I glance around the office to make sure I’m not forgetting anything legitimately important, then head out to find the new butler as I formulate a plan in my head for undressing the man. Not fully, obviously, and I don’t want to damage his clothing. That would just be rude. I need something that will stain if he doesn’t address it right away, but a stain that will be obvious on a black—
I stop dead in my tracks before pushing the button to the elevator that will take me up to the house. What the fuck am I doing right now? I just got finished telling the cards that I willnotbe entertaining the possibility of Dec as anything more than a member of the household staff, and here I am planning a prank just so I can get an unimpeded view of his ass? What iswrongwith me?
“You look like you’re having an existential crisis.” Ethan pokes the button on the elevator, scanning me from head to toe with his gorgeous stone gray eyes. They’re his best feature, and that’s saying something considering how handsome he is.
I grimace, grinding some dust off my stone teeth before pulling on my human skin, reminded by his appearance that ifI want to be seen, I have to disguise myself. “I’ve just realized that I’m playing into my cards’ hands, following their lead like I didn’t just sit at my desk for fifteen minutes telling them they’re wrong and stupid.”
Ethan gives me a pitying look. “You know that’s not how this works, right? You deal the cards and then interpret the deal, and it’s all on you how much the cards reflect your life.”
“Maybe your cards let you interpret their readings like that, but mine are damn near sapient and haveopinions.”
He pats my chest as the elevator doors open. “Alright, brother. Come on, I’ll help you figure this out, but I need some food. I’ve been in and out of human form all day and require something sweet and creamy from Jax’s stash.”
I sigh but agree that ice cream would probably help whatever is happening to me. It might even be enough to make up for missing out on Dec’s ass.
Chapter seven
Dec
(Since when is my dick voice-activated?)
After a month ofgetting used to how the household runs, I feel like I’ve settled in. Every day is different, and the eight family members who live here are rarely here together. I’ve figured out that they leave the house in a specific order. I’m not sure why they do this, but if Ethan leaves, the next one out is Thoren, then Greeley, Faulkes, Reeves, Walker, and Hawthorn in that order. Then the pattern repeats. Sometimes there are days between them going out, sometimes it’s mere hours. Last week all seven of Maxime’s nephews were gone for several days. I watched them all walk out one after another over the course of a few hours.
It makes me wonder what they do. The only Staiano here all the time is Maxime, and when he’s not in the areas of the compound that I do not have access to, he’s usually in his train room—so far, he hasn’t given me his permission to even peek at the inside of that room.
“I really don’t think a person can be a divine butler,” Maxime complains from the bed when I enter his room to help him with his morning routine. The book on his lap tells me that he hasn’t slept since he went to bed last night. He often fails to regulate his sleeping pattern when he gets into a book, but I’m still more surprised to find him in bed rather than in his train room.
I give him a deferential nod. “I’m certain that is true for most people, but this suit is the truest reflection of my inner self I could find.”
It’s not really reflecting my inner butler, but there’s no reason to tell him that my divine self hates waste and would rather wear my clothes until they fall apart than buy new ones. I’m sure he would understand—well, maybe. I don’t know. Maxime understands a lot about a lot of things, but there are some things that he’s just blind about.
For example, someone keeps moving the grotesques on top of the house. They are never in the same place when I look at them, and they often aren’t even the same statuary from one day to the next. When I brought it up, Maxime brushed it off as my imagination. My imagination? What does he think I daydream about? It’s certainly not moving statuary.
“It’s just so boring,” Maxime complains. “Are you sure you don’t want to have my clothier make you something more...” He trails off, waving his hand to indicate I should finish that sentence for him.
People do that when they don’t want to insult a person, but they’re ok with the person insulting themselves. I’m not going to play that game with him. “I don’t have a need for your clothier to assist me, but I will let you know if I ever do.”
He gives me another sour look. “Fine. I think I’m going to spend the day in bed. Could you just bring my breakfast to me? I’ve decided to take the day off.”
“Of course, sir,” I agree with a slight bow. “Shall I open the windows for you? Perhaps a bit of sun and a breeze will set the mood for you.”
“Oh yes, do that,” he agrees eagerly, scooting down in his bed and settling in.
I keep my smile internalized as I open the floor to ceiling curtains and crank the windows open to allow the cool breeze into the room. As soon as I’m done, I gather the empty glass from his nightstand and head down to the kitchen using the servant’s staircase. Just past the utility room, I bend over to pick up a tarot card that someone (Thoren) dropped, and behind me, I hear the click of his tongue against his teeth.
He’s been throwing things on the floor since day one, asking me to pick them up for him. At first, I thought he was just clumsy, but now I think he’s punishing me because I refuse to tell him my name. It’s gotten out of hand, but it’s too late to fix the precedent I’ve set, and there’s this other thing that I barely acknowledge is happening.
Straightening, I turn, finding Thoren standing in the doorway of the utility room and staring at my ass. Well, now he’s looking at my crotch, but it’s clear what he was looking at. It’s where his eyes always fixate when he throws his things on the floor. I ignore both the tingle of awareness that pulls my balls a little tighter to my body and all the reasons I should fix this situation and stop picking up his cards.
Today he’s wearing another pair of beaded leather pants. This time the beads surround his exceptional dick print as if to emphasize the size of his... ego. His open front shirt shows off that he’s changed his nipple jewelry since yesterday: today his rings have some fancy Celtic-knot type dangles from them. They don’t match, but that just makes me look twice.
My cheeks burn when my eyes finally make it to his face to meet his glaring eyes, like how dare I look at what’s on display.I’m not sure if he genuinely hates me or if he’s got a case of resting bitch face. It could be either or both. I don’t know. Sometimes he almost smiles, but I can’t tell if he does that because he thinks I’m amusing or because he’s teasing me. It could be either or both.
I said that already. It’s because Thoren is a complete mystery to me. We have breakfast together five times a week, and every time one of his cards somehow flies out of his little pouch all by itself and lands somewhere behind me so I have to bend over to get it.
I know I could just squat to grab, but the tingle that makes my dick perk up also makes my brain make stupid decisions. I’ve spent literal hours talking to him, but even with what I know about him, he’s still so enigmatic. Either I’m a bit thick and I keep missing the obvious, or he’s the most mysterious person I’ve ever met.
I don’t have a lot of conversations with the family besides Maxime and Thoren, but the rest of them are fairly easy to get along with. Every time I talk to them, it’s easy and flows naturally. With Thoren, things are far more complicated. He’s likable, of course, but that’s probably as much of a problem as... other things are.
