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)
Lucian steps inside, immaculate as ever in his tailored suit, like the entire concept of stress can’t touch him. He fills the doorway—tall, broad, and powerful—his presence making the room feel smaller just by existing in it.
He takes me in, his eyes going half-lidded as they sweep over me from head to toe. The wine-red dress…the swooping up-do…the jeweled hairpins catching the firelight.
For a moment, something dark and hungry flickers across his face—so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he inclines his head, formal and calm.
“You look beautiful, my Queen” he rumbles.
I can feel my cheeks getting warm at his compliment, which is ridiculous. I shouldn’t care what he thinks—should I? I clear my throat and force myself to sound normal.
“I look like I’m about to be sacrificed to one of Dracula’s business partners.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth.
“Not sacrificed, exactly”
“Good. Because I’ve had enough ‘gate tolls’ for one lifetime,” I say. The words are supposed to sound snarky, but they come out breathless instead as I remember exactly what kind of “toll” we paid at the gates of the Carnal Bazaar last night.
He steps closer and offers his arm like we’re headed to a charity gala instead of…whatever the hell this is. His cufflinks catch the ruby glow from the chandelier, sending little sparks of light dancing.
I hesitate. Should I take his arm? This feels like capitulation—like I’m agreeing to be his “Curvy Queen”—to act the role he has assigned to me.
Then again, what’s the benefit of refusing? Should I stay, sulking in the bedroom instead of coming out to eat dinner? What good would that really do me?
Don’t be stupid, Jules, I lecture myself. You need information. You need leverage. Eating dinner with him and this other Don might get you both of those.
Also, my stupid body really likes being near him, which is an inconvenient truth I try not to examine too closely.
Decision made, I take his arm.
Lucian’s hand closes over mine—warm, firm, and possessive in a way that makes my pulse jump.
“Come, my darling,” he murmurs. “It’s time we were dining.”
“Dining,” I repeat. “Like normal people.”
“As normal as this realm allows,” he says, his voice dry. “Though I know it’s very different from the Human Realm, we still need sustenance and enjoy companionship while we eat.”
He leads me through the Crimson Spires. We go down the elevator to a floor I haven’t been on before and walk down a corridor lined with dark stone and crimson lanterns. The air smells faintly of incense and iron and the carpets underfoot are thick enough to swallow sound—like the entire place is built to keep secrets.
Or to keep prisoners, whispers a little voice in my head. I push it aside with some difficulty.
We pass a set of double doors so tall they look like they belong in a cathedral. Two guards in black stand at attention on either side, their faces impassive. They bow as Lucian approaches.
I try not to flinch at the way their eyes flicker over me—curious, cautious, and surprisingly respectful, as though I really was their Queen.
Queen.
The word makes my stomach twist again. Is that really what I am? What Lucian wants me to be for him? And would I be willing to take on that roll…for the right incentive? But what is the right incentive? I cast a sidelong glance at my Vampire Don. Does he really care about me? Or is he simply thirsty for my “Curvy Queen” blood? I just don’t know…
Lucian doesn’t even slow down as we approach the doors. They swing open at his silent command like magic. Or maybe it’s the same kind of technology that makes supermarket doors slide open when you approach them? I don’t know and now doesn’t seem to be the time to ask.
We step into the dining room, and I look around in awe.
It’s huge—the word “cavernous” comes to mind—more like a royal throne room than a place you eat dinner. The ceiling arches overhead in dark stone, ribbed like the inside of a gothic cathedral and chandeliers hang down like clusters of frozen blood-red stars. Ruby crystals catch the light and scatter it across everything in warm, dramatic glints.
A fire roars in an enormous fireplace at one end of the room, flames licking up over carved stone that depicts tangled roses and thorned vines—and, disturbingly, skulls hidden among the petals if you look too long.
The furniture is heavy and ancient-looking—all black wood with ornate carvings. Tall-backed chairs line the walls like silent witnesses. The floors are polished stone, but layered with thick rugs—deep crimson and midnight black, threaded with metallic designs that shimmer like spilled coins. It’s all gorgeous but also really intimidating. I feel like I’m going to a state dinner at some distant but extremely wealthy kingdom. Which, I guess in a way, I am.