Page 61 of Stitched Up in You
“Wanna cuddle?” I ask when I hear his footfalls on the wooden floors near my head. I shiver under the heavy blanket, going still when he suddenly kneels down and pulls the glasses from my face.
The small, domesticated move of him shutting my glasses and setting them atop the fireplace mantel has my heart tripping under my ribcage as I stare at his naked butt.
He walks back, a determined expression on his face I can’t decipher before he reaches down to pick me up and settle us both down onto the couch. He pulls me to his bare chest and tucks my legs between his as he lies back down, presumably so I can’t annoy him with my thick ass some more.
I’d tell him I’ve no intention of moving if I had half the energy, but can’t keep my eyes open, especially with how secure I feel.
“Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time to make the walk back to the house. No more adventures,” he says gruffly.
I smile into his chest, an idea coming to mind of what I could do the next couple of days. “Kay,” I whisper, knowing I already have plans of ransacking the house for anything that can be used to reach the outside world as soon as I can. It’s time I figure out exactly what Frank Stein is, research this whole witchy village, and Ireallyneed to text Aubrey.
Chapter 23
BERNADETTE CRENSHAW
“Not one single electronic in the whole mansion? This has to be some kind of joke,” I sigh and shove closed the desk compartment I’d been pilfering. The sharpsnapof the wood echoes through the empty library. I’ve been searching the mansion for three days and still no closer to finding anything remotely like what I need.
The room is all dark walnut shelves lined with old books, just none with anything remotely like what I’m looking for or need. The upper shelves have extensive collections of matching, color-coordinated encyclopedias and then yards and yards of exquisitely bound books on any topic under the sun.
I’ve been in enough wealthy homes to know the eye-level books usually reflect the owners’ real interests, but I seriously doubt Frank’s favorite topics are the history of doorknobs and lawn care.
Of course, what do I know? The man walks around like he’s cooking a corndog up his ass, barking orders at anyone who dares to approach him.
But what a fine ass.
I tuck the hairpin I’ve been using as a lockpick back into the ball of hair atop my head and glance about the room I’d stupidly saved for last.
My whole idea being that I would find an old laptop, maybe even a dinosaur of a computer if I had to, in Frank’s office, call Aubrey and twist her arm into asking the lovesick vampire she’s dating what Frank is with the friend code fully invoked.
The longer I’m here, the more obsessed I am with the need to know, to where it’s now festering beneath my skin.
Typically, any time I grow an obsession like this, I’ve the entirety of the worldwide web at my fingertips along with several databases people would give more than fingertips to have access to. But now? I have nothing.
Except an empty mansion.
After checking in on Brom this morning, who couldn’t be bothered with me as he had his face in a barrel of apples, I started my search. Then, Edgar and I cuddled in bed until breakfast before I started foraging through the attic and scored an old box full of hairpins that have really come in handy.
The attic level was layered in about an inch of dust but had a couple of ornate trunks with some old doctor’s notes on flowers and not much else. I then made my way down to the kitchen but didn’t find anything interesting there, just a stocked fridge and cupboards of usual kitchen things.
Maybe he really is a doctor? Or maybe that’s why she called him Frankenstein that day and it’s just a cool play on words?
For not the first time since my first kidnapping, yesterday being the second after Frank galloped us away on Brom, I curse myself for not researching Frank Stein more.
If only I had a device with the internet.
I assumed I’d find some electronic Frank and the others would overlook as being useful by now, but everything is empty.I’ve now checked every room, but so far the only information I have is how thorough his maid service is.
They’ve got to be the best in the business too, because there’s not a speck of dust in the place, the kitchen is always tidy and stocked with fresh food. Dinner arrives around 7 p.m. every night like clockwork. I’ve lain in wait and tried to yank the door handle off in my attempts to catch whoever is maintaining this place so well, but so far, the hallway is empty every time I try.
Every nook and cranny is without a hint of grime, andno electronics anywhere.
The frown that’s been furrowing between my brow for the last hour deepens, and my gaze turns to slits.
I mean, who has a whole tiny town locked away from the rest of the country? Although saying that, if I were wealthy and were trying to hide a bunch of supernatural people, it’s exactly what I’d do. But it still doesn’t answer any of the questions I have. And boy are they mounting.
My gaze crawls from one side of the large opulent library to the other as I sit in front of the old desk I just ransacked, bare of any items like every other drawer in every other room.
The leather of the big sway-backed chair I’m occupying creaks as I lean back and stare up at the ceiling. What a waste of time.
