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)
“And Wren raised me. Not officially—she was the housekeeper for the family that took me in after my parents died. But she’s the one who made sure I ate, did my homework, didn’t get myself killed being stupid.” Blue glances at me. “When I bought Maison Rouge, the first call I made was to her.”
“She said yes.”
“She said it was about time I stopped being an idiot and settled down somewhere proper.” There’s genuine affection present. “Hans would take a bullet for me without thinking twice. Wren would take a bullet for me and then lecture me about why I put myself in that position in the first place.”
I can hear the deep love and loyalty when he talks about them. “They’re like family to you.”
This is the first time Blue has truly opened up to me. Not just hinting at his past or giving me cryptic half-truths, but actually letting me see who he is underneath all that careful control. The man who found a broken stranger in Prague and gave him a home. The man who called his surrogate mother and asked her to come take care of him again. There’s something vulnerable in the way he talks about Hans and Wren, something that makes my chest tighten.
“The only family I have left.”
“There’s so much about you that I don’t know,” I say quietly, studying his face in the candlelight. The admission slips out before I can stop it, but I don’t regret it. Not when he’s been this open with me.
Blue’s dark eyes meet mine, and something morphs in his face. “What would you like to know?”
He’s offering something here—a crack in that careful armor he always wears. Since he’s being so open, maybe it’s time I ask about something that’s been nagging at me.
“The portraits in your house,” I begin, then pause, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. “Should I be jealous that there are other women hanging in your hallway?”
Blue’s entire body goes still. The warmth that had been in his eyes when talking about Hans and Wren disappears, replaced by something guarded and unreadable. His jaw tightens.
I can tell he doesn’t want to answer, that I’ve stumbled on to something he’d rather avoid talking about. But after a long moment, he speaks.
“They are reminders of the good I’ve done.” His voice is carefully controlled. “There is so much darkness in my mind, my soul . . . that in order to focus on changing that man that I was, I need a daily reminder of the good. Those women represent lives I saved, people I helped when they needed it most.”
The raw honesty in his confession catches me off guard. This isn’t what I expected—not wives or conquests, but some kind of penance.
“So not your wives?” I ask, unable to keep the relief out of my voice.
Blue actually laughs then, a genuine sound that breaks the tension. “No, not my wives. I’ve never been married.”
He signals to the waitress, effectively ending the conversation about the portraits. But something has shifted between us—another wall down, another piece of the puzzle that is Blue revealed in the candlelight of the Cavern.
“Dessert?” he asks me.
“God, no. I’m so full I can barely breathe.” I lean back in my chair. “There’s no way I could eat another bite.”
Blue’s mouth curves into that smile that usually means he’s got something planned. “Good. Because the lesson isn’t over yet. There’s one more place I want to show you.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Saylor
The drive from the Cavern takes us inland, winding through dense forest where the trees grow so thick our headlights barely penetrate the darkness between their trunks. I watch Blue navigate the narrow road like he could drive it blindfolded.
“So where exactly are we going?” I ask, still tasting Axton’s incredible food in my mind.
“To see an old friend. Someone who knows her way around a body.” Blue takes a sharp turn onto an even narrower road. “Like Axton, Vespera Nightshade also runs a . . . thorough disposal operation. Plus, she’s got skills you might find useful.”
The road ends at a sprawling Victorian house that someone clearly built during a serious obsession with turrets and gingerbread trim. Deep burgundy siding contrasts with bone-white shutters, and every window sports elaborate carved frames that probably took months to complete. A wraparound porch drips with so much decorative woodwork it looks like architectural lace. But it’s the sign hanging beside the front door that makes me laugh.
Eternal Rest Funeral Home & Cosmetic Services:
Making Your Final Impression Count
“A mortician? Really?”
“Mortician with a side business,” Blue corrects, parking beside a hearse that’s been converted into what appears to be a mobile makeup studio. “Vespera discovered that the same skills that make someone excellent at preparing bodies for viewings also make them phenomenal at disguise work. Now she does both.”