Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Of course he isn’t. He’s a vampire mafia Don. He probably has meetings. He probably has people who kneel and kiss his ring and bring him reports on how to ruin someone’s life before lunchtime, whispers the little voice in my head.
Still, the empty space beside me feels…wrong.
Why does it feel wrong? I ask myself. I don’t know.
My body still feels soft and heavy from sleep…from the way he held me so close and so long. There’s a warmth between my thighs that makes me remember last night—remember his fingers…his voice…the way he said “good girl” like he meant it.
No, stop—stop thinking about that, I scold myself. It’s time to get up and get going. I still need to find a way out of here.
I push the sheets back and swing my legs over the side of the bed, determined to do something about my situation.
But then my eyes fall on the plush chair in front of the fireplace, angled perfectly toward the warmth like a cozy invitation. And beside it, the small table holds a silver tray under a domed cover. It makes me think of the mouthwatering feast I was served last night, before I snuck out and went on my misadventure to the Carnal Bazaar.
Hmm…well, maybe I’ll just have some breakfast before I start trying to break out. After all, it’s hard to think or escape on an empty stomach. Only, I don’t want to eat naked.
I start to go to the closet for some clothes but at the foot of the bed I see a robe. It’s folded neatly, as though someone put it there with deliberate care. The fabric is heavy crimson satin, as glossy as spilled wine in the firelight. I pick it up and it slides through my fingers like water.
He left this for me, I can’t help thinking. He planned for me to wake up like this…to see the robe and the breakfast and be so happy I wouldn’t want to leave again.
My cheeks go hot again at the thought that I slept naked in his arms all night, and he didn’t do anything else. He could have—God knows he could have—but he didn’t.
Not until you’re ready, he’d said. He talked about loving my curves…my thick thighs and wide hips and big behind, which I’ve always been so self-conscious about. And this morning he left me breakfast and this incredible robe, which feels like something a princess might wear…or a Curvy Queen, I suppose.
Well, if he thinks he can buy me with luxury, he’s wrong. Still… I slip the robe on because I can’t walk around naked, right?
It feels amazing against my bare skin—cool at first, then warming quickly as it wraps around me. It’s a little too big—the sleeves fall over my hands, so I roll up the cuffs. It smells faintly like Lucian—like smoke and clean linen and dark, masculine spice.
I should hate that…but I don’t.
I pad across the thick carpet toward the comfy chair, and my feet make almost no sound. The room is so quiet I can hear the crackle of the fire and the soft ticking of something—maybe a clock hidden somewhere in this gothic billionaire vampire lair.
I sink into the chair like I belong there, just like I did last night. It’s kind of becoming my spot.
This chair is mine now, my brain says, and I snort softly because that’s ridiculous. Nothing here is mine. Not really. But since Lucian seems intent on pampering me, well…who am I to stop him?
The silver tray gleams invitingly so I lift the dome and find breakfast—no, brunch—laid out like I’m at some absurdly luxurious hotel where the staff are invisible but somehow know exactly what I want.
There’s a porcelain pot of tea sending up fragrant steam—Earl Grey, I think—the citrusy bite of bergamot makes my mouth water. To go with it, I see a small carafe of thick cream. There’s also a plate of flaky croissants layered with butter, their golden edges crisp and crackling when I tear one open. Fresh berries are piled high on another plate—strawberries, raspberries, and blackberries—all still cool, like they’ve just been rinsed in cold water.
To go with the croissants there’s a little cut-crystal dish of honeycomb dripping amber, the honey catching the firelight like molten gold. Another plate holds soft scrambled eggs, flecked with herbs. I also see smoked salmon folded into silky ribbons and toast points arranged with ridiculous precision, like someone took a ruler to them.
My stomach growls loudly and I think briefly of the story of Persephone and how she was stolen by Hades and taken to the Underworld where she ate magical pomegranate seeds and was then forced to stay with him for six months of the year—one month for every seed she had eaten.
Well, if that’s the case, I’m already cooked, I decide. I had plenty to eat last night, so there’s no sense in starving now when it’s too late to stop what has already been started.