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Eight

My nerves are shotas Lina leads me to Alex’s door. I feel ridiculous in this dark green nightie, tits barely concealed by lace and silk, and the plate of cookies in my hand makes me look like a fucking elf.

“You’ll be fine,” she says gently. “He’s a good man.”

“You know, you guys have said that so many times I think I’m actually starting to believe it,” I tease. In truth, I wish he wasn’t a good man. I wish he were the devil personified. Then maybe he’d just take me and I could find my place here. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad about the dreams I’ve been having about Draven.

Hot, incredibly inappropriate dreams.

Dreams where he breeds me, makes me hold it in and breeds me again. Dreams where he puts me on my knees and takes all this uncertainty away. Ones where I’m cherished, appreciated. Dreams I should be having about Alex himself, not his younger, bastard brother.

Bastard, baby, murderer, psycho, dream lover.

God, that’s so dangerous.

“Just do it,” I say quickly, noticing her hesitation to knock. “Is my hair okay?”

The heatless curls turned out well, but add to the overall lunacy of it. Something tells me it’ll be lost on the heir to the Creed dynasty.

“Your hair is perfect. Trust me, it’s going to be great. What kind of cookies are these anyway?”

I can’t tell if she’s genuinely curious or if she’s trying to distract me, but I pull the foil off to let her take one.

“Try one. They’re chocolate chip with cinnamon and a little extra vanilla.”

She pulls her hand back to stop knocking, her smile fading as realization dawns on her. “Alexander is allergic to cinnamon,” she whispers just before the door flies open and the man himself is staring at the plate in my grasp.

“Did you bake for me?” He offers me a genuine smile that makes me want to melt into the floor.

It’s a good smile. One I’d like to see more of, but I’m about to make it vanish. “I... I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you had allergies.” But Draven did, and Draven didn’t tell me. “They have cinnamon in them.”

“Damn.” It’s gone as quickly as it arrived. “That’s okay. It’s just cinnamon, so everything else is fair game. Shay.”

Bowing softly, she takes the plate from my hand and backs away. “I’ll put these in your room, Miss Harbough. You two have a good night.”

I have half a mind to tell her to dip them in cyanide and take them to the bastard, but I don’t. I nod my thanks and step into Alex’s room for the first time.

It’s as plain as I expected — almost a carbon copy of mine, but greyed out. His furniture, bedding, curtains are all the same shade of slate grey, and I find myself a little surprised at the lack of green. If everyone here knows his favorite color, why is his room so bare?

“Would you like some wine?”