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)
Whatever Hans is saying, it’s not good news.
“How many?” Blue asks. More rapid German. “When?”
I watch Blue’s face darken with each word, his free hand clenching into a fist at his side. The man who was just worshipping my body with his mouth has disappeared, replaced by someone calculating and deadly.
“No, don’t engage. Pull back and wait for me.” Blue runs his hand through his hair, suddenly looking like he’s juggling a dozen different worst-case scenarios. “How long do we have?”
Hans says something that makes Blue curse under his breath.
“Pull the car around,” Blue says finally. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He ends the call and turns to me, his expression apologetic but grim. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“What’s wrong?” The question comes out like I’m a damsel in distress and I hate it.
“Nothing you need to worry about, but I need to handle it personally.” He cups my face in his hands, thumbs stroking my cheekbones. “I’ll probably miss dinner. Make yourself at home. There’s a library on the second floor, the kitchen’s always open. Wren will take care of whatever you need.”
“Blue—”
“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.” He kisses me, hard and quick, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of me. “Don’t wait up.”
And then he’s gone, striding through the greenhouse like he’s already forgotten I exist.
I stand there trying to process the whiplash. Five minutes ago he was inside me, and now he’s running toward whatever emergency Hans just dropped in his lap.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Saylor
I’ve been alone in this house for exactly forty-three minutes, and I’m already losing my mind. I’m sitting at the black Steinway in the main hall, my fingers finding random keys like they’re searching for something familiar in all this ridiculous grandeur. The notes echo off the vaulted ceilings and disappear into corners I can’t even see, swallowed by a house too big for any reasonable person to call home. Each chord I play sounds like a ghost trying to communicate, which is exactly the kind of melodramatic bullshit my brain doesn’t need right now.
The piano bench creaks when I shift my weight, and even that small sound gets amplified and twisted by the acoustics until it sounds like the house itself is complaining about my presence. I try a few bars of “Summertime,” but the melody gets lost in all that empty space, turning sultry jazz into something that belongs in a horror movie soundtrack.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, closing the piano lid with more force than necessary. The bang reverberates through the hall like a gunshot, making me jump at my own dramatic gesture.
I need to find somewhere smaller. Somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m performing for an audience of painted eyes and stone statues.
The library seems like a logical choice. What self-respecting Gothic mansion doesn’t have a cozy library with leather chairs and a crackling fireplace? But when I push open the heavy doors, I realize I’ve made a serious miscalculation about what constitutes cozy in Blue’s world.
The library is fucking enormous. Not just big—cathedral enormous, with shelves that stretch up three stories and a ceiling painted with scenes of angels and demons locked in eternal combat. Rolling ladders on brass tracks provide access to books so high up they might as well be in orbit, and the whole space is lit by chandeliers that cast more shadows than actual light. It’s beautiful in the same way that thunderstorms are beautiful. Impressive as hell but not exactly inviting.
A massive fireplace dominates one wall, its mantelpiece carved with thorny roses and ravens that seem to watch me move through the room. The hearth is cold and empty, no wood in sight, and I have zero idea how to build a fire anyway. The whole space feels like it’s about ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, which is already approaching arctic.
I pull my cardigan tighter and wander between the stacks, running my fingers along leather spines that look older than American democracy. First edition classics mixed with books written in languages I don’t recognize, their titles embossed in gold that catches the dim light. Everything smells like old paper and expensive leather and money that gets passed down through generations.
But it’s too quiet. Too big. Too much like being alone in a museum after hours.
I give up on the library and drift back toward the main hall, my footsteps ringing against floors that probably came from some Italian quarry where they carved headstones for princes. The sound follows me like a lonely echo, reminding me how completely alone I am in this beautiful, haunting place.
Halfway down the grand staircase, I stop.
The portraits are watching me again. All those beautiful women with their knowing eyes and mysterious smiles. But this time, instead of hurrying past like I did when I was trying to escape, I actually look at them. Really look.