"This is really good orange juice," I say.
"I know."
"How do you know? Do you even drink orange juice?"
"No. But I researched the highest-rated brands and selected the one with the best reviews."
I stare at him.
"You researched orange juice."
"Yes."
"For me."
"Yes."
I set down my glass.
"You're unhinged."
"I am thorough."
"You said that already."
"It remains true."
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
This is my life now.
Living in a penthouse with a seven-foot gargoyle who researches orange juice brands and builds me nests and watches me eat like I might disappear.
It's absurd.
It's overwhelming.
It's perfect.
After breakfast, Cyprian's expression shifts.
The soft, domestic contentment fades, replaced by something sharper.
More focused.
"I need to show you something," he says.
"Okay."
He stands, offering me his hand.
I take it.
His fingers dwarf mine, his claws retracted, his grip gentle but firm.
He leads me down the hallway to a door I hadn't noticed before.
It's made of heavy black glass, with a biometric scanner mounted beside it.
