Page 43 of Cherish

But definitelynotthe Vampire Court.

“Umm, no offense, but I think Macy’s internal GPS is a little off this time,” Flint comments as he emerges from my cousin’s portal seconds later. He, too, looks a little worse for wear.

“I don’t think it works that way,” Eden tells him, but as she looks around, she doesn’t sound very convincing. Or convinced.

“Well, something’s sure as fuck wrong, because this doesn’t look like home sweet home.” Jaxon strides to the nearest doorway and peers down the hall.

“Like there was ever anything sweet about your home,” Flint mutters.

“Touché.”

“So, if we’re not in the Vampire Court, where exactly are we?” Heather asks.

“The Vampire Court,” Hudson finally answers as he walks back to us, “updated edition.”

Jaxon turns on him. “Dude. What did you do?”

“Gave it some class.” Hudson smiles in that bared-teeth way he has that makes everyone but me nervous. Judging from the sudden looks on my friends’ faces, today is no exception.

“I think it’s amazing,” I say, my gaze softening on Hudson. “It’s like someone threw open the windows and let the light in. Finally.”

Heather spins in a slow circle, eyes a little bit dreamy as they take in every detail of the room. “It’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful.”

I’ve always thought gothic architecture was gorgeous, with its flying buttresses and vaulted ceilings, but this white minimalism—I don’t know what else to call it—goes way beyond elegant.

It feels like a home.

The ceilings are still as high as ever, but instead of the pointed arches and decorative columns that were here the last time I visited, now everything is smooth, rounded, soaring.

The room we’re in obviously works as a meeting place—long, streamlined couches and comfy chairs are grouped in different-shaped sections around the room, all in shades of white and tan that beg people to congregate.

The floors are a warm chestnut, the walls paneled with what looks like dark, rich, petrified wood—a mixture of crushed espresso bean color with spots of copper and jade woven throughout. The back wall is lined—floor to ceiling—with cream-colored bookcases filled to bursting with books bound in shades of black, gray, and brown leather.

The lancet windows are covered with slate-gray screens to block out sunlight, if not the view of London down below, and the chandeliers are works of art in and of themselves. Each one is comprised of dozens of flutelike cylinders floating at different elevations that, when combined, somehow manage to look like a deconstructed, crystal version of stalactites.

The effect is awe-inspiring and yet inviting.

And that’s not even counting the soaring gray-and-black Rothkos hanging in strategic positions around the room. I recognize them from images Hudson was obsessed with a couple of months ago. When he asked me to pick my favorite, I didn’t realize it was so he could buy it and hang it here.

“It’s…” Jaxon’s voice trails off.

“A new start,” Hudson says quietly. “After everything that happened with Cyrus, this place—and our people—deserve something different. Something better.”

“But how did you get the Court to agree?” I ask. Considering neither Vega is currently willing to take the throne…

Hudson raises one imperious brow. “I don’t need their permission. This is my family home. I can do whatever the hell I want to with it, including deciding whether I will allow the Court to remain here.”

Oh.My eyes widen. I mean, I knew this was the home he grew up in, but I guess I assumed the building belonged to the Vampire Court, not his family.

“Damn, the Vegas are almost as rich as a dragon,” Flint jokes, elbowing Jaxon, and we all laugh.

“But Cyrus still owns it, doesn’t he?” I ask, not sure why I’m harping on what Hudson’s done here. But it just doesn’t sit quite right with me that everyone else is learning facts about my mate’s childhood home at the same time I am.

Hudson shrugs. “My mother had him give it to me last month in exchange for her not feeding from him for the next year. I guess that first stretch was rough—and she really does have a soft spot for me, after all.”

He says the last bit like it doesn’t matter, but I know it does. In fact, I know how much all of this must mean to him.

And there’s a part of me that’s incredibly proud of him for doing this. I mean, getting rid of Cyrus’s fingerprints here is a great idea—a chance for the Court to blossom again, a chance for Hudson to reclaim the space after a millennium of fear and pain here.

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