Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Blue’s face softens slightly. “I’m sorry. That was cruel.”
“You’re a monster.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily. “But I’m a monster who’s going to keep you alive.”
He turns and starts walking back toward the house, clearly expecting me to follow. When I don’t move, he stops and looks back.
“You can walk back with me, or you can stand here in the cold until you change your mind. But that gate isn’t opening tonight.” He glances up at the darkening clouds gathering overhead. “And I don’t have an umbrella to offer.”
I want to tell him to go to hell. I want to climb the wall, spikes or no spikes. I want to do anything except admit that he’s right about one thing—I have nowhere else to go.
But my feet are already aching from running on gravel in heels, my dress is catching on every thorn bush, and the forest around the estate is making sounds that don’t come from any animals I recognize. I’m clearly not in New York anymore, and this city girl is not up for roughing it.
“This isn’t over,” I say finally.
Blue’s smile is as piercing as the thorns on his property. “I wouldn’t expect it to be.”
As we walk back through the gardens toward the house, me slipping and sliding on the gravel paths, I count the windows blazing with warm light, the towers reaching toward the star-filled sky, the impossible beauty of a place that’s also a prison.
We’re almost at the terrace when Blue calls over his shoulder without looking back.
“I’ll make a deal with you. We start by agreeing you stay tonight. Have dinner. And I’ll answer all the questions I’m sure you have.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer before disappearing through the glass doors, leaving me standing alone in the cold night air.
Chapter Nine
Saylor
Thirty-seven seconds is apparently how long it takes for dignity to lose a fight with hunger. I’m still standing outside those glass doors when my stomach decides to stage a rebellion. It growls loud enough to echo off the stone terrace, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since . . . well . . . I don’t even know when.
Fine. Dinner it is.
The dining room Blue leads me to is cozy but also intimidating. Dark wood paneling climbs halfway up the walls before giving way to deep green wallpaper. A table for twenty sits in the center, set for two with more silverware than any reasonable meal requires.
“Not quite what you expected?” Blue asks, pulling out a chair.
“It’s very . . . formal.” I settle into the chair, which is surprisingly comfortable despite looking like it was designed to make people sit up straight and confess their sins.
Wren appears from what must be the kitchen, carrying a silver soup tureen. She ladles something red into my bowl.
“Tomato bisque,” she announces. “With cream and fresh basil.”
I take a tentative sip. It’s good. Actually good, which somehow makes this whole situation more irritating. If you’re going to be held captive, the least your captor could do is serve terrible food.
“You look disappointed,” Blue observes, settling into the chair across from me. “Were you hoping for gruel? Maybe some moldy bread to really sell the whole prisoner experience?”
“I was hoping for a way out of here.”
“Hmm. Wren’s many talents don’t extend to lockpicking lessons.” Blue starts on his soup. “Although she did suggest chloroform again if you became difficult.”
“Charming.” I focus on my soup, trying to ignore the way the candlelight flickers across his face. A crystal chandelier hangs overhead, but tonight Blue has chosen to dine by candles—candelabras scattered around the room casting everything in moving shadows. It should feel romantic. Instead, it’s like dining in a tomb. “Tell me something—do you always drug your guests, or am I special?”
“Oh, you’re definitely special.” His smile turns predatory. “Most of my dinner companions don’t require quite such . . . creative transportation.”
“Sure. Because most people probably come here willingly.” I wave my spoon around the room. “Who wouldn’t want to visit Castle Psychopath?”
Blue actually laughs at that, a genuine sound that transforms his whole face. “Castle Psychopath. I like that. Much better than what the locals call it.”
“Which is?”
“You’ll have to ask the locals when you meet them.” He takes a slurp of his soup. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to share all the town gossip about Maison Rouge.”
Wren returns with the next course—a beautifully plated steak that’s been pre-cut into bite-size pieces, accompanied by roasted vegetables that smell like heaven. There are no knives on the table. Not even butter knives.
“Afraid I’ll stab you?” I ask, picking up my fork.
“House rules.” Blue’s casual appearance doesn’t change as he picks up a piece of his own pre-cut steak. “When your usual dinner guests include people with anger management issues and homicidal tendencies, sharp objects at the table become a liability. I learned long ago that dinner parties go more smoothly when deadly objects are kept to a minimum.”