Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
He carefully rolls onto his side and looks up at me. “You were figuring it out. You didn’t need a bargain. You had it handled.”
Okay, that’s not where I thought that was going. “So you just decided to lurk in my life and wait for me to hit rock bottom again?”
“No.” He sits up. “Absolutely fucking not. I enjoyed spending time with you. I . . . didn’t want to stop.”
I don’t know how to feel about everything he’s told me. Maybe he’s not a complete monster, hunting me across the years, but he’s been selfish. He’s lied to me. He put me in danger and didn’t bother to find another solution before he used that danger to trick me into doing what he wanted all along—making a deal with him.
For all that . . .
I carefully climb out of the soft massive bed. “I’m going back to my room.”
“Eve.”
I don’t want to look at him. I’m hanging by a thread here, and I can’t begin to explain what happens if that thread snaps. “Yes?”
“I know it doesn’t change anything, but I’m sorry. Truly.”
The worst part is that I believe him. If his enemies hadn’t decided to target me, maybe I would have spent the rest of my years as an escort enjoying the nights with him as a client. I don’t know. I can’t think.
But even as I open my mouth to tell him that this changes nothing, that I still hate him . . . I can’t quite manage the words. They feel too much like a lie, and as angry as I still am, I can’t meet his honesty this morning with lies meant to hurt him. I don’t know where that leaves us. I don’t know much of anything at all right now.
I say nothing as I walk to the door and step through it. Directly into my room. I blink, some of my confusion melting away in awe of the castle. “I didn’t know you could do that,” I say softly. “That’s really cool.”
My doorknob rattles, and I raise my brows. It’s never done that before; maybe it’s Azazel chasing me down, but I don’t think so. I cautiously open the door, and my jaw drops at the sight of a garden. It’s not the same as the space I broke down in yesterday. This one is massive, with large trees stretching so high, I can almost believe I’m truly outside. “It’s so beautiful.”
When I walked out of Azazel’s room, I fully intended to head straight for the shower and maybe have a good cry over how conflicted I feel. Instead, I find myself stepping into this garden and breathing deeply.
Only to pause when I catch the scent of coffee.
I feel a little silly following my nose like some kind of cartoon character. The path winds through the trees and flowers and plants, a practical paradise, to a small courtyard with a table and a single chair in it. On the table is a covered plate, still steaming in the cool morning air, and a carafe of what appears to be coffee.
I look around, but no one appears. “Is this for me?” The trees rustle around me as if in affirmation. I smile. “Thank you.”
As I pull out the chair, I almost expect someone to approach and tell me that I’m stealing their breakfast, but the courtyard stays as quiet and soothing as it was the moment I arrived.
The first sip of coffee is divine. I haven’t been hungover like this in a very long time. I like wine and the occasional whisky, but the older I get, the less it’s worth overindulging. The hangovers seem to get longer and longer, while the drunk shenanigans become significantly less cute.
Lifting the plate cover reveals exactly the type of breakfast I’m craving—fried eggs, hashbrowns, and crispy bacon. I stare down at it. “I didn’t think you had food like what I’m used to here.” Which isn’t to say the food I’ve eaten since arriving here is bad. Quite the contrary. It’s been delicious to the point where I resent it. But it’s not familiar in the way this plate is.
I almost ask if it’s a trick, but that seems unbearably rude. “Thank you.”
The rustling of the trees is my only response.
Over the next few days, Azazel keeps a careful distance. I only see him for meals, and even then, he’s distantly polite. Likely, he’s feeling guilty all over again, and while I should find that satisfying, the truth is that I’m damned tired of this one-sided fighting.
I still can’t bring myself to forgive him for trapping me here, though.
Despite my determination to do . . . something . . . I find myself returning to the garden the castle showed me, again and again. The castle provides any number of things in an attempt to keep me occupied. Books written in a language I don’t understand, because apparently the spell Azazel placed on me without my permission doesn’t extend to reading. A sketchbook and watercolors that I toy with, more out of boredom than any true artistic desire or ability. And, finally, a basket filled with skeined yarn in a variety of colors and weights, along with needles in a range of sizes.