Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Noam
I woke with a start, slid from the bed, and ducked down on the other side before my mind had a chance to catch up to my body. With my back against the bed, I curled my arms around my bent legs as I tried hard to piece everything together.
The dark marbling, the fangs, the black wings all led me to believe I was in hell. Somehow, that farmhouse door was a gateway to Satan’s domain.
But why had someone put me in a bed? Why was Kyson so nice, unless it had been a trick, trying to lure me into a sense of safety before cruelly yanking it away.
Nothing made sense. People didn’t simply walk into portals, because they didn’t exist.
But you begged the door to open for you, sought refuge willingly.
My father was right. He’d claimed millions of times that I was an idiot, a simpleton, and I’d just proven him right by walking right into Satan’s hands. Which was—
I stilled completely when I felt someone in the room. If twenty-five years of living with Martin had taught me anything, it was how to detect someone’s presence.
A lesson no small child should have to learn.
Slowing my breathing, I eased onto my hands and knees then crawled toward the edge of the bed and peeked around the footboard. Across the room a guy was seated in a cushioned chair, his posture so stiff he reminded me of a wax figure. His leg was crossed over his knee, his hands resting on one calf. I wasn’t sure what he was staring at, but he seemed deep in thought.
When his gaze slid to me—no other body part moving—I froze, unable to move backward. Those piercing eyes held a slight glow, like the fireflies I’d seen outside when I’d raced around the side of the house.
I wanted to pull back, was desperate to hide, but… “What are you?”
If I was going to run and hide from monsters, I at least wanted to know what I was dealing with. Because, for some reason, that would make my death less scary?
“Safe.”
“From me?” He looked tall as heck, and I was only five-four. If he thought I was a threat, things in hell were backward.
The side of his mouth curled just enough to hint at amusement. “No, you are safe here.”
M y brows knitted together, woefully unprepared for his response. Before I could stop myself—my impulses always working against me—I asked, “Hell has a safe space?” I was floored.
His brows inched upward, then he composed himself. “What makes you think you’re in hell?”
My gaze slid around the room, and my confusion only deepened. Where was the red and black marble? This room? It was the kind of fancy I’d only seen in movies. Everything gleamed, from the polished floor to the gold trim running along the walls and ceiling. The bed was dead center in the room, appearing—from my position on the floor—big enough to swallow a person whole and was draped with curtains that made it look like something out of a fairy tale.
Thick, heavy rugs covered the floor, which would soften each step, while warm light spilled from a lamp on the nightstand behind me. I swung my gaze back to the stranger, noticing his chair was in some kind of seating area—plush chairs and a sofa that looked too nice to sit on. The windows were tall, wrapped in thick, silky curtains that let just enough light in to make everything glow.
Even the air smelled expensive, like something rich, like leather or old books. It was the kind of place where important people would live… if it wasn’t located in hell.
My gaze snapped back to him, too terrified to appreciate how gorgeous he was. Whatever he was. “Wings, fangs, glowing eyes,” I replied. “The guy with wings was Satan, wasn’t he?”
He looked as if he was considering my assumption, tilting his head slightly while staring at the ceiling. Then the curl of his lips turned into a full-blown, wreck-your-heart smile. If he was human, I might’ve swooned. But I didn’t flirt with monsters, no matter how breathtaking they were.
“Prince Malachi is intense.” He nodded, his smile showing off perfect, white teeth.
All monsters knew how to smile charmingly, and I wasn’t going to become a fanboy just because winged Satan was a prince. That didn’t impress me.
“This isn’t hell,” he replied, like he’d just plucked the thought right out of my head. I was officially creeped out.
“Then where am I?” I wouldn’t believe him, but giving me an alternative just might allow me to pretend for a little while. Until they revealed their true intent and I met my demise.
“You are in Winterhaven,” he stated, as if that explained anything. For all I knew, it could have been a rebrand of Satan’s lair. I was completely out of my element here, having nothing to use as guidance, because who in their freaking mind would? “And you are?”
Nope. Not a chance. “Tell me who you are first.”
I was still on my hands and knees, and as soft as the rug was underneath me, my joints were starting to throb. If I didn’t want to collapse on the floor, I needed to get up, but not until he answered me.
And maybe not even after that. My heart still hadn’t slowed, and the constant adrenaline keeping me in flight mode was exhausting. My limbs quivered, but I was determined not to crumple.
“I am Richard Wellington.” If he’d added more bite to his surname, he would have choked on it. But I refused to wonder why he hated it so much. I wasn’t here for tea and conversation. I was here because I had run from my cruel father.
“I’m…” I licked my dry lips, wishing for a glass of cold water. “I’m Noam.”
Richard gave a single nod of acknowledgement, like he was fine dealing with a scared, mistrusting human. Or he’d come to the same unfair conclusion that I was a halfwit like Martin assumed I was. Maybe I wasn’t book smart, and maybe a lot of things were hard for me to grasp, but I wasn’t an idiot.
“Are you hungry, Noam?” He said my name with a slight accent, making it sound exotic, almost dreamy, and I fought the urge to ask him to say it one more time. It wasn't spat as a curse but softly drifted toward me.
“I don’t eat livers or intestines.” I needed to find a way out of this place, disturbed by how mesmerized I’d momentarily become. A tiny spark of kindness and I was… Don’t think that, don’t think that, don’t think that.
Richard appeared highly offended for some reason. “I think my cooking is levels above slop.”
Slop? That’s what he considered slop? And why did I have the feeling I’d hit a nerve? More importantly, why did I care?
“You’re a cook?” The one who had made the castle smell incredible?
“Yes.” A hint of pride laced through that single answer, making his features soften. I studied him closely then realized what I was doing and quickly glanced away.
