Chapter 7
SEVEN
LAUREN
And that’s how he leaves me—standing there in the kitchen with my heart pounding and my entire body humming like a live wire, questioning everything I thought I knew about myself.
What the hell was my life a week ago? Yesterday? Was I even the same person who woke up in my mother’s spare bedroom this morning, sending out résumés to companies that would never call me back?
Is this really me?
Because as completely insane as it sounds, it’s yesterday that feels like the dream world now.
This—standing in a magical castle after being swept away by a god with wings and a tail—this feels more real than anything I’ve experienced in years.
Like my entire life was just a waiting room, and today, in that plaza by the fountain, it finally began.
And not because I met some man.
But because when something shocking and extraordinary finally crashed into my boring, dead-end, pathetic excuse for an existence, I didn’t run screaming for safety like everyone else.
I jumped off the fucking cliff even when there was every chance of jagged rocks or hungry sharks waiting below.
I’m not the girl who leaps. I’m never the girl who takes risks.
When I met Michael, I was this painfully shy college student just one year away from graduating with my Library Sciences degree—yeah, I was going to be a librarian, because apparently I was born to live the most stereotypically quiet life possible.
A few girlfriends had to literally drag me kicking and screaming to a bar for my twenty-first birthday.
I’d commuted to school for three years, lived at home to save money, never partied, barely dated. I was about as exciting as white bread.
When my bestie started flirting with a group of guys at the bar—who turned out to be Michael’s fratboy friends celebrating his startup getting its first round of funding—I never thought the cute guy with the perfect hair and practiced smile would give me a second glance.
Not when I was out with friends I considered way more attractive and confident than me.
I didn’t leap that night. The alcohol just loosened me up enough to giggle at his jokes and lean in when he sat down beside me, telling me all about his brilliant new company and how he was going to revolutionize e-commerce.
I thought it was pure luck that I got laid on my birthday by such a seemingly successful, good-looking guy.
Even if the actual sex consisted of him pumping into me exactly twice before crawling up to jerk himself off all over my face like I was some kind of human tissue.
When he called the next week offering me a “prestigious summer internship” at his company, I was just excited about the professional experience. I didn’t recognize it for the classic narcissist-seeks-naive-victim recruitment strategy that it actually was.
God, I was such a fucking sucker.
He saw exactly how desperate and insecure I was, how hungry for validation. Then he got three years of free labor and a live-in bangmaid to boot.
Was he cheating on me the entire time? That question still torments me when I let my mind go there.
Michael liked what was comfortable and convenient.
He’d recently moved out of his mommy’s house and needed someone to cook, clean, do his laundry, and stroke his ego because managing his precious startup was “just so stressful.”
But I had a boyfriend! We lived together!
He told me he loved me, that I was vital to his business success.
At least in the beginning. Sure, I was still making barely above minimum wage, and he’d never “gotten around to” officially promoting me to Operations Director because he was “so swamped with investor meetings.” But that was just the way of genius entrepreneurs, right?
He was about to close another funding round and was under enormous pressure.
I needed to support him, help him de-stress, keep the whole team focused.
I slam my fist against the silk bedding, frustration boiling over.
Ugh! I’m supposed to be living in this magical moment, not letting that narcissistic asshole take up another second of my mental real estate.
I hate that I still think about him. I hate that he still has the power to make me feel small and stupid and worthless.
I never wanted to be one of those women who pine over some guy, especially now that I know what a manipulative piece of shit he really was.
I idolized him for so fucking long. Believed in him and all the motivational-speaker bullshit he constantly spouted.
And then to realize that the nagging voice in the back of your mind—the one saying something was seriously off—was right all along?
All those questions I asked that he somehow always turned back on me, making me feel guilty and paranoid for even having doubts. ..
It shattered my faith in everything. In my own judgment, in love, in the possibility that anyone could actually want me for me.
He was a lie wrapped in expensive clothes and fake charm. I’d been living with a complete stranger for three years, and I was the fool who fell for it. The entire foundation of my world just... crumbled.
And then I crawled back to live with Mom, who was a different flavor of toxic entirely.
I wasn’t sure what to make of this world anymore. Couldn’t trust my own instincts, couldn’t believe in anything or anyone.
But then, when something wild and magnificent and dangerous dropped out of the sky, I knew I was ready to take the leap.
Not just because I was desperate to escape the suffocating life I was trapped in, but because I wanted to believe in something magical again.
Even if it turned out to be dangerous. Even if it destroyed me.
Wasn’t that what real adventure was supposed to be?
Not some sanitized Disney version with happy endings guaranteed. Sometimes there are dark, twisted woods full of things that want to eat you alive. Always thrilling to read about in books, maybe a little more terrifying to actually live through.
