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Oh dear God, please tell me I have not run away from one narcissist only to head straight into the arms of another.
I sit up and feel the wine slosh in my stomach. I let out a long, unladylike burp and giggle. Damn, that’s some good wine. I feel very, very buzzy. Which is a cute word for drunk off my ass.
Usually, at this point in my few and far between, give-into-despair-and-drink-a-bunch-of-wine moments, I’d turn on a sappy Netflix rom-com about some lonely lady buying an inn somewhere or moving back to her hometown only to find some handsome carpenter waiting to woo her.
I look around the bedroom. Yeah, it’s nice with all the lush carpets and nice furniture, but my millennial brain is freaking out for the lack of screens around here. Or at least a good, trashy romance novel. But I usually only read those on my phone.
I stand up and only wobble a little before falling back on my ass. At least the mattress is a soft landing. The second time, I totally manage to stay on my feet, even if I have to hold onto the wall to steady myself.
I’m bored. And hungry. What kind of asshole brings you to his castle and doesn’t even show you where the kitchen is? Yeah, yeah, fly off to Paris and get you some Michelin-starred dinner from the fanciest and oldest restaurant in the city, blah, blah, blah. How about you show a bitch the kitchen so she can get her own midnight snack? Should be the number one hospitality rule; everybody knows that.
I get to the door and head down the hallway, both arms out so I have a hand on each wall to steady myself. Luckily, little lights turn on in my presence to light my way. Thank fuck, cause I woulda made it like three feet in the dark before giving up, and I really could do with some bread or something to soak up the wine in my stomach.
But then I get to the stairs and remember how stupid-far up in the air we are.
I slump against one of the walls and let out a long-suffering groan.
“Whyyyyyy?” Half of me wants to sit down and go down the stairs on my butt like I did when I was a kid. But I realize it might take a while if I go down the whole way like that.
At least I’m not at the top of the turret like earlier. And it turns out that keeping a death grip on the stone walls and carefully stepping sideways works because I make it down each level. And then I have to explore because, hello, no one showed me where the damn kitchen was.
Logic tells me it’ll be on the main floor or one below. Cause like, Upstairs, Downstairs, right? Does a place like this have staff? As I head down the stairs into the cooler basement, I get shivers, wondering who might be in service to a god with two faces.
But when the lights flick on as I step through the door, my heart rate slows down. It’s just a regular-looking kitchen.
I wasn’t sure what I’d find. Maybe an open fire or something to match the rest of the castle’s medieval feel?
But this kitchen looks super modern, like something out of a restaurant. There are shiny stainless steel countertops, every appliance you could want, and several large double sinks. Plus, if I’m right. . . that’s a walk-in fridge in the back. For the first time in hours, I smile.
I crack the door and grin wider. Oh, hell yeah. It is a well-stocked walk-in with everything from a small supermarket’s worth of fresh fruit and vegetables, along with a lot of other stuff. Meat, eggs, fish. And desserts. Cake. Cheesecakes of several varieties. Damn. Someone’s got a sweet tooth.
Putting a hand on my rumbly stomach, I know I’m not really in the mood for anything sweet, so I pull back out of the fridge and turn around. Right beside the walk-in, I thought I saw—yep, a small pantry area full of all sorts of artisan-looking breads. Perfect.
I grab some fluffy sourdough and head back into the fridge for some cold cuts and mayo. Finally, in the cool basement kitchen, I make myself a sandwich.
Right as I open my mouth and take a bite, guess who shows up in the doorway?
That’s right. Big asshole with wings and a tail.
I only choke a little on my bite, but then, determined to be cool after our last interaction, continue chewing and don’t hurry at all.
He stays in the doorway, a dark silhouette in the otherwise brightly lit room. “I’m glad you’re making yourself at home,” he says.
I can’t read him. For once, he’s not smiling, but he doesn’t look upset, either.
If it was Michael, my ex, he’d be sending some sort of signal that he was still mad at me for my outburst earlier. That was what he called it when I did or said anything he didn’t like. An outburst. His subtle, not-so-subtle way of keeping me in line so I was the perfect little girlfriend who worked her ass off to please him at all times.
I arch an eyebrow and catch even more of an attitude, determined never to be that weak woman ever again.
“I got hungry,” I say, my mouth half-full of food. Another thing that Michael hated. Half-masticated food should never be seen.
He was a guy who had a lot of shoulds and should-nots for the women he dated.
I take another big bite of my sandwich.
Remus only tilts his head and watches me with what looks like interest. “I’m curious to learn all about your wants and desires. I realize it may be. . . difficult for me to always. . .” His eyes stay on me, but I feel the reticence in his manner as he tries to say what he’s trying to say, something I can sense is unusual.
I swallow my bite. “What’s difficult?” I ask a little less belligerently. Maybe all the wine in my system is softening me a little toward him. And knowing that if it was Michael, he’d be doubling down on the assholery.
