My eyes grow as big as saucers as I look around the room. While it is a large walk-in closet, there isn’t a single item of clothing. The entire back wall is lined with different colored rope like I saw in his duffel bag, and each coil is hung on a nail in neat rows. Shelves, cubbies, and drawers make up the storage along the side walls, showcasing a myriad of sex toys and BDSM implements. I feel like I took a wrong turn down a rabbit hole and suddenly I’m Taryn in Kinkland.
As I reach for one of the drawers, I muse out loud. “Who are you entertaining that you need the inventory of an entire sex shop?”
“No one.”
His deep voice startles me. I press a hand over my galloping heart and spin to face him, an admonishment at the tip of tongue. An admonishment that dries up along with my mouth at the sight of him leaning casually against the door frame, ankles crossed and arms folded, wearing only a pair of black joggers that hug his muscular calves and thighs. His dark hair is damp and one of the longer pieces from the top has fallen forward to hang rakishly over his forehead.
My eyes have a mind of their own as they rake over the muscles of his chest and defined blocks of his abs, including the most cut V I’ve ever seen that disappears beneath his waistband. No male has any right to look that fucking good. The only flaw I can see is a raised scar several inches long on his left pectoral. A mark like that would’ve been caused by something made of iron, and I can’t help wondering if it was a superficial wound or something more fatal.
“Not yet, anyway,” he clarifies, reminding me I wondered who he’s been entertaining. “But it’s always good to be prepared.”
Thankful my wayward thoughts are at least temporarily under control, I raise my brows. “For what, the world’s largest orgy?”
His only answer is a slight tilt of his lips and a convenient subject change. “You hungry?”
“Gods, yes. And, for the record, I wasn’t trying to snoop. I was looking for something to wear over this is all.”
“Cold?”
I shrug. “A bit.”
“Come on, you wanted Door #2.” I follow him to the other closet, which indeed has an entire wardrobe of clothes inside. “I forgot to get a change of clothes earlier. I had these joggers in my truck, but no shirts, and my brothers’ T-shirts look like I robbed a toddler.”
“Aw, I bet you’d look cute in a crop top.”
“Too bad you’ll never find out.” Finn walks farther into the closet, giving me the perfect opportunity to ogle Side B. I don’t know how many muscles are in the back, but every single one of his are defined like they’ve been chiseled out of rock. Broad shoulders narrow down to a waist where his waistband hangs low enough to showcase the twin dimples at the base of his spine.
I wonder what he looks like with his wings out, then mentally wince when I remember he doesn’t have any. My mother took their wings away when she exiled the Celestial Courts. I’m not sure which is worse, knowing what you’re missing and feeling trapped on the ground—like me—or not even having the memory of how it feels to soar through the sky—like him.
He pulls on a Vegas Blood Sport T-shirt I recognize from our 2021 merchandise line. I guess that answers how he and Dmitri connected. He must be a member at our secondary location. Finn holds out a lightweight gray zippered hoodie to me. “Will this work?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
But once I slip it on, our immense size difference becomes a joke. The sleeves end at least six inches past my fingertips and the bottom hits me just above my knees. He laughs, and when I look up at him, I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to hold my own back.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, holding my hands up and watching the soft material fold over my hands. “What kind of gamma ray experimentation was done on you? You don’t get bigger and green when you’re angry, do you?”
Ducking his head, he pins me with a serious look. “Don’t make me angry and you won’t have to find out.” Then he winks and begins to roll one of the sleeves up to my wrist and repeats it on the other side. “There you go, Tiny.”
I scoff as we make our way out of the bedroom. “You’re lucky I’m not in fighting shape or you’d be looking up at me from the flat of your back right now.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Your Highness.” Full lips stretch into a wide grin, framing his fangs and revealing deep dimples carved in both of his stubbled cheeks. The transformation makes my breath hitch. I’m blaming my lack of self-control on being famished. Once I get some food in me, I won’t salivate every time I look at him.
