Page 3 of Claimed By Her Monsters
“That’s a lot of muches,” I observe.
“Indeed it is.”
Chapter Two
Little One
His house is the largest of them all. My mouth literally drops open when I see it, like I’ve transformed into a cartoon character. Mr. Crane catches my expression and chuckles under his breath. He comes a step closer and stands back, looking at the house, or rather castle, with me like he’s seeing it through my eyes.
“I forget how big it is,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
“Do you live here all alone?” I ask, staring up at the massive place. It has towers, actual towers, like it’s waiting for a siege. Menacing stone lions crouch on either side of the iron-clad front door, their jaws frozen mid-roar. The windows rise in pointed arches, cathedral-style, throwing back glimmers of light, and is that—yeah, that’s a gargoyle hunched on the roofline, glaring down like it’s going to swoop in and eat me.
What the hell?
“Yes, although I have friends who visit often.” He lingers, staring up at the castle with something wistful, almost sorrowful, flickering across his face. A sigh escapes him, low and weary. “I’d hoped to fill it with a family someday,” he admits quietly. “But fate hasn’t let me find the right person yet, although I’ve been looking.”
His words hang heavy in the air. For a second, I don’t see the intimidating stranger, just someone…lonely.
“It can be hard,” I say, surprising myself with the softness in my tone. I don’t know why I want to soothe him, to offer comfort, but I do. Maybe because I know that emptiness too. That ache like there’s a hole in your chest, waiting to be filled. “To find the one.”
“Yes.” His gaze flicks toward me, sharp for a heartbeat before softening again. “The one.”
A long pause. Then he shakes his head, small and deliberate, as if he’s physically forcing the thought away.
“Let’s get you in and settled.” He circles to the back of the car and lifts out my single backpack. Dangling it from one finger like it weighs nothing, he raises a brow. “Is this really all you have?”
“Yep. That’s it,” I tell him cheerily, enjoying how his biceps bulge when he slings it over his shoulder. I enjoy it even more because my backpack is pink and sparkly. One of the last holdovers from my previous life with my parents.
He frowns like the concept bothers him. Me owning so little.
I expect the front door to creak when he pushes it open, like we’re walking into a horror movie, but it doesn’t. The interior of the house doesn’t match the outside. Not even a little bit. It’s modern, warm, and surprisingly cozy.
Right in front of me is a large, mahogany staircase that gleams with polish. On the left is a living room where plump sofas sit on either side of a low coffee table. A fire already blazes in the hearth, though no one was here to light it. The fire brightens as I step closer. At the back of the house, I glimpse a sleek kitchen gleaming with stainless steel, every surface immaculate. To the right, what looks like a dining room appearsabandoned, furniture shrouded in white sheets, dust heavy on every fold like the room’s been asleep for decades.
He catches me staring. “I was away on a long trip,” he says smoothly. “Just got back yesterday. Haven’t had time to open the whole house yet.”
I almost ask where he went, why he left, but his hand settles low on my back.
The touch is light. Barely there, and yet my thoughts scatter, blown to the wind like the fall leaves outside. Heat blooms where his palm rests, warmth spreading far deeper than it should.
Wordless, he guides me up the stairs to a bedroom on the second floor. It has a king-size bed with white sheets and an en suite bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, closing the velvet drapes one by one, sealing out the night. “I’ll bring you some food later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crane,” I manage, as my mother’s voice echoes in my head nudging me to mind my manners. The memory startles me; it’s been a long time since I could picture her so clearly.
“You may call me Alister.” He pauses in the doorway, bowing his head with courtly grace. Then, edged with something sharp, he adds, “Wash your hands. I can smell the blood from here.”
My breath catches. Before I can form a response, he’s gone.
Chapter Three
Food For The Soul
An hour later there’s a knock on my door. I open it to find Alister standing there with a bowl of soup steaming in his hands. He’s changed into a sweater so soft-looking that I clench my hands to keep myself from stroking it. The bedside lamp flares slightly, then dims, a pulse that matches my heartbeat.
“Chicken noodle.” He sweeps into the room, and the most mouthwatering aroma follows. “Hope that’s okay.”