“What, um…” I was dying to know, my hunger demanding I ask.
“Was that the smell permeating the castle?”
Swear to god, he was plucking my thoughts right out of my head. I held my hands back from covering my head. The last thing I needed was for Richard to dig through my mind. It was a legitimate concern since I had no idea where I was or what I was dealing with. But I also didn’t want him to see the real horrors I’d suffered through.
“Beef stew.” He stood, causing me to shoot backward, terrified of his intentions. But a sharp pain tore through my knee, causing a whimper to escape.
Richard was in front of me in seconds, looming over me with a deep scowl.
Don’t cower, don’t cower, don’t cower.
I cowered against the nightstand, unable to stop myself and despising my instinctive reaction, especially in front of someone so powerful.
Someone who could crush me with a single hand. He was much more imposing than Martin, and I feared his next move.
He crouched, resting an arm on his bent leg, but I was able to see both hands. They were empty. “Are you injured?”
There was no more room to back away. He was so close, I could smell the dark, masculine cologne he wore, feel his presence pressing down on me. I glanced at his hands again, but instead of looking for a belt, I noticed how scarred they were. Not huge scars, but small ones, like he’d cut his fingers numerous times in the kitchen.
“Noam.”
Please stop saying my name so softly . Stop saying it like you actually care.
“Are you hurt, chaton ?”
I pulled my arms in, breathing too fast, knowing his kindness was some sort of trick. Kindness led to trust, and trust led to cruelty. But I desperately wanted to trust his concern, the softening of his glowing eyes, ached for an attachment that didn’t result in pain.
And what did chaton mean?
Without standing, he backed away a few steps, giving me the space I needed to breathe.
“Your hands.” I nodded toward them, curious about the tiny scars but also wanting them to stay in plain sight.
He lifted them, turned them over, examining them closely, then slowly lowered them. “You’ve discovered my secret. Very observant.”
I waited for him to add some vicious words, to taunt me in some way after complimenting me, but… he simply smiled. Still, I refused to let down my guard. I’d been smiled at before.
But his expression wasn’t laced with malice.
“What secret?” My back began to hurt from being curled into the uncomfortable position against the nightstand.
Once again, Richard backed up, as if he sensed my discomfort, but it was from my back, not his presence. “I’m not always as skilled with a knife as I lead people to believe.” He shrugged. “I make mistakes, just like everyone else. No one is perfect.”
If you don’t do it perfectly, boy, you’ll feel my wrath. Now scrub that goddamn floor like you’ve got an ounce of intelligence, though we both know you’re nothing but a nitwit.
I looked away, my lips parted, trying to shut out Martin’s voice.
“Noam.”
My head jerked back around, focusing on his glowing eyes, terrified at how much comfort I was allowing them to bring me. “Yes?”
“You can sit up. No one is going to hurt you.” His voice held a command, but it was so soft I found myself obeying before I knew what my body was doing.
I jerked back as Richard lowered to the floor, sitting far enough away so that I didn’t feel trapped. His hands stayed in view, resting on his slacks. I simply stared at them, unsure what to think. “Why are you being nice to me?”
He was a monster, just like Martin, only a literal one. Monsters consumed you, preyed on you, offered false hope just to revel in your pain when they snatched it away.
I startled when he reached into his pocket, but he didn’t hide what he’d pulled free. His phone. He tapped out what I assumed was a message then set it down, face up.
“Kindness costs a person nothing, chaton . It can also bring a sense of joy if given to the right person.”
There was an ache in his voice, a depth that carried more than just the words—a history, a story, a pain that lived in the spaces between the syllables.
And now I wondered if he’d known a cruel hand just as I had.
Someone knocked, causing my heart to lodge in my throat. My eyes darted around, looking for somewhere to hide.
“It’s only Kyson.” Richard held his hands up, palms out. “He’s not coming in.”
He rose slowly, backed away, then turned and crossed the room to answer the door. I watched, curious, mistrustful, and relieved it wasn’t Satan stopping by.
“Thanks,” Richard said before the door closed. I craned my neck to see over the bed, wondering why he was carrying a tray. Then the smell hit me. The same scent that had lured me toward the kitchen.
But Richard didn’t set the tray on the table between the posh chairs. He brought it toward me, both him and the tray lowering gracefully. On it were two steamy bowls of stew, thick with carrots, potatoes, and chunks of meat. The steam rose in a slow swirl, tickling my nose with its delicious bouquet of flavor. I yearned to snatch it from him, to have just one bite.
On a plate were what looked like homemade biscuits, fluffy with melted butter sliding over the browned tops. On the other side of the bowls were two glasses of… I wasn’t sure, but my mouth watered for a single sip.
He set a bowl in front of me then placed a wide spoon on a napkin next to it. I simply stared at the bowl like the ingredients would come alive and run away before I could enjoy what I knew would be heaven.
“Eat as much as you want, chaton . There’s plenty more.”
My lip quivered, but I refused to show just what a home-cooked meal meant to me. How that single offer threatened to undo me. Food that wasn’t heated in a microwave or slapped between two slices of bread would be my inevitable downfall.
Even though I wanted the meal so badly, I paused, unsure how to react.
“It’s not poisoned. I would never taint such an amazing dish.” He winked. “I hear the cook is a bona fide beef stew god.”
My hands hesitantly curled around the bowl, wondering if I was being a bona fide idiot for eating something a stranger had offered me in a room tucked away in a medieval castle that shouldn’t exist.
Hunger won out, and I blew across a spoonful of stew. When I took a bite, I noticed how Richard watched me. My eyes fluttered closed, savoring the best thing I’d ever tasted.
If it was poisoned, at least the taste was hidden in the best meal I’d ever eaten.