Her hesitation meant the answer was no. But before she could speak, I gave her what she wanted. “After we have eaten, then I will take you.”
“Take me?”
“To the library,” I clarified.
A deep breath shifted her chest, her jaw sliding across her teeth, and I knew I had her. “One meal.”
The corners of my mouth lifted slightly, but I did not vocalize an agreement.
I ledthe way through the northern corridors. The sound of her shoes clicking on the stone kept my heart racing. They granted her another three inches at least, but not quite enough for her chin to reach my shoulders. Why she insisted on wearing them instead of the more practical shoes Piffle had offered, I understood.
Her sleek black heels exuded power.
She made her way through the Underrealm—through life—on little more than air and a sharp heel that announced her arrival wherever she graced herself to be. She’d trekked through feet of snow in those shoes to find her way to my mother’s grave and Goddessdamn me if she didn’t look good in them.
I knew what Piffle was up to as well with this garb he’d given her to wear. The little man was clever—too clever to not mean to entice me. The Beast was a possessive creature and that jacket, adjusted to fit her, still smelled like me.Shesmelled like me—my sheets, my bedroom—and I was in a rapidly declining mood to be a gentleman.
In fact, I was tired of fighting to present myself as such to her. Arthur, Duke of Riche, knew how a gentleman should behave in and out of the bedroom, but I recognized him less and less since growing into my role as a Beast. Since growing into my role as her captor.
I glanced over my shoulder as we approached the dining hall,looking her up and down again. I could feast. I could feast on her, but I’d have to play my part as long as I could. Regardless of how much I wanted to tear into her, she wasn’t a woman to possess. She was a woman to worship. And I would.Goddessdamn me,I would until that blade struck my chest.
“Impressive,” she murmured, following me into the dining hall.
The corridor opened into another archway detailed in chiseled stone—no door, just a welcoming round room with a long table at its center meant to host dozens of guests.
I pulled a chair for her. “Please.” I gestured to the cushion. “Sit.”
She did as I asked without a word, instead surveying the table laden with meats and breads and root vegetables swimming in garlic and butter. Piffle had been more than happy to prepare this meal. He’d managed to bring twigs of evergreen woven with red ripened berries from the surface, thankfully omitting the dark roses that grew along my mother’s grave.
“I see Piffle has been hard at work,” she chided, meaning it as an insult to me.
“He has,” I agreed, taking my own seat next to her at the head of the table.
“And what have you done to help prepare this meal? Piffle works harder than any servant I’ve ever employed.” She reached for the plate of venison, spearing a few perfectly sliced strips, still red in the center.
“Chocolat étouffant?” I held the saucière in one hand, offering the glaze to pour over her meat.
Her dark eyes narrowed and her mouth turned down.
I grinned, all teeth. “I’ve perfected the recipe over the years. The key is the low heat after you’ve added the chocolate. Also, you mustn’t allow it to simmer for too long. The chocolate will become bitter and ruin the richness with the red wine.”
She took the decadent sauce from my hand, pouring a heavydrizzle over her plate. “You’ve readCursed Goddess of the Veil,” she said, just loud enough to hear.
I took my own helping of meat, disregarding anything else. “At least once.”
“Tell me then,” she said, cutting into her venison. “What else have you learned about me besides my love of chocolate?”
I shrugged. “I am well aware it will take time wearing you down. But I believe you’ll get sick enough of this place to kill me to leave it.”
She huffed in irritation, taking her first bite. I stilled, waiting for her reaction. It was true. I had spent years perfecting chocolat étouffant, curious about the preferences of the Ravenfae Goddess.
As she chewed, her eyes darted to her plate then back to me. Once she swallowed, she began cutting another bite. “It’s perfection, Arthur.”
It wasn’t the elation I’d expected. My reaction was far too raw for that.
At her praise freely given, I gripped my fork and knife tightly, the whites of my knuckles exposed as I shoved the Beast aside, forcing myself to take a bite and chew slowly. Without even a thank you, I nodded, keeping an eye on her as she continued to eat the meal I ordered Piffle to cook.
The recipe took an immense amount of patience to perfect, and as she cut into another piece of the meat, swirling it around in the decadent sauce, I finally set my own utensils down, fighting with the Beast again.
