Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77485 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I kissed her roughly, making her taste everything I’d taken and what she gave in return.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Early morning sun filtered through the partially draped windows, giving the room an aura of beauty and semi-darkness. I stirred from a brief slumber, my senses slowly returning as my eyes adjusted. The distant sound of running water reached my ears. Something about it was gentle and comforting, a sharp contrast to how I was feeling.
The mattress beneath me was as soft as I imagined a cloud would be, while the bed’s four towering columns resembled the spires on the dark cathedral that I’d seen the night before.
I had to be in Mr. Hawthorne’s bedroom. The sheets smelled like him. So did my skin. As the memories of the horrifying events that I witnessed in that church came back to me along with what happened throughout the night, I struggled to process the surreal reality I'd been thrust into.
I needed…
I needed to do something to keep myself from having a total breakdown. I began to look around the room, momentarily stilling the mayhem in my head. His bedroom was a mix of themes. Brooding elegance and seductive sin, like the man himself.
The ebony hardwood floor stretched like a midnight sea, its spotless sheen another sign of how immaculately clean this house was. He had to have more than one maid to keep up with it. Just from my brief rendezvous, I could tell this place was huge. His room alone rivaled the size of the suite he’d stayed in at the resort.
The right side of the room was dominated by an enormous fireplace. Above it hung a large portrait, a portrayal of the devilish statue inside the church, whose presence seemed to permeate every corner of the room.
Adjacent to that was a chaise longue, upholstered in deep burgundy. Its high back and sweeping armrests were intricately carved from blackened mahogany, depicting scenes of roses and serpents amidst tangled vines and thorns. Flanking the chaise were two chairs, similar in design. Their wooden legs culminated in clawed feet, gripping the plush rug beneath them.
There was an armoire off to my left and two nightstands on either side of the bed I was in. Subtle feminine touches had been weaved into the overall design, soft accents of gold that lined the accent pillows and tasseled ropes that controlled the drapes.
My gaze drew upward, and I froze.
“What the fuck?” I whispered to myself, both fascinated and unnerved. The storm of thoughts that I had managed to momentarily ward off roared back with a vengeance as I had no choice but to face the woman staring back at me. She felt familiar, yet foreign.
Her lips were swollen.
Her hair cascaded in wild disarray, tousled from the restless night and how hard she’d fought. Light brown eyes, usually vibrant and full of life despite the hardships she’d endured, now held a shadow of something else. She was angry and confused. Ashamed. But more than anything, she was exhausted and sore. I couldn’t recall a time that I’d been this worn out, and I had once worked two jobs in the same day.
A cultured voice that sounded as if it were wrapped in velvet ended my observation. "Good morning, deliciae.”
My gaze instinctively turned toward him, and my breath caught in my throat.
He stood in the doorway, his tall and powerful form wrapped in nothing but a towel that hung low on his hips and revealed every sculpted inch of his torso. His raven-black hair was slightly tousled, adding an untamed edge to his predatory magnetism. The light scar that marred his striking face made him even more dangerously attractive.
I hated that he was so gorgeous.
My eyes were drawn to a darkly shaded tattoo on the right side of his chest, an intricate depiction of a devil in his likeness, extending partially down his arm. It was a work of art that bespoke a sense of power and dominance, marking him as something both formidable and enticing.
There was an obvious bulge beneath the towel that had my mouth going dry. He didn’t seem to be aroused right now, or at least I assumed he wasn’t, which I supposed was a good thing.
I hadn’t remotely begun to process that part yet—what he’d done to me, how good it had begun to feel despite the pain and traumatic prelude.
He stepped forward, his feet making no sound on the hardwood floor as he approached the bed. "Venite, come," he said softly, his voice laced with an understated command as he extended his hand toward me.
I hesitated for a moment.
The tendrils of unease and vulnerability I felt in his presence were undeniable, but there was also the twisted, inexplicable curiosity that tugged at me. This wasn’t a battle worth fighting. If I refused, he would just drag me from the bed. So, despite my reservations, I slowly took his hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine.