in his eyes as he spoke. “I little reck...to reach her risked I have my life oft...Though I be slain within the arms of my beloved, sleeping in the Sif-of-silken-gowns' embraces: for the fair-haired woman feel I love unending.”

“That’s beautiful,” I whispered, my fingers tracing lines across his chest.

He softly stroked my hair and peppered kisses against my face. He continued to hum, the deep sound rumbling in his chest and lulling me to sleep.