Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
He’s like a statue, so elegant, poised, and strong. He’s Corvus Van der Horn, a man with a torture chamber in his basement. I wasn’t expecting this vulnerable side of him, and it makes me want to hug him close. The best I can do with the table between us is squeeze his hand.
“Only the positive ones. I’m now harder to kill.” Corvus offers me a smile, but then his gaze drifts past my shoulder. “My father was a stern man, difficult to live with, but he did all that to prepare me for a tough life.”
I get all fuzzy inside when he squeezes my hand back and I won’t be letting go, so I awkwardly unwrap my sandwich with one hand. “I mean, he did do one thing right, that’s for sure, since his creation is pretty stunning.”
Corvus coughs, but he swallows the rest easily once he takes a sip of the chicken soup. “I suppose it didn’t require much hard work, considering both he and Mother were attractive people. But he really did mold me into someone who can survive the life of a Van der Horn man. The cookbook you tried to follow used to be his, and I’m one of the only two people who can read it the way it’s meant to be,” he adds with pride.
“So it’s not actually his famous chicken-cinnamon-oregano-pancakes?” I’m all ears though. I’m like a sponge to soak up all things Corvus.
Corvus squeezes my hand back, and once again his expression relaxes. He might be handsome with that permanent frown, but it can’t hold a candle to the way his smiles make me feel. “It’s a book of poisons. Written in code. It’s meant to be easy to overlook.”
That makes a lot of sense. Not only because the recipe seemed like poison even at face value. I feel kinda special that he’s telling me this, despite it meaning he’ll probably need to kill me if I ever try to leave.
“Is that what you make in your workshop other than perfumes?”
He smirks, lips stretching as if he’s a fox considering whether he wants to befriend me or lure me into a trap. “Maybe one day you’ll find out.”
“Your bedroom is behind one of the locked doors. Were you afraid I’d jump on your bed and leave my pheromones all over?” I light up when I notice a flush on his pristine skin. “Or do you have sex toys in there you didn’t want me to find?”
Corvus gets up, rolling his eyes. “Well, I guess we will find out tonight, won’t we?” He walks up to me and sniffs the back of my head. “You still stink of smoke. If you’re done eating, go and wash. I have new pajamas for you.”
It’s funny how he’s able to both insult me and make me feel wanted at the same time. As soon as I finish my sandwich, I’m off to shower, and in fact, I am more tired than I let on. It’s approaching midnight, and I’ve had a long day.
It’s cute to meet up with Corvus at the sink in the luxurious bathroom. We brush our teeth together in pajamas as if we’re already a married couple. His outfit is, of course, all black, but for me he’s chosen a dark blue T-shirt and chequered long pajama pants softer than anything I’ve ever worn. He even insists on checking my hand and applies fresh soothing balm.
I’m feeling a bit emotionally tender about it, but manage not to fall apart. Any time Dad had to patch me up, he’d do it with so much annoyance, as if I was a burden, and faulty for getting hurt in the first place.
But Corvus is not impatient or hurtful with his words. Almost as if… he feels guilty for what’s happened instead of blaming me for it all. He stays behind in the bathroom for a while longer, so I go exploring on my own.
His bedroom is now unlocked, and when I step in, it’s like entering a chapel made to measure for Corvus. Everything’s black, with the exception of the dark brown floor, and a brass chandelier. It’s the kind of shade that eats light and leaves nothing behind. Velvet curtains are half-drawn, but since the windows have been bricked in, he’s replaced them with moody, fantastical landscapes where people are hunted down by hell beasts. Sheets are sleek like liquid ink. Even the furniture gleams with that faint oil-slick sheen that makes my fingers itch to touch, just to see if it’s sticky.
And it smells, of course, like him. Tobacco, cloves, and something darker underneath, something I can’t wait to fall asleep to.
The bed’s massive, with an intricate wooden headboard. Mine doesn’t have a headboard. The bedding says: I don’t share. There’s one pillow, centered. The whole room follows the same laws—ornamental, sharp, like one of his favorite blades.