Death's Finest Hour

Chapter Sixteen

At some point in the night, exhaustion won out, dragging Faith under.

The guest bedroom had been locked on her. No matter how many hours she spent banging on it, it never opened. At least not until the early hours of the morning.

Fortunately, the guest quarters were fairly comfortable. The bed was soft and the bathroom was functioning—what more could a girl need?

My own bed, my own bathroom, my own clothes.

The 'suitable' clothes that Damien's servant—or whoever he was—had gotten her didn't do much to soothe her rage. Hell, she'd have torn through them with her claws had she not realised they'd cover more skin than her pyjamas did.

The night before, that deathly bastard had rather taken to slapping her arse—and Faith wouldn't get anywhere today if he kept doing that. The second his hand touched her body, rational Faith left the building.

His friend had secured her a black shirt and a black pair of men's boxers. Damien's clothes. She'd be prancing around this damned place in his clothing.

Nothing says you belong to me like a trip to his own damned wardrobe.

The prophecy was wrong. Faith didn't belong to Damien. He had no claim to her. He didn't now, and that wouldn't change in the future.

Beyond that, Faith wasn't affected by him. Which was why she totally didn't smell his shirt before putting it on. Clean and forest-y.

She tried the door handle again, relieved this time that it swung open.

Now what?

There were no guards waiting at the door to greet her. No servants waiting to send her back inside.

Where is the slimy bastard?

She'd put her fist through his face.

A short walk later led her to the exit of this dastardly place.

Nothing could prepare her for the sights she walked out to.

From the outside, the building she'd just come from looked like an ancient colosseum, like the ruins of some beautiful past. It was built into surrounding trees, with vines climbing its proud walls and castle towers in the distance. Blue rock pools and shining lagoons stretched as far as the eye could see, with a staircase leading down right beside her.

Where am I?

It was like no place she'd ever seen before. Enchanting, somehow. Out of reach.

The soothing wilt of a piano reached her ears.

A person.

Gods, she hoped that was Damien. Her hands longed to do what her knees had done—wrap around his neck. And squeeze! Not to hug him. Gods, no. Faith was going to strangle him. And since he was immortal, she'd have the pleasure of doing it again, and again, and again.

She stopped short at the sight of the man at the piano. His piano sat at the centre of a grass clearing, with more ruins circling him in. His blonde head was bent over the keys, his suit jacket tossed aside.

No man had any business looking as delectable as he did in a waist coat.

Faith tried to banish these thoughts. As she'd said last night, she was not attracted to Damien. She couldn't be. Hell, why would she be?

"Good morning, Miss Lupine," he called without turning.

"Good? What's so good about it? I've been kidnapped, forcibly removed from my home, and tossed into a room on my own with no explanation beyond 'we have important matters to discuss'. Who does that? Don't answer. I'll tell you. Crazy people. Psychos. Pervy Grave Perverts."