Artwork lined the walls—some classical, some modern, some that I recognized with a jolt as Rook's own work.
Windows stretched floor to ceiling, flooding every space with golden light and ocean views.
It was beautiful.
It was excessive.
It was exactly what I would have expected from a man who turned murder into performance art.
The music grew louder as I descended a grand staircase, my hand trailing along a banister carved from a single piece of driftwood.
Nina Simone's voice wrapped around me in an embrace, singing about the spell she'd cast, the hold she had.
Did he play this song for me? Or is this just his favorite song?
I made it to the kitchen.
Oh. This is amazing.
White marble countertops sprawled for what seemed like miles, broken only by a massive island topped with a breakfast bar.
Professional-grade appliances gleamed under pendant lights.
Fresh flowers spilled from vases on every surface. And there, standing at a six-burner stove with his back to me, was the Trickster.
Shirtless.
The skull tattoo grinned at me from between his shoulder blades, that manic smile, those wild eyes, rendered in such vivid detail that I could have sworn the ink shifted as his muscles moved.
It's flirting with me again.
My heart swelled at the sight of Rook. This man who had broken me apart and rebuilt me into something new. This man who had claimed me, consumed me, and in doing so, had finally made me feel whole.
He didn't turn around. Just lifted his nose slightly, inhaling, and I watched his shoulders relax with recognition. "Good morning, Beloved."
Three words.
That's all it took.
Three words in that voice like smoke and honey, and my body responded—a pulse of warmth, a flutter in my chest, a clench of muscles that remembered exactly what he could do to me.
"Good morning." I moved closer, drawn to him the way I'd been drawn from the first moment I smelled him in that asylum corridor.
Rook turned then, and the sight of him made my breath catch.
The playing card tattoos wound down his arms, across his ribs, disappearing into the waistband of loose linen pants that hung low on his hips.
His long curly hair was damp, as if he'd recently showered, the curls wilder than ever.
And his eyes—those dark green eyes that had haunted my dreams for five years—locked onto mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.
In his hands, he held two plates.
Eggs, sunny-side up. Thick-cut bacon, perfectly crisp. Golden hashbrowns, shredded and fried until the edges curled.
"I hope you're hungry, Beloved." He set the plates on the breakfast bar, then turned back to pour two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. "You need to rebuild your strength."
I climbed onto one of the leather stools. The marble cooled against my bare thighs where the satin gown rode up. "I'm starving, actually."
