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)
A few of the chapels have been converted, doors added for privacy. A huge, plush sofa in creamy white is facing the fireplace on the opposite end. The living area, I guess. A huge, Medieval looking wooden door with iron embellishments is covered by a slab of glass and serves as the dining table. At quick count, it seats a dozen comfortably. It’s aptly placed beneath a fresco of the last supper. I walk by, running my fingers over the back of one of the leather chairs as I take in Jesus and his disciples.
The table is incredibly beautiful, the frescoes on the walls restored with care. He must have spent a fortune to get it this way.
“Moth,” he says.
I startle to find him watching me from what was once the sanctuary. It’s separated by three stone stairs leading up to the apse with an intricately painted fresco around the glass peak, something he must have done because I recall that part of the church had been ruined in a storm. It’s a clear, natural light and when he steps forward, that light falls over him in a way that has me stopping. Stealing my breath. It must be the setting, the church, that has me thinking how strange, almost beatific he looks in that light.
I shake my head and remind myself that he’s no saint. He’s a mafia boss who bought a church and made it into his home. It’s arrogant and wrong, like he’s taunting God himself.
“Cassian,” I say, walking toward what is now the fully functioning, beautiful kitchen with a stunning Aga stove at the heart. The counters are a sleek marble with what must be custom modern appliances. The windows along the back wall are arched and wrought with iron, the glass stained with scenes I could study all day and not get enough of. I notice below those tall windows shorter ones have been installed, these only made to look old. He has opened two to let in the bright sunshine in spite of the freezing air.
“Wow,” I say, as he pours coffee and holds the mug out to me.
“I know,” he says. His mouth stretches into a wide smile. I take it in, my lip curling into a sneer. He’s too smug.
“It is impressive,” I continue, taking the mug, watching that satisfied smile widen. “If you don’t mind a graveyard for your backyard I mean,” I add, enjoying how his face falls.
“Cream and sugar are there.” He points.
“I take it black.”
He turns back to the stove where a pan is warming. “You eat bacon and eggs?” he asks, glancing at me. I nod, my stomach growling loud enough for him to hear.
“I didn’t have dinner,” I say, feeling embarrassed.
“You should have told me you were hungry last night.”
“When? Before or after you stripped and beat me?”
He glances at me over his shoulder, amused. “I didn’t beat you. I spanked you. Which you and I both enjoyed.”
“Fuck off.”
He chuckles. “Well, I don’t plan on starving you. Sit.”
“Since you brought it up, what do you plan to do with me?” I ask. Since our casual interaction this morning, since that banter, I’ve nearly forgotten that I’m his prisoner and to do that would be a mistake.
He won’t hurt me, I tell myself. If he was going to hurt me, he wouldn’t have me sitting in his kitchen while he cooked for me. I’d be in some damp, dark basement, freezing, starving. Losing all hope.
No. Stop it.
I shake my head to stop my brain from continuing down that road. This isn’t that. This is different. This is nothing like that.
I slide into a seat at the counter which would once have been the altar. It feels weird. Like it shouldn’t be allowed or something.
“Scrambled okay?” he asks.
“It’s fine.”
He cracks four eggs into the pan then breaks the yokes. I watch him cook. It’s weird, like it was weird to see his bare feet. This is so domestic.
“You don’t have someone cooking for you?” I ask taking in his broad back, noting how the muscles work beneath the white button down.
“I enjoy it. It relaxes me.” He plates breakfast and carries both dishes over along with two forks and one knife. I guess he’s not taking any chances. I pick up a fork and eat some eggs. I’m starving.
He sits across from me and watches me eat for a minute while just sipping his coffee like he’s considering something.
“Why aren’t you eating? Is it going to make me sick or something?”
He smiles, eats a strip of bacon. “Nope.”
“Are you going to answer me?”
“You’ll be safe.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just what I said.”
I push some of the eggs around with my fork. “How long will I be safe?”
“Well, for starters, I won’t put cigarettes out on your neck or cut off a finger.”