We enter the kitchen and the mouth-watering smells hit me at full blast. On the counter is a bowl spaghetti with marinara sauce and giant meatballs, a big bowl of mixed greens salad tossed in a vinaigrette, and slices of fresh baked garlic bread. “Bless Brigid, that smells amazing, Finn. Where’s it from?”
“I made it.” When I arch a dubious brow at the pristine kitchen, he says, “I clean up as I go. My brothers call me a neat freak, I like to think I’m efficient. Take a seat, I’ll plate the food.”
It takes me a second to move, because once again I’m thrown off by his actions. It’s not that I’m not used to others doing things for me. Exactly the opposite, in fact. Back in Faerie, I was waited on hand-and-foot as the princess, and it’s not much different in L.A. since Dmitri insists I carry the title of tsarina to ensure maximum respect within the clan.
The truth is, I’ve never wanted to be a royal of any kind, and yet one way or another, it’s all I’ve ever been.
But not since Dev have I had a peer do things for me like Finn does, mostly because my peers are the sort who also get waited on. Since Finn is a prince of the Night Court, I’m sure he was raised similarly, yet he seems rather self-sufficient for a royal. It’s an attractive quality.
Objectively speaking, of course.
“Here we are,” he says, sliding a plate piled high with the spaghetti and meatballs in front of me, along with a bowl of salad and paper towel with three slices of garlic bread. I’m still staring dumbfounded at the portions when he brings his own food over and my jaw unhinges. He has twice what I have. “What are you waiting for, a formal invitation? Dig in.”
“Finn, I’d need a backhoe to dig into this.” He stops mid-chew on a huge piece of bread and looks from me to my food and back again. Realizing my joke might come off as flip or ungrateful, I course correct. “It’s just too much, I don’t want to waste it.”
Tucking the bite of food into his cheek, he winks and says, “No worries. I’ll eat whatever you can’t finish.”
Unable to hold off any longer, I take a bite of the bread. Crusty on the outside and soft on the inside, the potent flavors of garlic and salted butter explode on my tongue. Closing my eyes, I let out a sound of culinary rapture—
The loud clang of a fork bouncing off a plate snaps me out of my food-gasm to see Finn recovering his fork and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Somehow, I manage to keep my amusement out of my expression. “Everything okay?”
Clearing his throat, he grabs the bottle of pinot noir sitting on the table. “I forgot to pour the wine.”
I smile to myself and let him get away with the excuse. For the next little while, we enjoy our meal. I’ve noticed Finn is comfortable with silence. Spending most of my time with the exuberant Russians of our clan, silence isn’t something I’m accustomed to unless I’m in my penthouse or it’s only me and Dmitri. It’s nice to be able to sit companionably with someone who doesn’t feel the need to fill the void.
Unused to eating regularly, it doesn’t take long for me to feel full. “If I eat another bite I’ll explode,” I say, placing my fork down and sitting back in my chair. “Thank you, that was amazing.”
“It’s nothing fancy, but you deserved a home-cooked meal after everything you’ve been through. I was happy to do it.” He shrugs dismissively, but the hint of pink coloring his cheekbones gives him away before he gestures to my food. “I’ll take that.”
He sets my plate that’s still half-full of pasta onto his empty one, then starts eating again. My eyes widen. “When you said you’d finish what I didn’t, I thought you meant tomorrow or maybe later tonight. Where in Brigid’s name are you putting all that?” He pauses to arch a brow before looking down at his gigantic frame packed with muscles. “Point made, Fae Bunyan.”
He winks, then tucks away the rest of the food while I have another glass of wine. When he’s finished, I insist on cleaning up. It doesn’t take me long to wash our dishes and put the leftovers away, but I feel better having done something to help.
I pour myself another glass of wine and find him on the balcony off the living room with a rocks glass of amber liquid in his hand, staring out at the lights of the Vegas skyline. I join him at the banister and take in the view that I’ve only ever seen in pictures or on TV. The waning gibbous moon is high above us, but only the bigger stars are bright enough to combat the reflection from the sea of neon below.
