Page 24 of Princess Broken

Although I know we’re underground, inside a cave, the space resembles the interior of a comfortable home, more like a mansion, complete with stained glass windows high on the walls, their intricate and beautiful patterns lit from behind.

“Is that sunlight shining through the windows?”

Phil scoffs.

“Nope,” Blade says. “Harmless lighting made to look like sunlight.”

Turning slowly, I’m overwhelmed by the beauty and understated luxury around me. Lights from the stunning, stained glass pieces cast patterns on walls, which are highly polished and so smooth they at first seem like they’re covered in glass, but on closer inspection I wonder if they’re poured concrete, polished and coated to create the high shine.

The floor is covered in an intricate mosaic pattern. Inlayed into a white base are shimmering tiles in gold, red and royal blue. Around the large space sits groupings of modern but comfortable looking pieces of furniture, mostly leather covered. The room is undeniably classy, even beautiful, and yet it’s one hundred percent masculine and casual.

“This is lovely,” I say.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” Phil says.

I turn to him, and he’s frowning.

“We might be killers, but we’re not fucking animals.”

“I didn’t mean—”

His frown turns to a teasing grin, and I find myself smiling back at him. Phil smile erases his menace and his amber eyes flash with so much mischief it reminds me of myself when I was a little girl, always the one in our family to pull pranks and get into trouble.

Blade’s hand passes over my back. He doesn’t touch me, but his fingers are so close I can sense their motion through my gown. “I can tell you need sleep, but want a quick tour first?”

“Yes.” I smile up at him. “Please.”

“This is the atrium,” Flame interjects. “Lounge, games room, gymnasium, barracks, pool, all through there.” He gestures forward to an arched door under the biggest of the stained glass pieces. “Oh yeah. And a kitchen we rarely use.”

“Speak for yourself,” Phil barks.

“Guest room is through there too,” Flame continues, ignoring Phil’s interjection. “What do you want to see first?”

“You pick.” I smile at the handsome blond man, who’s obviously proud of their home. “Did you decorate this room?”

He shrugs, but his chest swells with pride.

“Flame’s always been the artiste of the group.” Blade slaps Flame on the back. “Ever since we were boys.”

Boys? Did they know each other as humans? Since childhood?

Flame lights a match that comes out of nowhere, and then he tosses it. It arches high and lands inside a six-foot marble urn about twenty feet to his right. He didn’t even turn his head to aim.

“Let’s start with the screening room.” Using his entire arm, he gestures to the right.

I head in that direction and sense the other men following behind me. But not in tight formation. After spending the past hours with the four of them tightly packed around me, one of them holding me a lot of the time, I feel so much freedom right now. The relative freedom makes me lightheaded, even though I’m still trapped in their underground lair.

Passing through an open archway, I enter another fabulous room. The ceiling here isn’t quite as high, but it’s still at least twenty feet above, and both the walls and ceiling are painted a rich, deep blue. Even though the paint color is dark, the room doesn’t seem closed in, more like it exists deep in the ocean. It’s shockingly peaceful. To one side, four recliners face the same direction.

“Guess we need a fifth chair,” Flame says.

He flicks a switch and soft lighting glows all around us, brightening the blue walls to an even more gorgeous color. Then he gestures to the other side where four more chairs sit in a loose circle. “Here we just hang out, or read or whatever.” He looks at Blade when he mentions reading, and the tall, Black man’s eyes flick to a massive bookcase with hundreds of titles, stretching in rows that go up to the ceiling.

“Bar’s down there,” Flame says, and I spot Phil behind a gleaming chrome bar that’s past a few groupings of club chairs and a sectional sofa. The large, red-haired vampire is pouring a glass of what looks and smells like whiskey. A very nice one from the scent, even over this distance.

“Want something?” Phil asks me. “Shirley temple, perhaps?” He smirks.

“Is that Talisker?” I ask him. “Forty-year old?” Very rare. And expensive.

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