Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 63709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“Oh, hello. I missed you.” I touch my head. “Can you do my hair again?”
This time, the mini-whirlwind is slower. My braids unravel in fluid movements and each strand is lovingly coiled while my neck is massaged. By the end, my hair is loose in soft, perfect curls, and my skin is glowing with oil. I guess I got the full spa treatment today.
My scalp feels amazing, but when I touch my hair, I find an ornate metal band secured above my forehead.
“What’s this?” I pull it out. It’s a tiara with silver and gold vines twined around red jewels. They’re not rubies—these have a purple and black tint, and flash like diamonds. No gemstone on Earth can compare.
“You gave me a crown?”
Rogue whirls around me once.
Oh no. “Uh, thanks, but I’m not staying.” I set the tiara down and the little wind picks it up, making it hover in front of my face. “Thanks but no thanks. Just because I spent the night with the king doesn’t mean I’m a queen. I mean, I am a queen as in I’m fabulous, but I don’t want a formal title.” How do I explain a one-night stand to a magic wind? “This was a fling. He didn’t put a ring on it.”
The tiara floats down to the bath tile with a sad little clink.
That’s better. “Is there any way I can get some clothes?”
The bathroom door creaks open. I head out with the towel still wrapped around me.
The next place Rogue leads me to is even more spectacular than the bathroom. It’s huge, square, and filled with clothes and shoes—a walk-in wardrobe fit for the most discerning fashionista.
“This is perfect,” I tell Rogue. The little wind seems sulky after I rejected the headpiece. It’s letting me choose my own clothes.
It’s unclear why the king has a wardrobe full of ladies’ clothes. I don’t judge but it’s obvious none of these garments would fit him. In fact, they all fit me as if tailored for me specifically.
I don’t want to think about what that means. For the first time in a while, I have all the clothes I want.
I indulge my inner style icon, pulling out what looks like a long piece of fabric in bold fuchsia. Rogue stirs itself to help wrap the stretchy fabric around me. At my instruction, the sheet hugs my body like a tight, knee-length, sleeveless sheath dress. For footwear, Rogue presents me with dark purple ankle boots with a low heel—fashionable, but sturdy, so I can hike down the mountain. There’s a gorgeous chunky black wrap that l also take, just in case it gets chilly later. My hooded cloak is long gone.
There’s only one thing I’m missing. “Can I have some underwear?”
A section of the wall rolls out, revealing a giant shelf of neatly folded clothes. Rogue lifts up a filmy scrap of fabric. The panties are longer than boy shorts—more like pantaloons. Ulfarri underwear. I pluck them out of the air and put them on. The material is softer than silk and gossamer light, but somehow hugs my ass and thighs. They fit me perfectly.
Of course they do.
Some part of me is supremely satisfied by this. The gnawing ache in my chest is still there, however.
“Well, that’s that then. Time to go.” I’m going to miss this room and the bathroom. And little Rogue. I know I shouldn’t miss the beast, but a part of me longs to get another whiff of his cedar scent.
Rogue opens a hidden door. I enter the secret room, and pause.
Even though there are no windows, it’s a sumptuous boudoir, with petrol-colored walls, a thick rug, and long, soft wall hangings made of shimmery fabric. Dominating the space is a padded platform that’s three times the size of a California King. The bed. Soccer ball-sized orbs set into alcoves in the walls provide a soft, warm light. The mattress is covered by nothing but a black sheet. Other items of furniture are scattered around but they just look out of place.
The room is pretty, but stark. Almost clinical. I need to make it cozier.
No, Rose, you need to leave. Go home to Ma.
My head is telling me what I should do, but what I do instead is go into a weird kind of mania. I start exploring every square inch of the room.
Rogue slides open the mirrored door of a vast built-in wardrobe, and cushions tumble out to scatter at my feet. They’re as bright as jewels, in all shapes and sizes. Beyond them, throws, rugs, and sheets are stacked in neat piles under shelves holding rows and rows of candles. I’ve stumbled into a mini, alien version of Bed, Bath and Beyond.
Perfect.
Not understanding why, I set to work. I need to make this room just right. It’s an urge as strong as the one I had to fuck last night.