I feel like I'm having an existential crisis.
I carefully extract myself from under his arm—he doesn't wake, just shifts slightly and makes a low rumbling sound deep in his chest—and slide out of bed. My feet hit polished hardwood floors that are heated. Of course they're heated. Everything in this penthouse is designed for comfort and luxury and a level of wealth I can't even conceptualize.
I grab the first thing I can find—one of his massive dress shirts hanging over a chair—and pull it on. It falls to mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past my hands.
I need to think.
I need space.
I need to figure out what the hell I just agreed to.
The penthouse is silent as I pad through the living room toward the kitchen. Everything is obsidian and glass and sharp modern lines. There's a coffee maker that looks like it belongs in a spaceship. I stare at it for a full thirty seconds before giving up and just filling a glass with water from the tap.
The tap has a built-in filtration system.
Of course it does.
I lean against the counter and take a sip.
My hands are shaking.
Not from fear.
From the sheer overwhelming weight of what happened last night.
The mate-bond.
The biological imperative.
The way my body responded to him like it was hardwired to recognize him as mine.
But was it my choice?
Or was it just my biology making the choice for me?
I set the glass down.
My phone is sitting on the counter—Cyprian must have brought it up from my bag. I grab it and pull up Audrey's contact before I can second-guess myself.
She answers on the second ring.
"It's seven in the morning," she says. "This better be good."
"I had sex with my client."
Silence.
Then: "The gargoyle?"
"Yes."
"The obscenely wealthy gargoyle who paid off all your debts?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Scale of one to ten, how freaked out are you right now?"
I exhale slowly. "Eleven."
