Brothers.Of course there are more of them. “You have brothers? Are they like you?”
He coughs, and the hood he’s still wearing slips back from his face. He quickly tugs it into place again, and I file that little nervous gesture away for later. “We were all given different... ah, gifts by our father. So no, not exactly like me.” Then he flashes that devastating grin again, one eyebrow quirking up as he blatantly flirts with me. “I assure you, I am quite unique. And you, my beautiful consort, have gotten the absolute best of all the brothers.”
I can’t help but laugh at his shameless confidence. “Oh yeah? Maybe I should judge for myself. Where are these brothers of yours? Do you all have your own castles, or is this like some kind of supernatural frat house situation?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “They’re on vacation with their consorts. Well, my youngest brother doesn’t yet have the joy of companionship because he’s just returned to us.”
I shake my head, trying to process this information. Multiple god-brothers, multiple consorts, family drama involving burned belongings—this is like the world’s most intense episode of a supernatural reality show. “But they’re all gods, like you?”
“As I have said,” he steps closer, dipping his head toward mine, voice dropping to that low, intimate register that makes my pulse skitter, “none are like me, little Lo-ren.”
His closeness sends my heart into overdrive, and suddenly I can’t breathe properly. The smart thing would be to step back, maintain some distance, ask more questions about the sleeping twin situation. Instead, I spin away and head for the door like I’m running from temptation itself.
“You said you’d show me everything. I’m ready.” I hustle toward the exit, but I swear I hear him chuckle behind me—low and amused and way too knowing.
Get it together, Lauren. You’re not some swooning heroine in a romance novel.
Except... maybe I kind of am? And maybe I don’t entirely hate it?
Pushing open the heavy wooden door—thick planks bound with iron that look like they could withstand a siege—I step into a hallway that takes my breath away. The stone walls stretch up at least fifteen feet high, built from massive gray blocks fitted together so perfectly you couldn’t slide a knife between them. Intricate carvings spiral up the walls like frozen vines, depicting scenes of battles and celebrations that must be centuries old. Rich tapestries hang between the carvings, their jewel-toned threads depicting winged figures and mythical beasts, probably worth more than my mom’s entire house.
Light streams in through enormous arched windows at the far end of the corridor, each one easily twelve feet tall and fitted with diamond-paned glass that fractures the afternoon sun into dancing rainbows. The light creates pools of golden warmth onthe polished stone floor, which is inlaid with intricate patterns that seem to shift and change as I walk.
I still can’t believe I’m in a real castle. Areal fucking castle.
Traveling to Europe and visiting places like this has always been on my bucket list—right up there with “get a job that doesn’t make me want to cry” and “find a man who doesn’t treat me like an inconvenience.” But it’s also something I never actually believed would happen for me. Cross-the-ocean plane tickets cost more than I make in three months, and hell, I’ve never even been to the ocean, let alone another continent.
I lift my hands and trail them along the walls as I walk, marveling at the cool, smooth texture under my fingertips. The stones have been worn smooth by countless hands over the centuries, and I can feel the slight indentations where fingers have traced the same path I’m taking now. These walls areold—older than anything I’ve ever touched. They’ve probably witnessed centuries of history, knights and ladies and dramatic romances playing out in these very corridors.
When we reach the massive windows, I can see they’re set in walls that have to be at least four feet thick. There’s a spiral staircase carved directly from the stone, winding both up and down into shadows. The steps are worn smooth in the center from generations of feet, and there are no railings—just the outer wall and a dizzying drop down the center of the spiral.
I turn to Remus, who’s been following me with that predatory grace of his. “Which way—up or down?”
“If you want to see something truly magical,” he says, eyes glinting with mischief, “then go up. Three flights.”
I feel a little thrill at every step I’m taking into the unknown. This is what adventure feels like—scary and exhilarating and completely unpredictable. Gripping the rough stone walls for balance (because obviously modern conveniences like railings don’t exist in places like this), I start climbing the narrow, wornsteps. Each one is slightly different, carved by hand rather than machine, and I have to watch my footing on the uneven surfaces.
The stairwell is dimly lit by arrow-slit windows cut into the thick walls, each one offering a brief glimpse of the forest far below. As we climb higher, I can hear the wind whistling through the stone, and the temperature drops noticeably.
Now, despite what my mother thinks, I actually do try to go for walks most days. I handle the stairs fine, only breathing slightly heavier by the last steep flight. There’s this misconception that big girls are automatically out of shape, which pisses me off to no end. It’s just one more thing people get wrong about women like me.
Remus comes up behind me, his footsteps silent on the stone despite his size, and I feel the warmth of his large hand settle between my shoulder blades for just a moment. “This way.”
I suck in a breath at his touch, but he’s already pulled away and is moving ahead of me with that fluid, predatory grace. I try not to stare as his massive wings shift with each step, the black feathers catching what little light filters through the windows. His tail moves with a hypnotic rhythm, occasionally brushing against the curved stone wall with a soft whisper of leather against rock.
He still has the hood pulled up, the fabric casting his face in shadow, and my eyes drop without permission to the way his fitted black pants showcase his powerful thighs and that very fine backside. The leather looks buttery soft and expensive, molded to his body like a second skin. There’s an intricate buttoned opening at the base of his spine where his tail emerges, the craftsmanship so perfect it must have been made specifically for him.
Jesus, Lauren. Get your hormones under control.
I jerk my eyes away as soon as I realize I’m basically checking out his ass like some kind of horny teenager.
The top of the stairs opens into a single, enormous circular room—definitely the top of a castle tower. The space is breathtaking, easily forty feet across with a domed ceiling that soars overhead. Sunlight pours through a ring of tall, arched windows that line the curved walls, each one fitted with stained glass in jewel tones. The colored light streams across the space in shifting patterns of amber, emerald, sapphire, and deep crimson, painting everything in a kaleidoscope of color that changes as the sun moves.
The air up here is different—thinner and somehow charged with energy that makes my skin tingle. There’s a faint humming sound, so low I feel it more than hear it, like the room itself is alive.
“The story of where I come from,” Remus says simply.
The room is empty except for an incredibly intricate mosaic that covers the entire center of the floor—and I meanthe entire center. It has to be at least twenty feet across, made up of thousands upon thousands of tiny tiles in every color imaginable. At first, the design is just a beautiful, overwhelming jumble, but as I step back toward the curved wall and adjust my angle, it resolves into something that steals my breath.
