Page 24

Wild, huh?

Downstairs, the house is quiet, but in that early morning “someone is awake but trying not to disturb the peace” way. The house is a comfortable temperature, even with me just wearing my boxers and a T-shirt, and given how cool the mornings are at this time of year, I suspect that means the heater is on.

I turn left and head down the corridor toward the kitchen as I was instructed to do last night. Clive insisted that I needed to have breakfast this morning before feeding—which I couldn’t really argue with—but when I made a face and said I’m not used to eating breakfast, and especially not before six a.m., he glared and said he’d make sure it was a light one.

It’s still dark outside, though the sky will probably start lightening soon, but the lights are on in the big living area, and the television is set to one of the breakfast shows. I wonder who the fan of morning TV is, Anna or Clive. They’re both here already, Anna perched on one of the stools at the island, drinking coffee, while Clive’s grating somethi⁠—

Is that a potato?

Oh my god, is he making hash browns?

Suddenly, my mouth is watering. I fucking love hash browns. If anything is going to convince me to have breakfast at this ungodly hour, it’s going to be hash browns.

“Good morning,” Anna says. “Did you sl— Wow. I’m guessing you didn’t sleep well.” She eyes me critically as I get closer. “Your eyes are so bloodshot, they look like a map of the London Underground.”

My laugh takes me by surprise. “Good one. I, uh, stayed up late reading.”

She blinks a few times. “Really?”

“Yeah. I can read, you know.” Not that I do much of it, but she shouldn’t make assumptions. Even if they’re right.

I slide onto the stool next to hers and direct a winning smile at Clive. “Good morning, Clive. I’m reporting for breakfast.”

He doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t reply, either, just puts down the grater and potato, goes to the sink to wash his hands, and disappears into the butler’s pantry.

I turn to Anna and whisper, “He really holds a grudge, huh?”

“When it comes to Tristan, absolutely. But in this case, I think he went to get your breakfast.”

My eyes dart to the pile of grated potato. “But…”

She follows the direction of my gaze and shakes her head. “That won’t be ready before you need to feed Tristan. He’s got something else for you to have now.”

“Oh.” I hope that doesn’t mean I miss out.

Clive comes back into the main part of the kitchen holding a tall glass. The liquid inside is a grey-brown colour and looks like sludge. He sets it on the island and slides it over to me.

“What’s this?” I ask cautiously. Please don’t let him say I have to drink it.

“A protein shake,” he informs me. “It’s packed with nutrients and fibre.”

Is it, though? From the looks of it, it’s packed with something else entirely. “I don’t really⁠—”

“Drink it.” He folds his arms across his chest and glares at me.

I mentally weigh the fallout of upsetting him, which everyone in this house has told me not to do, against having to drink that disgusting-looking concoction. I’m so tempted to say no, but… did I mention the upholstered headboard? The bathroom with no mould that’s exclusively for my use? The deconstructed hash browns that I’ll hopefully be eating in an hour’s time?

Blowing out an explosive breath, I pick up the glass and study the contents. God, it looks so fucking foul. I’m not exactly a stranger to protein shakes, but this one wins a prize for least appealing.

I lift it toward my mouth, catch a whiff of it, and nearly lose my nerve. What did he even put in there? I’m scared to ask. Could this be some kind of hazing activity, or a test? See if the new bloke will run away within the first twenty-four hours?

“It’s ten to six,” Anna says. “If you’re going to drink that, you’d better get on with it.” She’s watching with a tiny smile of amusement, giving even more credibility to my hazing theory.

Ugh. Okay, time to get this over with. I chug.

And nearly gag. Grimly, I keep going, forcing myself to drink fast in an attempt to avoid the taste—and the texture. Why is it slimy?

By the time I smack the glass back down on the bench, my face is instinctively pulling into the type of expressions it hasn’t made since I was eight and had to take gross medicine.