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I step inside, glancing around at the high ceilings, towering stone fireplace, and gilded light fixtures.

This is a mansion.

I turn to Damian. “This isn’t a cottage.”

“What do you mean?”

A smile rises to my lips. He genuinely doesn’t understand.

He watches me, brow furrowed. “I thought you’d like it. It’s quaint.”

Oh Lord Jesus, help me. He can be so absurd sometimes. So utterly absurd it makes me pity him for his stupidity, even though he’d never pity himself.

He narrows his eyes. “What?”

I shrug. “I’ve just gotten used to wealth, I guess. This is a shack.”

His eyes widen. “A shack?” He looks at the painting above the fireplace. “It’s a little…old-fashioned, but I thought you’d like it. I thought it would remind you of Jane Austen.”

Laughter bubbles from my chest. Calling this place a cottage is ridiculous, and…oddly perfect. Though it’s opulent like everything else in Damian Cross’s life, it’s also romantic in a way that makes my heart ache, even as I tell myself not to let it.

Because he picked it just for me. He thought of my interests and chose this as our getaway.

“I was just joking,” I say. “Jane Austen was a vicar’s daughter. This—” I gesture at the chandelier above us “—is more like something Maria Rushworth would visit.”

Damian frowns. “Who the fuck is Maria Rushworth?”

I smirk. “You’ve obviously never read Jane Austen.”

His eyes narrow on my face. “Is Maria Rushworth from your favorite book?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

His eyes grow vacant for a long moment, as if he’s lost in thought. Then his expression snaps into focus. “There’s no staff here. If we need something, we’ll have to take care of it ourselves.”

I bite back a smile. It’s adorable he thinks that’s some kind of punishment.

He watches me carefully. “You’ll be surprised how accustomed you’ve become to having everything done for you.”

I arch a brow. “I’ll manage.”

And I’ll manage much more than taking care of myself without staff members to help me. This new softer version of Damian is going to satisfy my curiosity once and for all. He’s going to tell me about his damn cult and what he really wants me for.

27

Damian

We just finished eating a light dinner on the terrace. I had Ava’s usual chef pack it for her with food she likes—sliced prosciutto, wedges of aged cheese, and a small dish of honey. There was a peacefulness to the meal—a strange, quiet understanding settling between Ava and me, as if this is something we’ve done before.

The late November air is crisp but not cold. It’s tinged with salt and the scent of cypress. The wind, usually sharp this time of year, barely stirs. It’s as if even the weather has decided to rest.

“You’re so confident,” she says, licking a drop of honey from her finger, making my stomach clench. “Even just sitting here drinking your wine, you look like you own the world.”

My body warms like it always does when she compliments me. I swirl my wine in my glass before taking a sip. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know exactly…” Her brow knits. “You’ve mastered something, though. The way you carry yourself—it’s effortless.Everyone watches you, and not just because you’re in charge. It’s more than that. Your confidence is magnetic.”

I hum. “I’ve never thought of myself in terms of confidence. It’s never crossed my mind.”