Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(95)

Yes, but I’m not. And I find myself feeling quite ambitious this morning.

I say, “We’ll see about that,” and head to the door.





37





Rey





The place Quinn calls home is a penthouse in a skyscraper in the middle of the city that looks as if it were designed by Morticia Addams at the height of a depressive episode.

Decorated entirely in shades of gray and black, the place is dark, sophisticated, and freezing. It’s somewhere a coven of vampires might feel cozy and welcome.

Not a single speck of color enlivens the place. There isn’t a throw pillow, photograph, or plant in sight. There isn’t any carpeting or warm fabrics to soften the space, either. It’s all glass, marble, steel, and cold reflective surfaces.

Looking around the echoing living room, I say, “My, how delightful. If I were a cyborg, I’d plug myself right in.”

“Used to be Declan’s before he got married,” says Quinn, strolling past me with his hands in his pockets.

“So it’s a Mob bachelor pad. That explains its lack of a pulse.”

Quinn turns to look at me. “I take it that means you don’t like it.”

Feeling his gaze on me as I go, I wander into the kitchen. There’s an enormous marble island in the middle of it, accompanied by a host of stainless steel appliances lurking around in the gloom. They glare suspiciously at me. Even the microwave seems hostile.

I don’t want to be mean, so I look around for something to compliment.

“The stove is nice.”

“Tell me what you think of the bedroom.”

He casually strolls away down a hallway. I peek into the enormous dining room and library before I follow, deafened by the sound of my heels clicking on the marble floor, fracturing into a thousand echoes that bounce back to assault my ears.

When I enter the master bedroom, I find him leaning against a wet bar with a book in his hands. To the right of him, a stack of large cardboard boxes rests against the wall.

“What are all those boxes?”

“Your belongings from your bedroom.”

“My bedroom at Gianni’s house in New York?”

“Aye. I told you I’d send the lads to pick up your things.”

I stare at the boxes in shock. “How did they get everything here so fast? And how did they get in the house when we weren’t there?”

He smiles, thumbing through the book. “My friend Bettina the housekeeper let them in. Sweet lass. I think she fancies me.”

“And I think she needs to get fired.”

He chuckles. “It’s not her fault I’m so handsome and persuasive. By the way, this book of yours is very interesting.” He holds it up, displaying the cover, which showcases a busty, half-naked woman swooning in the arms of a muscular warrior.

Ravaged by a Rogue. It’s one of my favorites.

Quinn clucks his tongue. “Did it win the Nobel Prize in Literature? It looks very highbrow.”

My cheeks heating, I demand, “Where did you get that?”

He gestures toward a box with its top open beside him. “One of them was labeled ‘naughty bits.’ So of course I went straight to it. Interesting how dog-eared this book is. It’s even got highlighted sections. Oh, here’s a good one.”

In a theatrical voice, he reads a passage aloud.

“He repeatedly speared his turgid manhood into her velvet channel, excited by her lusty cries of pleasure and the sight of her voluptuous breasts and their taut, rosy nipples lurching in his hands.”

Smirking, he looks up at me. “I had no idea nipples could lurch.”

I’m horrified by the realization that not only has my cherished collection of vintage erotica been packed up and delivered here—which means Quinn’s men had to go through it to pack it up—but also that my cherished collection of battery-powered toys must have been discovered and shipped along with the books.

I picture half a dozen Irishmen in my bedroom, chortling and making dirty jokes as they toss my favorite vibrators around like frisbees.

I might be in danger of vomiting.

“Ah, don’t make that face, lass. I’m sure nobody will think less of you that you enjoy such literary treasures as…” He reaches into the box and pulls out another paperback. “Glazed by the Gladiator.”

When he looks at me with his brows lifted, I say, “In my defense, that one is really well written.”

“Oh, I can imagine. The parts about how he glazed her must be majestic.”

“As a matter of fact, they are. But my favorite part’s on page sixteen.”

As he flips the pages, he murmurs to himself, “She’s got it committed to memory.”

He finds the page and starts reading. After several moments of silence, he glances up at me.

Weirdly excited, I say, “Her husband is a rich old man with erectile problems. And she’s desperate to have a child. So when the most famous, handsome, and virile gladiator in Rome gets arrested and thrown into a dungeon below the Colosseum, she decides to pay him a little conjugal visit to try to get some of his super sperm for a baby.”

“Why was he arrested?”

“Who cares? That’s not what’s interesting about the story.”