Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
"How can you tell?"
"You stopped breathing."
I start breathing again, pointedly, and he makes a sound that might be a laugh. It rumbles through his chest and into my back, and I feel it everywhere.
"I wasn't—I was just—"
He turns me in his arms.
One motion. Efficient. Suddenly I'm facing him, and the morning light is catching the gold in his eyes, and his hair is mussed from sleep in a way that makes him look almost human. Almost approachable.
Almost.
"Good morning," he says.
"Good morning."
We stare at each other.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Seventh time. I'm still counting.
And then he kisses me.
Soft. Slow. Nothing like the claiming kisses from last night. This is gentle in a way I didn't know he could be, his hand coming up to cup my face, his thumb tracing along my cheekbone like I'm something precious.
When he pulls back, I've forgotten my own name.
"That's a nice way to wake up—"
It’s only when I see the corner of his mouth twitch did I realize what I’ve just blurted out.
Argh.
"I mean—" I start, and then stop, because his eyes are very gold this close, and his hand is still on my face, and I'm suddenly aware that I'm not wearing anything under this sheet. "It's—yes. It's nice. You're—"
Oh my gosh, Bailey. Do not tell him he's good at kissing.
"—very warm," I finish. "Temperature-wise. You're like a furnace. It's very—"
I'm going to stop talking now.
His almost-smile spreads into something real. Something that makes my stomach flip.
"Warm," he repeats.
"Forget I said anything."
"I don't think I will."
"Can we start this conversation over?"
"No."
"You're enjoying this."
"Very much."
I want to bury my face in the pillow, but that would require breaking eye contact, and somehow I can't make myself do that either.
“Can we pretend the last sixty seconds didn’t happen?”
“Never.”
But he’s smiling at me when he says this, and my heart...it just can’t bear how beautiful he looks right now.
Is this man truly my husband?
The thought hits differently in daylight. Last night, wrapped in darkness and his hands and that strange magic of becoming, it felt like a dream. Something happening outside of time. But now the sun is streaming through the windows, and his eyes are gold in the light, and I just...
I still can’t believe it.
This man is my husband.
But...
This man also harbors suspicions about someone sending me.
Who sent you, Bailey?
The question from last night echoes in my chest. He asked it in the dark, after everything, when I was still drifting in that hazy space between consciousness and sleep. I pretended not to hear. Pretended I'd already fallen asleep.
But I heard.
And I don't know how to answer him with words he'd believe.
BREAKFAST ARRIVES ON a silver tray: croissants, fresh fruit, coffee that smells like heaven. We eat together—him scanning documents, me trying not to stare at the way his fingers hold a pen.
I check my phone while he reviews a second stack of papers. Force of habit. My audiobook app is still open to Olympus Bewitched, paused mid-chapter from—
From before. From my old life. From the last time I needed a door out.
"What is that?"
I look up. Devyn's eyes are on my screen, on the book cover with Blair's silhouette and the shadowy figure of a man behind her.
"Just an audiobook. I've listened to it a million times."
“Because it’s hard to understand?”
“Because it’s comforting.”
"And the man on the cover?"
"Mr. Handsome?" I can't help the smile. "He's the love interest. Very mysterious. Very brooding. Blair—that's the heroine—she's completely obsessed with him."
"Mr. Handsome."
"That's what Blair calls him—”
“Then let Blair call him that, not you.”
I just have to laugh. “You almost have me thinking you’re jealous.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s just...the way you sound, I suppose.”
"Book obsessions are unhealthy." He returns to his documents with pointed focus. "You should find better coping mechanisms."
Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d really think this king of mine is jealous of a fictional character. But that’s totally ridiculous. Right?
Devyn says he has to leave for work after breakfast, and my heart skips a beat when he cups my chin. Is he going to kiss me? Is he going to—
“Stay out of trouble.”
—warn me like I’m no different from a kid?
Bummer.
The estate feels too empty the moment Devyn leaves. I resume exploring my new home, partly to kill some time, but also in hopes that maybe, just maybe I’ll find my way back to a certain magical bookshop.
I walk the perimeter of the garden, keeping my eyes open for anything unusual. A door that shouldn't be there. A shimmer in the air. A brass lantern glowing where no lantern should glow.
Nothing.
Fine. Maybe I need to try harder.
I stop in the middle of the path, close my eyes, and feel incredibly stupid as I whisper: "Hewhay's? Are you there? I could really use some help."
I open my eyes.
A hedge stares back at me.
Cool. Very helpful.