The man was exceedingly tall, dressed in casual jeans and a T-shirt, a far stretch from Cillian and Amelia’s formal attire. His glossy dark brown hair swept across his forehead, and when he caught sight of me, a broad grin split his lips.
“Well, well, we’ve got a visitor here?”
“More like a new resident,” I said, leaning against the doorframe to keep myself up at this point.
The man lifted a brow as well as his cleaning rag. “Lia never mentioned anyone new coming on board.”
“Just happened,” I said, my throat far too dry with nerves. “I’m Cillian’s new personal assistant.”
He dropped the rag. He quickly collected both the rag and his jaw from the floor, then he strode toward me. “I wasn’t informed of this development yet, but I’m Charles. I’ve been working for the bossman for a long time.”
“What do you do for him?” I asked, even though one of the answers was clear from the rag in his hand.
“I’m his cleaner,” Charles said, but based on the shift of his tone and his pointed look, that wasn’t all his role was comprisedof. However, his features relaxed, and his smooth grin placed me at ease.
“Don’t suppose you’d know what he expects of his personal assistants?” I asked. Charles seemed to be the first friendly person I’d met in this casino, and I’d grasp onto anything right now. My feet were a little unsteady, so I leaned harder against the doorframe.
“Well, that’s a question I have as well,” he said, striding closer. “I’m assuming he dropped you off and rushed away? The peak of social skills, that one.”
I snorted, and relief flushed through me for a moment. A single friendly face was enough to latch onto. “Does he not often employ personal assistants?”
“Not for the past seven years he hasn’t,” Charles said. “Do you have a special skillset?”
For the life of me, I hadn’t been able to figure out why he didn’t just send me to the Pits like he’d planned to do with my father.
“Considering he didn’t grill me on that, I’m not sure. I’m a librarian by trade,” I offered, crossing my arms to keep them from trembling.
Charles flashed me a grin. “Well, I’d say that’s a useful trade to be in. Have you eaten yet? Why don’t we find you something and hunt down Amelia. Surely she’ll have answers. She always does.”
My stomach grumbled as if on cue. I’d eaten earlier, but with the ball of fear and worry gnawing at my gut, I hadn’t been able to stomach much. Not like the anxiety had disappeared, but given my fate was sealed, and my mind hadn’t fully processed the bomb dropped on my life, the prospect of any sort of meal appealed to me. Well, anything but apples. Hated the fuckers.
“Thank you,” I said, the slight rasp in my voice betraying how much the simple kindness meant. My insides were still fuzzy, numb from everything that had occurred, but I wasn’t ready to face reality yet either.
“Follow me,” he said, slipping past me and heading to the right, deeper down the corridor. He cut a quick pace with those long legs, and I hastened to keep up, our footsteps echoing through this cavernous place. How did one person need this many rooms? While I could admit after growing up with the bare minimum that the occasional bit of opulence enticed, this seemed ridiculous, even for a larger-than-average demon.
Especially since he didn’t seem to entertain very often.
“Does he sleep in a different bedroom every night?” I wondered aloud. My shoulders tightened. Fuck, I’d gotten too comfortable. This was Charles’s boss I was talking about.
A bark of laughter exploded from Charles. “Oh god, that’s fantastic. The size of the place is a bit much, yeah? A hotel’s worth of rooms lying there empty. Trust me, they don’t remain so.”
Curiosity flared through me yet again. I knew so little about Cillian Ashmore, only the highlights I’d read about online, which were either superficial or swirling with rumors. Yet I’d be living in his home for the next ten years, working with him in close quarters.
“Okay, here.” Charles slowed in front of stainless-steel double doors, the porthole windows revealing the lights on inside.
The industrial-sized kitchen spread out farther than I was prepared for, with shockingly white walls, stainless-steel backsplashes, and gray-tiled flooring. Between the multiple stovetops, ovens, and stainless-steel fridges, it was obviously meant to be used to cook for the masses—as if this place were a restaurant—not just for a single man. Confusion percolated inside me yet again at how this eccentric demon lived.
“Theo made cassoulet for dinner tonight, and it was perfection,” Charles said, sweeping over to the nearest fridge. His movements were all wild and akimbo, his body long andslender. He ducked into the fridge and emerged with a massive container.
“Can I help somehow? Grab a bowl?” I asked, heading over to the paste-white cabinets.
“Far right one,” Charles said as he rummaged around to grab a ladle and a spoon as well. I snagged a basic black bowl from the stack, somewhat surprised these weren’t ostentatious as well. After I passed it over to him, Charles ladled some of the soup out and popped it into a microwave.
“Mind if I ask what brought you here in the first place?” His eyes were inquisitive but not cruel.
“Offered myself in place of my father,” I said lightly, as if the truth wouldn’t knock me from my feet. “You know, the usual.”
Charles snorted, and the microwave beeped. He drew out the soup, which was steaming hot, and the delicious scents of herbs, vegetables, and meat wafted my way. I supposed one benefit to my revised sentence was that the food would be infinitely better than fighting for scraps in the Pits. Charles plunked the spoon in and slid the bowl over to me. “Amelia’s on her way over to brief you.”
