Az grins, his eyes glinting. “You can get a lot done with the right amount of subjects.”
I quirk my eyebrow at him. “You seem very influential for a fallen angel. Whose court do you serve in?”
His smile grows wider, an unknowable shadow passing behind his gaze. “No one’s,” he says casually.
What is he hiding? Probably a lot, but something importantsûrement.
He elbows me in the ribs, the touch gentle, though still surprising. “You didn’t say if you like it.”
I sniff haughtily, enjoying his uncertainty. “I’ll have to see how it is inside.”
“Well, I hope it meets your expectations, little fairy.” He bows, motioning me forward with a grandiose sweep of his arms. “After you, my lady.”
“There better not be any imps jumping out,” I mutter, climbing the porch stairs. While Az laughs at my grumpiness, I eye the silver knocker on the unsurprisingly black door. Is that an imp? I wouldn’t put it past him.
Why do we even need a knocker? Is he expecting visitors? Neighbors bringing cookies and housewarming gifts?
“It won’t bite,” Az says wickedly, pushing the door open. “Can’t say the same for me, though.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
The foyer is larger than my entire apartment in Marseille had been. Black marble floors gleam beneath a chandelier made of smoky quartz and dark metal, the dangling prisms catching that strange daylight pouring through tall stained-glass windows.
The air smells faintly of wood, old books, and something more alluring—the fallen angel by my side.
A sweeping staircase curves upward to the left, the banister carved with twisting roses and vines.
To the right, double doors stand open to a library so vast it steals my breath. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, crowded with classics, fashion books, sketch collections, and romance novels. Rolling ladders glide along polished rails.
I’m totally having my Belle moment soon.
“You said you missed bookstores,” Az says too casually, noticing my stillness.
I stare at him. “So you made me one?”
He just shrugs, that ever-present wry twist to his lips making me feel things I really shouldn’t be feeling for my captor.
There’s a salon ahead, the room arranged around a huge fireplace carved from black stone. Velvet sofas in deep emerald and wine-red surround low tables covered with fruit, pastries, and fresh flowers.
I didn’t expect the kitchen to be so warm and human. Copper pots hang above a butcher-block island. White ceramic jars line the shelves. And is that freshly baked bread? It doesn’t even look like Hell—I keep expecting an irate grandmother to pop up, scolding us for being in her kitchen.
“I thought you might want to make your own food,” Az says when I look at him.
I purse my lips. “How will I get groceries?”
Az shrugs. “The same way you got food in the cave. It will be here.”
I don’t know how to feel about his thoughtfulness.
As we climb the stairs, I let my fingers trail over the carvings on the banister, eyeing the displayed art—mostly still lifes, some landscapes.
The bedroom is absolutely absurd. The bed could sleep eight people comfortably. It’s draped in dark silk and gauze and surrounded by carved posts wrapped in what looks like real climbing white roses. Tall windows overlook the cliffs and river below. I can only just hear the gurgling of the water. Then there’s a dressing room larger than most homes, lined with wardrobes and mirrors.
And beyond that…Mère de Dieu!
A studio.
Daylight spills through glass panes onto cutting tables, bolts of fabric, dress forms, drawers of thread, shelves of beads, lace, ribbons, and neatly arranged tools. Sketchbooks wait in tidy stacks beside sharpened pencils.