Have there been some absolutely terrifying moments today?
Hell yes. Being carried through the sky at impossible speeds without the comforting walls of an airplane, nothing but magical blue light and Remus’s arms keeping me from plummeting to my death—yeah, that was fucking terrifying.
Arriving at this isolated castle and realizing just how enormous and powerful he was, how completely alone and vulnerable I’d made myself. ..
Terrifying.
But then Remus had been kind.
Arrogant, completely out of touch with modern morality, bloodthirsty in ways that should probably send me running, and maybe just a tiny bit sociopathic—but also unexpectedly gentle and considerate.
And way, way too sexy for either of our good.
He looked at me like I was something precious and rare, not something he was settling for or tolerating. Michael never looked at me the way Remus does—like he’s genuinely hungry for me, like he can barely keep his hands to himself.
I have a strong suspicion that if Remus and I ever... well. I think it would involve a hell of a lot more than Michael’s pathetic two-pump routine. What would it be like to be with a man who could actually stay hard? Because something tells me our arrogant god definitely could.
I slap my hands over my face, groaning into the silk pillows. Dear God, why do you do this to me?
Now I can’t get the thought of Remus out of my head. What he might be like... everywhere. He has wings and a tail, but the rest of him looks so perfectly, magnificently human.
Then again, there’s that whole other face situation. Another entire person sharing his body. He called him his brother.
I furrow my brows, the wine making my thoughts fuzzy and bold. Does that mean there are... two of everything down there too?
I shake my head and realize I’m definitely feeling all that expensive French wine.
At the same time, my hand starts drifting down my stomach, and I discover I don’t actually care about being drunk right now.
It’s just me in this ridiculously luxurious bedroom, alone with my increasingly vivid fantasies of the powerful body that was pressed against mine earlier while he whispered those absolutely filthy promises in my ear.
My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my jeans, and I hesitate for just a moment.
Am I really going to do this? Get myself off while thinking about the dangerous, complicated man who literally kidnapped me today?
But then I remember the low, rough rumble of his voice: I want you trembling and aching and begging me for more.
A gasp escapes my throat as my middle finger finds my already swollen clit. Jesus, I’m soaking wet just from thinking about him, just from remembering the heat in his eyes. A shudder runs through my entire body as I start moving my finger in slow, deliberate circles.
He said he hasn’t had much experience with humans outside of warfare. Would he know how to be gentle with my body? How to take his time and worship every inch of me like he promised?
But he didn’t push earlier when plenty of regular guys would have tried to pressure me. And he swore he’d never hurt me. Plus, this is just the safety of my own imagination.
So I let myself sink into the fantasy—imagining those large, powerful hands gripping my ass exactly like he described, really savoring every curve and soft place. Not just tolerating my body but genuinely appreciating it, worshipping it like it’s exactly what he’s been craving.
Michael used to give me these backhanded compliments about “not minding” that I was a bigger girl, like he was doing me some kind of favor by being attracted to me.
But the way Remus looks at me... like I’m exactly the type of woman he wants, not someone he’s settling for.
I remember reading that beauty standards throughout history have been so different from our current obsession with skinny.
The hunger and lust burning in his eyes when I walked away from him felt so real, so intense—
I turn onto my side, curling around my hand as my movements become more urgent against my clit.
He’s strong enough to handle a woman like me. Powerful enough to make me feel delicate and desired instead of awkward and too much.
Would his fingers know exactly how to touch me? Would he be curious about what makes me gasp and moan? Are his dirty promises just words, or would he actually put me on that enormous four-poster bed, spread my thighs wide, and kiss his way down my soft stomach with that wicked mouth of his?
A breathless whimper escapes my throat at the mental image, and I bury my face in the pillow. I can feel my orgasm building faster than usual, but then again, I don’t typically have such vivid, immediate inspiration.
I imagine Remus somewhere else in this ancient castle right now, and I wonder if he’s thinking about me too. Is he in his own bed, replaying our encounter in the kitchen?
Is he... touching himself while thinking about me?
I bite down on the pillow as my fingers slip lower, teasing at my entrance. I imagine his huge, powerful body covering mine, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. The feeling of his hardness against my flushed, wet flesh that’s so ready for him.
Is he imagining the same thing? Stroking himself while thinking about what it would feel like to slide inside me, to make me gasp his name?
“Remus,” I whisper-moan into the pillow, working my fingers faster until the pleasure crashes over me in waves that leave me shaking and breathless.
I’m panting so hard afterward, so completely wrung out from the intensity, that I’m sure I’ll never be able to fall asleep.
But after that wild release—barely managing to pull my fingers free and rearrange the pillows—I’m unconscious within minutes, dreaming of storm-gray eyes and promises of pleasure I’ve never imagined.