Logic tells me it’ll be on the main floor or maybe one level below—you know, like inDownton Abbey. Upstairs for the fancy people, downstairs for the servants and practical stuff. As I head down into what’s obviously a cooler basement level, I get the shivers wondering exactly who might be employed in service to a god with two faces and serious anger management issues.
But when motion-sensor lights flicker on as I step through an arched doorway, my heart rate slows down considerably. It’s just a regular-looking kitchen. Well, regular if you consider restaurant-grade equipment and enough counter space to feed an army to be normal.
I wasn’t sure what I’d find down here. Maybe an open hearth fire with a spit roast to match the rest of the castle’s medieval aesthetic?
But this kitchen looks like something straight out of a high-end restaurant. Gleaming stainless steel countertops, every modern appliance you could possibly want, and several large double sinks that sparkle under the LED lighting. Plus, if I’m not mistaken... that’s definitely a walk-in refrigerator in the back corner.
For the first time in hours, I actually smile.
I crack open the heavy door and my grin widens into something probably slightly manic. Oh,hell yes. It’s a beautifully stocked walk-in with everything you’d find in a small gourmet market—fresh fruits and vegetables, premium meats, artisanal cheeses, imported delicacies. And an entire section dedicated to desserts. Cakes, cheesecakes in several varieties, pastries that look like they came from a French patisserie.
Someone definitely has a serious sweet tooth.
My stomach rumbles, but I’m not really in the mood for sugar right now. I need something substantial to soak up all that expensive wine currently sloshing around in my system. Closing the fridge, I turn around and spot exactly what I was hoping for—a small pantry area stocked with gorgeous artisanal breads that probably cost more per loaf than I used to spend on groceries in a week.
Perfect.
I grab some fluffy sourdough that feels like a cloud in my hands and head back to the fridge for cold cuts and mayo.Finally, in the blessed coolness of the basement kitchen, I construct myself a sandwich that would make any drunk person weep with joy.
Right as I open my mouth to take the first glorious bite, guess who appears in the doorway like some kind of brooding gothic hero?
That’s right. Mister Big Sexy Asshole with wings and a tail and serious boundary issues.
I only choke a little on my first bite, but then—determined to maintain whatever dignity I have left after our last disastrous interaction—I continue chewing slowly and deliberately. I’m not going to let him intimidate me or rush me or make me feel guilty for eating food in his precious castle.
He stays silhouetted in the doorway, all dark wings and imposing presence in the otherwise brightly lit room. “I’m glad you’re making yourself at home,” he says, and his tone is... unreadable.
I can’t get a bead on him. For once, he’s not wearing that wild, too-wide grin, but he doesn’t look pissed off either. It’s throwing me off because I’m used to being able to read men’s moods instantly—a survival skill I developed during seven years with Michael.
If this were Michael, he’d already be sending subtle signals that he was still angry about my “outburst” earlier. That’s what he used to call it whenever I expressed any opinion he didn’t like or showed any emotion he found inconvenient. Anoutburst. His passive-aggressive way of training me to be the perfect, compliant girlfriend who worked her ass off to please him at all times while never asking for anything in return.
I arch an eyebrow and double down on my attitude, determined never to be that weak, desperate woman ever again.
“I got hungry,” I say around a mouthful of food, because Michael also used to have very strong opinions about proper table manners and never talking with food in your mouth.
He was full ofshouldsandshould-notsfor the women he dated. A whole fucking handbook of how to be acceptable.
I take another deliberately large bite of my sandwich, maintaining eye contact like this is some kind of dominance battle.
Remus just tilts his head and watches me with what looks like genuine curiosity rather than judgment. “I’m eager to learn about all your wants and desires,” he says slowly. “I realize it may be... difficult for me to always...” His dark eyes stay fixed on mine, but I can sense some kind of internal struggle as he searches for words. Something that seems unusual for someone usually so confident and articulate.
I swallow my bite, my defensive posture softening slightly. “What’s difficult?”
“My experience with humans has been in very... specific contexts,” he admits. “I think I may need to alter some of my approaches. I might not always know how to do that correctly.” He pauses, and for the first time since I met him, he looks almost vulnerable. “Would it be fair to ask for your patience? I genuinely want to understand you.”
I let out a long breath. This isn’t what I expected. No doubling down on the asshole behavior, no gaslighting, no making me feel crazy for having boundaries. “What contexts are we talking about?”
He shrugs, and the movement makes his wings shift slightly. “Battle. Warfare. Conquest.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I mean, I knew he was ancient, but I guess I hadn’t really thought about what he’d beendoingfor all those centuries. “What kind of battles? Because I feel likehistory books would have mentioned someone as, uh, distinctive as you.”
His grin returns, cracking across his face as he lets out a rich laugh that echoes off the kitchen walls.
“Oh, I’m quite certain you know my work, even if you don’t realize it. My brothers and I were there with Hannibal crossing the Alps, with Alexander conquering the known world, with Caesar crossing the Rubicon, with Genghis Khan building his empire. Anywhere blood was to be spilled and power was to be seized, we were there, shaping the destinies of nations.”
I stop chewing mid-bite and barely manage to swallow. “So you... enjoy spilling blood?”
His grin stretches wider, becoming something almost predatory, and his eyes take on a distant, almost nostalgic gleam. “Picture it—armies stretching to the horizon, the electric tension of warriors preparing for battle, adrenaline and bloodlust crackling in the air like lightning before a storm. Then that first arrow flies, steel clashes against steel, and all that carefully controlled energy explodes into glorious chaos. Men fighting for their lives, for glory, for honor—though in truth, they were merely pieces in a far grander game.”
