The Obsidian Table

In which a man wakes and discovers he no longer fits inside his own name. CHAPTER 1 THE WEIGHT OF OBSIDIAN * * * I. The Cage of Glass and Silk The marble had never felt so glacial beneath his feet, and the five-hundred-thread-count cotton of his shirts had never felt so rough against his skin. Gregor stopped in front of the full-length mirror that dominated the dressing room of his penthouse in the financial district of New York. The six-thirty sun was only beginning to seep through the armored windows, tinting the room a grayish blue, like a wound that refuses to close. He held the black silk tie between his fingers. It was impeccable, sober, cut with the surgical precision his position demanded as executive vice president of Vance & Holdings. At twenty-eight, Gregor Vance was the living definition of modern success: six foot four, shoulders so broad they filled his tailored jackets without padding, a jaw sharp as a scalpel stroke, and eyes of a blue so pale and cold that they commanded instinctive respect in boardrooms. And yet, behind that façade of marble and absolute control, Gregor felt himself coming apart from the inside. For three weeks he had been running a silent fever. It was not the kind that sends you to bed with chills and ordinary delirium; it was an inner tide, a thick heat that seemed to well up from the marrow of his bones. Thermometers could not register it, but it scorched his insides every time the sun went down. His muscles felt strangely heavy, swollen with a latent strength his ligaments could barely contain. More than once, closing a solid wooden door, the brass handle had given way under his hand with a dry crack, and he had been left with his heart in his throat and a guilt he could not explain. He ran his fingers along his neck. The skin, always smooth after shaving, felt hypersensitive and rigid, as if an invisible shell were forming beneath the epidermis. Every brush of fabric against his collarbones sent an electric jolt straight to his belly. “That look again, Gregor. You look like a ghost who just remembered where he left his body.” Elena’s voice broke the silence. He did not need to turn around to know she was there. Her scent reached him before her footsteps did: night jasmine, dark vanilla, and the warm undertone of skin fresh from the shower. Elena appeared in the mirror. She wore only his white silk robe, which hung loose from her slender shoulders and left a strip of chest and her long legs bare. Her dark-brown hair was still damp, falling in disordered waves down her back, and her honey-colored eyes studied him with that singular mixture of devotion, worry, and a desire that never seemed to fade completely. Elena had been his executive assistant for two years and his secret lover for eight months. In the corridors of the company, a relationship like that would be paid for with dismissal or scandal; within the four walls of that apartment, it had become Gregor’s only refuge. He turned slowly. The simple movement of his torso made the buttons of his shirt strain against the fabric. Again that pressure across his back, the sense that his own body had become too small for him. “I haven’t slept well,” he said. His voice came out deeper than usual, with a deep rasp in the throat that made Elena blink, startled by the texture of the sound. “You haven’t slept at all in three days,” she corrected, moving closer. Her steps made no noise on the parquet. She stopped inches from him and raised her hands, small and pale beside his, to take the ends of his tie and knot it with practiced skill. “You’re burning up, Gregor. Again.” When her fingertips touched his Adam’s apple, Gregor choked back a groan. It was a visceral reaction, almost violent, a primitive impulse that screamed at him to seize her by the wrists, pin her against the nearest wall, and possess her until they both ran out of breath. He forced himself to stay still. Self-control was his greatest pride, his trademark. “It’s the stress of the Asian investors deal,” he lied, fixing his eyes on her lips. Elena’s lips were full, naturally pink, with a perfectly defined Cupid’s bow that always seemed on the verge of a smile or a sigh. A pang of need so sharp stabbed the pit of his stomach that he clenched his fists behind his back. He loved those lips. He had kissed them hundreds of times in the half-light of his office, in the back seat of the car, in bed, among tangled sheets. And yet, in that instant, looking at her mouth, a sinister, foreign thought crossed his mind: I want to drink her. I want to devour her until nothing of her is left. He shook his head, driving the idea away in horror. What the hell was happening to him? “You’re tense,” Elena murmured, feeling the sudden hardening of his chest beneath the shirt. She lifted her eyes to him, and Gregor saw in them an undeniable fascination. It was a look he knew well, but one that had grown more intense over the past few weeks. Elena did not merely love him; she seemed subjugated by his mere presence. When he entered a room, her breathing quickened almost imperceptibly. When he touched her back, a visible shiver ran through her body. “Elena...” he began, stepping back to put distance between them. She wouldn’t let him. She rose onto the tips of her bare toes and wound her arms around his neck. The robe fell slightly open. “Stay with me today,” she pleaded in a whisper, pressing her mouth to his jaw. Her warm breath on Gregor’s skin was like throwing gasoline on a pyre. “Cancel the meetings. Tell them you’re sick. I’ve watched you work yourself to exhaustion, but this is different. You smell... different. It’s as if the whole room were filled with you. It drives me crazy, Gregor. I can’t think straight when you look at me like that.” An icy shiver ran down his spine. You smell different. It was not the first time he had heard it that week. The woman at the corner café had gotten his order wrong three times because she kept staring at him, breathing deeply whenever he approached the counter. His secretary had dropped a folder when their eyes met in the hallway, her cheeks flushed in a violent blush. Something was seeping from his pores, an invisible emanation, a thick, sweet, electrifying musk that seemed to dull the judgment of the women around him. He took her by the waist to move her away gently, but the moment his palms touched the bare skin of her hips beneath the robe, something inside him roared. His touch was not gentle. It was dominant, possessive. His fingers sank into her flesh with a force that should have made her protest, but Elena only let out a choked gasp and parted her legs to fit her pelvis against his. There was no pain in her reaction, only an absolute, voluptuous surrender. She rested her head against Gregor’s chest and let out a low, ragged moan, as though the mere contact of his hands gave her a silent climax. “Gregor... yes...” she whispered, rubbing against the hardness growing between his legs. Gregor clenched his teeth, fighting a tide of savage lust that threatened to sweep away his sanity. He could feel Elena’s pulse racing in her jugular, inches from his lips. He could smell the sweet sweat beginning to bead between her breasts. The urge to lower his head, catch her mouth, and suck the very life out of her became almost unbearable. No. Don’t. A small, terrified voice at the back of his mind rang out loud and clear. With a superhuman effort that left him in a cold sweat, he pulled her away from his body. Elena blinked, disoriented, her eyes clouded by a haze of almost opiate desire. Her lips were parted, wet, trembling. “I have to go to the office,” Gregor said, struggling to keep his voice steady. He turned and buttoned his jacket with clumsy fingers that threatened to snap the mother-of-pearl buttons. “Get dressed. I want you in the car in fifteen minutes.” He did not wait for an answer. He walked out of the dressing room and left Elena in the half-light, breathing hard, one hand on her waist, where the invisible mark of her master’s hands still burned.