"It's a lot."
"I do not care."
I laugh.
It's half sob, half genuine amusement.
"You're ridiculous."
"I am devoted."
"Same thing."
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone.
"Come," he says. "Let me show you the rest."
The bedroom is obscene.
That's the only word for it.
The bed ismassive—easily king-sized, possibly custom-made—with a heavy obsidian frame and plush bedding in shades of charcoal and deep gold.
But that's not what catches my attention.
What catches my attention is the fact that one entire side of the bed has been transformed into what can only be described as anest.
Soft pillows. Thick blankets. A heated mattress pad. Everything arranged in a way that's clearly designed for someone much smaller than Cyprian.
For me.
"You built me a nest," I say.
"Yes."
"In your bed."
"Our bed."
I walk over to it slowly.
The blankets are incredibly soft—some kind of high-thread-count material that probably costs more than my rent used to.
I sit down.
The mattress is perfect.
Not too firm. Not too soft.
And warm.
So warm.
"This is insane," I say.
Cyprian moves to stand in front of me.
His frame blocks out the light from the windows, casting me in shadow.
