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)
“At least a solid C+,” I assure her. “You did pin his hand to the chair on your first try.”
I’ve never found a woman sexier than she is right now—hair mussed, cheeks flushed, still holding the memory of how perfect that knife looked in her grip. The way she wielded that blade, the deadly calm in her voice . . . she’s speaking my love language.
From downstairs comes the sound of Hans attempting to maintain dinner conversation with three hostile dinner guests, one of whom is still bleeding on my antique chairs.
“Should we go back down?” Saylor asks, but she makes no move to sit up.
“Not unless you want to experiment more tonight.” I trace the curve of her jaw with my fingertip. “But you’ve had enough for one evening. I’ll have Hans store them on ice for later—no need to act now.” I reluctantly pull away from the bed. “Rest here. I’ll handle the cleanup and be back shortly.”
“Blue?” She catches my hand before I can leave. “Thank you. For letting me be the one to hurt him.”
“You’re welcome,” I say simply. “Baby steps.”
As I head back downstairs, Leroy is still making pathetic noises about his hand.
Just another evening at Maison Rouge.
Leroy’s still screaming.
And I’m already planning tomorrow’s lesson.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Saylor
The last thing I remember before sleep claimed me was Blue’s hand smoothing my hair back from my face, promising he’d handle the cleanup downstairs. I wake up disoriented in a bed that’s definitely not mine, sinking into a mattress so soft it’s like floating on toasted marshmallows. The sheets beneath me are actual silk, not the cheap knockoff stuff from discount stores. Heavy burgundy curtains block most of the light, and I have no idea if it’s evening or the middle of the night. A fireplace crackles across the room, throwing shadows on walls covered with oil paintings of shipwrecks and ravens. Everything about this space screams expensive but also mysterious.
How long was I out? The last clear memory I have is driving a carving knife through Leroy Crow’s hand and watching his blood paint the white tablecloth. Then my stomach decided to stage a rebellion, and apparently my brain followed suit by shutting down completely.
The shower is running in the adjoining bathroom, steam drifting through the partially open door along with the sound of water against tile. I sit up slowly, testing my stomach’s current stance on being vertical. Better. Still shaky, but no immediate threat of losing whatever’s left in my system.
My dress is wrinkled but still intact, my hair probably resembles a bird’s nest, and I can still taste that metallic tang of adrenaline on my tongue. But I’m alive, conscious, and Leroy Crow is hopefully still bleeding somewhere in this house.
The water shuts off with a decisive click, followed by the rustle of towels and Blue’s low humming. Something that sounds vaguely eerie but in a way that’s oddly soothing. Steam billows out as the bathroom door opens wider, and then Blue emerges wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist and water droplets that catch the lamplight.
Jesus Christ.
I’ve seen him partially undressed before. Felt his hands on my skin, tasted the salt of his sweat. But this is different. This is Blue in his natural environment, completely at ease in his own skin, and the sight of him makes my mouth go dry.
His chest is a masterpiece of controlled power, lean muscle and definition without being overly bulky. The tattoos I glimpsed in my dressing room cover his torso in intricate patterns that seem to tell stories I’m dying to read with my fingertips. Dark ink swirls across his ribs, over his shoulders, down his arms in patterns that make me want to lick every single one. Water beads along his collarbone and trails down paths between muscles, and I find myself following those droplets with my eyes. His hair is slicked back and darker when wet, making his bone structure appear even more defined.
The way he moves around the room is casual, confident. Completely at ease.
“You’re awake,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“I just stabbed someone in the hand and then passed out with all the dignity of a Victorian lady with the vapors.” I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “Very dignified. I’m sure Leroy was impressed by my follow-through.”
Blue’s mouth curves into what might be amusement. “Leroy is more concerned with his hand at the moment. Hans had to call in reinforcements to stop the bleeding.”
“Good.” The vicious satisfaction in my voice surprises me, but I don’t try to hide it. “I hope it hurts.”
“Well, about that . . .” He moves to the dresser, water still dripping from his hair onto those incredible shoulders. “They’re currently enjoying the hospitality of my basement. All three of them.” Blue says this like he’s discussing the weather. “Turns out they weren’t quite ready for the evening to end.”