Chapter One
Claire
I’m making the vampire king’s bed and trying very hard not to think about what happens between the sheets.
This is proving difficult considering I love the soft, luxurious black silk bedding and can’t get over the mattress that’s the size of a small country. The four-poster bed frame, hand-carved with dark wood, probably costs more than my entire student loan debt. And this is saying something, because my student loan debt could fund a small war.
Focus. The fitted sheets need to be perfect.
I tuck the corners with the precision of someone who watched three YouTube videos on hospital corners last night.
The head housekeeper, Mrs. Vasek, showed me the proper technique yesterday, but I was so nervous, catching the flash of her fangs, I retained zero information. Mrs. Vasek is Krovenian, which is what the vampires actually call themselves. And I’ve already learned that “vampire” is a human word they only tolerate and in fact find a little crude.
Oops. I promise to do better.
I’m working in a thousand-year-old castle filled with a vampiric species and I’m the only human. I’m thrilled for the opportunity to get to know them better and yet deeply nervous at the same time.
Mrs. Vasek caught me in the servants’ hall earlier this morning, just as I was collecting my cleaning supplies. “You’re on the King’s chambers today,” she said, checking her tablet. “First time.”
My stomach flipped. “Is there anything special I should know?”
The head housekeeper is probably eighty years old, but she has the energy of someone decades younger. Warm eyes, silver-streaked dark hair, and a habit of patting your arm when she talks to you. I barely know her and yet I already like her so much. “Just be thorough. His Majesty notices details.” A fond smile crossed her face. “But don’t be nervous. He’s not what the human media makes him out to be.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen the news coverage. They make him sound so cold and frightening. I’ve worked in this castle for thirty-one years, child. Served his father before him. King Nikolai is the finest ruler Krovenia has ever had. He remembers every staff member’s name and every birthday. He pretends to be stiff, but underneath? That male has a good heart. You’ll see.”
I nodded, unsure of what to say. I didn’t think it was a good time to admit that the real reason why I’m here is to prove to my troubled brother that the Krovenian royals aren’t evil vampire overlords.
“Now go on,” Mrs. Vasek said, handing me a stack of fresh linens that smell like lavender. “And don’t worry about rushing, the King is in council meetings all morning. You’ll have thechambers to yourself. Just take your time, making sure you do it right.”
So that’s what I’m doing, trying to take my time to make sure I clean up right.
I fluff all six pillows. Six pillows for one man. A man who sleeps alone, according to staff gossip, which I am absolutely not collecting for intelligence purposes.
Okay. I’m absolutely collecting this information for intelligence purposes.
I pause to catch my breath and really look around.
The silence here is different from human silence. A thousand years of quiet have seeped into these stone walls. Back home, there’s always noise — traffic, neighbors, the hum of electricity through cheap apartment walls. Here, the only sounds are my own breathing and the occasional whisper of wind against ancient glass.
The air smells pleasant and in fact intoxicating. Maybe cedar and old books? I’ve read that Krovenians have heightened senses, that they experience the world more intensely than humans do, which makes me wonder what this room smells like to King Nikolai.
I wonder whatI wouldsmell like to him.
Okay, weird thought. Moving on.
But can we talk about these rooms for a second?
The private chambers of King Nikolai of Krovenia are not what I expected. I thought a vampire king’s bedroom suite would be all gothic drama, purple velvet curtains, candelabras and ornate mirrors. Instead it’s austere, clean-lined and almost minimalist. Tall windows stretch floor to ceiling overlooking snow-covered mountains. The antique, dark wood furniture is beautifully crafted but simple. No gilding or excess. The only indulgence is the bed, which I’m currently wrestling with and losing.
Pale winter light streams through the windows, catching dust motes that drift lazily through the air. The view is ridiculous. Snow-capped mountains stretch toward a steel-gray sky. A frozen lake glitters in the valley below and the surrounding evergreen forest is so dark as to look almost black. The view is so perfect it’s like a screensaver. And absolutely nothing like my studio apartment in Chicago with its charming view of a brick wall and a dumpster.
I could get used to this.
Which is dangerous thinking, because I’m not supposed to get used to anything. I’m supposed to be working here for only a few months while quietly gathering intel.
I blow out a breath and push strands of blond hair off my face. Okay, the bed is finally done. This suite is really three rooms linked together, like a spacious apartment, but without a kitchen. Next, I move into the adjoining personal study and start dusting the impressive bookshelves.
