And it's being carried into the private elevator ofObsidian Aegis Headquartersby security personnel wearing tactical gear that probably costs more than my entire net worth.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
I stand in the underground parking garage, wrapped in Cyprian's massive coat because I left my apartment wearing nothing but leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, and watch as my pathetic collection of belongings disappears into the most expensive building I've ever seen.
"This is insane," I say.
Cyprian's hand settles on the small of my back.
Warm.
Steady.
Possessive.
"You are moving into your home," he says. "There is nothing insane about that."
I look up at him.
He's standing beside me in the dim garage lighting, seven feet of slate-gray skin and massive folded wings, his amber veins glowing a soft, contented gold. He looks completely at ease. Like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Like I'm not hauling trash bags full of old socks into a building that probably costs more per square foot than my entire apartment complex.
"Cyprian," I say slowly. "I own three forks. Total. And one of them is bent."
"I have forks."
"I'm sure you do. I'm sure you have very expensive forks."
"They are adequate."
I snort.
"Adequate. Right."
His hand slides up my spine, his clawed fingers threading gently through my hair.
"You are overthinking this," he says.
"I'm really not."
"You are mine. You belong with me. Therefore, you belong here."
I stare at him.
At his absolute certainty.
At the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
And I realize something.
He's not going to let me spiral.
He's not going to let me second-guess this.
He's just going to keep stating facts until I accept them.
"You're impossible," I say.
