Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I need clothes!” I yell. “You destroyed mine.”
If he hears me, he doesn’t bother answering. But I notice he’s left his phone behind, so I pick it up to do what I am not sure, call my brother? Malek? Call Amal? She and Daniel must be terrified. But the phone is obviously locked, so I just set it back down.
A few minutes later, the shower switches off. I gather all the blankets like a shield around myself. The bathroom door opens to a fog of steam that Cassian materializes out of. I hate myself for looking. For letting him see me freaking ogle him. But I swear, this man is not human. He’s built of marble, all sculpted, hard muscle, scarred olive skin, and that tattoo which as terrifying as it is, is also beautiful. Like him.
Fuck. I close my eyes and shake my head and remind myself that I hate him. When I open them again, I note the red line and bruised skin where I’d stabbed him last night.
“I’m feeling violated,” he mocks.
I look up to meet his gaze. “If anyone should feel violated it’s me. I need clothes.”
“I prefer you naked when you’re in my bed, but for practical purposes, I agree. Don’t need soldiers distracted by a naked woman in their midst.” He mutters that last part as he walks into his closet. Returning a few moments later, he tosses me a pair of leggings and a sweater that are definitely not his. “Those should just about fit.”
I pick them up. They’re simple, black leggings and a navy sweater that look to be right around my size. “Whose are they? Your last victim?”
“My sister-in-law,” he says. He’s wearing a pair of slacks and pulls on a shirt that he begins to button up.
“You have a sister-in-law, and she leaves her clothes in your bedroom?” I don’t know anything about this man. Nothing apart from his name. “What does your brother, her husband think about that?”
His face grows dark. I’ve hit on something. But then his phone rings and he walks over to the nightstand, checks the display and answers. “Yes?” He presses his ear to his shoulder to keep the phone in place as he tucks his shirt into his slacks.
I take the opportunity to grab the leggings and sweater and slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I pee then wash my hands at the sink as I take in my reflection. I look weirdly rested although the remnants of the mascara I had on for the party that somehow survived my tears is smeared under my eyes. I open the medicine cabinet to see what he has for skincare, expecting to find a plethora considering his closet, but all I see is shaving cream, a razor, and aftershave. I pick up the aftershave, a nameless, expensive looking bottle. I open it because I’m an idiot and am instantly irritated at myself for having done it because it’s his signature scent and I hate him. I slam the cabinet closed and wash my face with water, then rinse my mouth with mouthwash again. If he plans on keeping me here for a few days, I’ll need a toothbrush and clothes.
I quickly get dressed, trying not to think about the lack of underthings and undo what’s left of the braid. I finger-comb the still-damp waves and consider using his comb, but the teeth are too close. They’ll just rip my hair out, so I don’t bother. I set my hand on the doorknob, take a deep breath in and brace myself to face him again. But when I open the door, the bedroom is empty.
I notice, though, that he’s left the door open, and I can smell coffee so I take that as my cue and head in. Last night his soldier marched me straight back to his bedroom, so I’d only seen a little of the interior of the church. Now, I’m stunned to see what he’s done, how much he’s restored and what he’s made of it.
The stained-glass windows filter in sunlight. Ornate crystal chandeliers hang by long chains every few feet and several are on, their light dimmed. The stained glass must never fully allow bright light in.
I’m not sure what I expected. That he’d have gutted it? He hasn’t. The murals along the walls and ceiling are preserved and I can see where restoration is still being done in several places. I walk down the side aisle. The pews have been removed, but the confessionals still stand along the walls. Two fireplaces stand at opposite ends each large enough to fit five full-grown adults. Both are crackling with warm fire. I wonder if he keeps those going all day to heat the place. Considering the height of the ceilings and the sheer size, he might have to. It’s not winter yet, but from now until the end of March, Devil’s Peak will be frigid. Even if he’s had a heating system installed, the fires are likely a necessary not only cosmetic addition.