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)
“Sounds charming.”
“Oh, it is. Old money built on blood, older secrets buried in silk-lined coffins, and an atmosphere that welcomes anyone too dark, too twisted, or too hungry for revenge to fit anywhere else.” His eyes meet mine. “It’s a town full of misunderstood outcasts who refuse to apologize for who they are. You’ll love it.”
There’s pride when he says it, genuine affection for this place and its people.
“Tomorrow, if you’d like, I can show you around. Let you get a feel for the place.”
“You’d let me leave the estate?”
“With proper supervision, yes.”
I stand on my own, but his offered arm from moments before still hangs in the air between us. “Proper supervision meaning you.”
“Meaning me.”
The gesture—formal, old-fashioned, gentlemanly—waits for my decision. Every rational part of my brain screams that I shouldn’t trust this man, shouldn’t let him touch me, shouldn’t ask for his help—and yet I did. But he was Dad’s friend. Dad trusted him enough to ask him to protect me.
That has to count for something.
I take his arm, trying to ignore the way my skin burns where our bodies connect through the fabric of his suit jacket. The contact is electric—the second my fingers curl around his bicep, I’m transported back to that dressing room. His hands on my skin, the way he made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams, the way he tasted like whiskey when he kissed me.
He feels it too. I can tell by the way his muscles tense under my touch, the slight hitch in his breathing.
But instead of pulling away, I let my fingers tighten around his arm. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the solid warmth of him beneath his suit jacket. Just enough to remember what those hands felt like when they weren’t being so careful, so controlled.
“I can walk back to my room on my own,” I say, but I don’t let go. My voice comes out breathier than I intended, and I curse myself for how easily he affects me.
Blue’s smile is knowing, dangerous. “Of course you can.” His voice drops lower, intimate. “But do you want to?”
I should say yes. I should drop his arm and pretend that night in the dressing room never happened. I should act like we’re having a polite conversation about supervision instead of dancing around the fact that he had his mouth on me and we’ve barely acknowledged it.
Instead, I find myself stepping closer.
“Maybe not,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
We walk through the house in silence, our footsteps ricocheting off the floors. But it’s a different kind of silence now. I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies almost touch, the way he adjusts his pace to match mine. The portraits watch us pass, their painted eyes following our progress through halls that seem to stretch forever. I try not to look at them, but it’s impossible.
We climb the stairs in silence, the candelabras casting our shadows long and strange against the walls. Our shadows move together on the wall like dancers, intertwining and separating with each step. When we reach the door to my room, I stop.
“People will notice I’m gone.”
“What people?” Blue asks gently. “Your employer at the jazz club who pays you in tips? The landlord who’ll evict you for missing rent? The credit card companies who’ve already maxed out your accounts? The Crow cleaned out your apartment to make it look like you skipped town.”
Each word is like a small slap, a reminder of how precarious my existence really was. “I had people . . .”
“Did you?” He leans against the doorframe, studying me.
I say nothing.
“You agreed to stay one night,” Blue says when I don’t answer. “Honor that agreement. Tomorrow we’ll talk about what comes next.” He pauses. “And we’ll discuss your proposal.”
I push open the door to my room, and whatever argument I was maybe planning dies in my throat.
The space has been transformed. Where before it was beautiful but impersonal, now it feels . . . lived in. My clothes from New York are hanging in the armoire—everything from my closet. My books are arranged on the nightstand. My jewelry box sits on the vanity, and when I open it, my mother’s necklace is nestled safely inside.
“How did you—”
“Hans found the compound where the Crow had your stuff,” Blue says from the doorway. “I thought you might want familiar things around you.”
I pick up one of my books—a battered paperback copy of Jane Eyre that I’ve read probably twenty times.
“You brought everything.”
“Everything that I believe mattered, but we put the bigger pieces of furniture in storage. If I missed something, let me know and I’ll have Wren find it.”
I set the book down and turn to face him. “I hate them. The Crow.” I pound my chest. “The kind of hate that burns inside.”