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I turn to him, shoulders slumped. “No makeup, no hairbrush. No nothing. Ugh, I look—”
“Beautiful.”
My heart jerks. Despite our past and our disagreements, he’s hard to resist. He’s big, fit, seemingly possessive…and tempting. But when he’s charming, too? I’m like chocolate, dissolving into a melted, gooey pool at his feet. He’s most likely using me, but my heart doesn’t care. Every time I resolve to give him an aloof cold shoulder, something—our magical bond?—compels me back to him.
Or am I just that sad little girl who didn’t get enough parental love, so I’ll take this man’s scraps? That’s a harsh assessment, but…
Why does he bother complimenting me? Is he trying to placate me after hiding the fact we’re mated? Or is it possible he means what he says? I want to believe that…
“I look like a refugee.”
“You were unconcerned about your looks at my cottage.”
“You were my horny kidnapper. Of course I didn’t want to look good.”
He laughs. “I will see about obtaining what you require.”
“I can ask Sabelle—”
“Nay. ’Tis my right and privilege to care for you. I will both protect you and provide for you in all ways.”
Does he mean that—or half the things he says?
Before I fall down my rabbit hole of self-doubt again, he lays a fierce kiss on my lips, grabs the Doomsday Diary and my hand, then leads me down the stairs.
We drift through a wide, airy space, made stunning by exquisite tile floors, marble pillars, and antique tables with colorful plumes of fresh flowers.
As we approach the dining room, Bram stands outside an open door to our left. “Breakfast isn’t quite ready. I’d like to chat first. Olivia, you’re welcome to join us.”
Marrok tenses as if gearing up for battle. “We appreciate your hospitality. We will trouble you not for more than a day or two. ’Tis doubtful you would stage an inquisition merely to ask about the length of our visit, so I assume you wish to ‘chat’ about the Book of Doomsday, and I decline your invitation.”
“Actually, I want to talk about this morning’s battle. Please.” Bram gestures us into the sitting room.
“Touch the book, and I will kill you.”
Bram holds up both hands. “Not a finger. Though I think it will be safer with me, what I need to ask you is every bit as important.”
Glowering, Marrok settles a proprietary hand on the small of my back and leads me into Bram’s domain.
It’s like a museum. A gilt fireplace, heirloom rugs. Traditional mixed with modern to create a fresh, posh effect. And the art? I want to cry at how beautiful it is. As I study each piece, I feel my jaw drop. Is that an original Pollock on his wall? Nearby is a statue that reminds me very much of a…
“Is that Bernini?”
Bram gives the sculpture an absent glance. “Art would be Sabelle’s department, but I believe so. Please sit.”
We sink onto a velvet sofa facing a huge picture window that reveals a bright, cheerful morning. Hard to believe that a handful of hours ago we were fighting for our lives.
I was so dazzled by the art that I didn’t notice the other men standing around the room. Three I remember from Bram’s party. One isn’t familiar at all.
In the far corner, Shock is once again decked out in leather, sunglasses, and badass attitude. Lucan glares at him as if he has no problem challenging Shock, despite the fact the other wizard is three inches and thirty pounds larger.
Near the door, Duke hovers, shrewd, pedigreed, and clearly named one of Britain’s most eligible bachelors for a reason. His designer khakis, crisp shirt, and impeccably expressionless stare belong in Bram’s palace.
But the unfamiliar man… He’s a mountain, almost as tall as Marrok. His dense, dark hair is mere stubble inching from his scalp. A model’s cheekbones slash across his strong face. Below his thick neck, he’s all Conan the Barbarian—enormous shoulders, biceps, and pectorals stretching a dark blue T-shirt so tight that its seams are beyond strained. Camouflage pants and dirt-crusted combat boots round out his look. His dissecting green eyes pin me in place.
Whoever he is, he’s flat-out scary.
Beside me, Marrok stiffens, clutching the diary in a death grip. “Rion, is this a bloody ambush?”
