Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
I fight the urge to put my arm over his shoulders. “It’s not hot, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ah, yes, in that case, I might like some.”
As soon as I spot him lifting a whole spoonful of cinnamon to his nose, alarm bells ring in my head and I pull him away. “It can be dangerous to inhale it.”
He stills, and I swear he was about to just eat a whole spoon of cinnamon to the cafe worker’s wide-eyed terror.
Sylvan puts down the spoon after smelling it from a good distance. “Oh. That is indeed good to know.”
“Well… what can I get you?” the owner asks with a smile glued to her lips as she puts the container to the side. One of the pretzels, sprinkled with bits of salt, is the size of my pecs, but the others appear to be a more manageable size.
“The big one, the one with cheese, and… one with cinnamon?” I ask, glancing at Sylvan, who offers me a fervent nod and rolls on his heels, as if he can’t contain his excitement.
It’s so damn cute.
And it pisses me off that were I straight, and he—a girl, I could have cuddled him now without drawing attention. But it is what it is.
I place a banknote on the counter, and after a second of hesitation, grab some lube and condoms too from an area with basic medicines and cosmetics. “We’re looking for this bar… it’s called The Rusty Stallion.”
She doesn’t look into my eyes when she scans my items. “It’s two miles down the road or so, but I’m pretty sure it’s been closed for a few years now, and found no buyer.”
My mouth goes slack under the mask, but I nod and join Sylvan, who’s helping himself to some water from a fountain in the corner. “That guy we’re looking for… you sure he’ll be there? This lady says the bar’s no longer open,” I tell him in a low voice.
Sylvan smells his cinnamon pretzel and his pointy, sunburned ears twitch like he’s a happy kitty. “It might look that way, but I know a way in, don’t worry.”
I get myself a cheap coffee from a machine, because I’m pretty sure this will be another long night, and we sit at a small table.
“How do you know he’ll be in? Do you have a number we can call?” I ask, pushing my foot between Sylvan’s. The chair’s narrow and keeps digging into my flesh, no matter how many times I shift around in it, so I just accept my fate and focus on the positives—like Sylvan’s sugar-dusted smile.
His eyes light up when he bites in. “Oooh! Very good. I will miss this when we leave. Not too sweet, the dough has a bit of crunch at the edges—Yes, the grimsmith. If he does have a phone number, I don’t know it. But it’s where he works. I very much doubt he will be anywhere else than at his workshop.” Sylvan leans closer and lowers his voice. “He was banished almost thirty years ago before I was even born, but my family finds it important to know of people like him.”
Of course they do.
Because Sylvan is a prince from a royal line that’s been attempting to take over the throne of the Nocturne Court for almost a thousand years, blah, blah, blah—
“You can tell me if he’s an ex, or something. People don’t always have sex within BDSM settings,” I try to encourage him to speak the truth.
He looks genuinely insulted, but why else would he be wearing a collar welded around his neck? Sylvan must have been up to something to end up in this position, and the innocent ice prince face can’t fool me. I’m not judging him for it either. I just need to know what to expect so that I can protect him better.
“I’m not sure what ‘beediesem’ settings are, but he and I were most definitely not involved in any way. I don’t even know what state he is in after thirty years in the human realm. I dread to imagine it, really, but last time I heard of him, he was alive, even if banished for life. You see this?” He points to a tiny engraving on the collar. Increasingly disgruntled, I nod. “This is the Nightweed crest, a brand of the Nocturne Court’s Lord. If I enter the Nightmare Realm without taking it off, I will be hunted. The grimsmith, Tassarion, has one like it on his skin, as he is never allowed back. Frankly, I find it an injustice to be sentenced to fifty years, when it’s my brother who schemed against Lord Kyran—”
“Can you be very honest with me this one time, Sylvan?” I ask, and when he lowers his chin, staring at me, I go on, content that I have his attention. “Do you actually believe any of this, or is this some kind of full-time role-play situation?”