“So what is it this time?” she asked the Shadow.
“Bolognese.” iAm cracked open another spice bottle, and seemed to know the exact amount to put in without benefit of a measuring spoon.
Meeting his almond-shaped black eyes, Beth pulled her turtleneck higher to hide the bite marks on her neck. Not that he seemed to care either way. “Where’s your brother?”
“Upstairs,” came the tight reply.
Ah. Closed subject. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at Last Meal?”
“I’ve got a meeting, but there’s lamb for the rest of you, or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, I thought you were cooking for—”
“This is therapy,” he said, banging the wooden spoon clean on the rim of the pot. “It’s the only reason Fritz lets me use his stove.”
She dropped her voice. “I thought you had special powers over him.”
“Trust me, if I did, I’d use them.” He turned down the flame. “S’cuse me. I’ve got to go check on Trez.”
“Is he injured?”
“You might say.” He gave her a brief bow and headed out of the room. “Later.”
In his wake, the air seemed to change, the molecules in the kitchen calming down sure as if his dark mood had electrified them. Freaky, but she liked him and his brother: Another couple of trained killers in the house was not a bad thing at all.
“Mistress, I believe I have everything you need.” The butler presented her with the accoutrements necessary for Breyer’s imbibing on a silver tray. “For you and the Chosen.”
“Oh, Fritz, how lovely—but, actually, I just need one bowl. I’m going to eat mine out of the carton as tacky as that sounds. But I could use a—thank you.” She smiled as the butler handed over a scoop. “Do you read minds?”
The doggen blushed, his weathered, lined face breaking into a smile. “No, mistress. Occasionally I anticipate well, however.”
Popping the top off the tri-flavor carton, she dug in, being careful to scoop the vanilla only. “Try all the time on that one.”
As he flushed and ducked his already drooping eyes, she wanted to hug him. But the last time she’d done that, he’d nearly fainted from the impropriety. Doggen lived by a strict code of behavior, and although their fondest wish was to serve well, they simply couldn’t handle it if they were praised.
And iAm had already stressed the poor guy out.
“Are you sure I may not apportion the servings for you?” the butler said anxiously.
“You know how I like to do it myself.”
“May I carry the tray up for you, then?”
“No, I’ve got it.” When he seemed ready to implode, she finished filling Layla’s bowl and hedged, “Would you mind putting the ice cream away for me?”
“Yes, please, mistress. And the scoop. I shall take care of that.”
As he made off like a bank robber with loot, she shook her head, picked up the tray and headed out into the dining room. Emerging on the far side into the foyer, she had to pause and take it all in. Even though she’d seen the three-story expanse every night for the last two years, the astounding space was still like entering into a different world: from its gold leafing to its brilliantly colored mosaic floor, from the muraled ceiling so high above to all the malachite-and-marble columns, it was pure magic.
And pure royalty.
In fact, the entire mansion was a work of art, each space in the house a new flavor of awe-inspiring luxury, a different tone set to perfection in every room.
She’d certainly never lived like this before Wrath had come into her life—or expected to. Dear Lord, she could remember after the two of them had first moved in here. Hand in hand, they’d gone through all the wings and floors, from the catacombed basement to the raftered attic. How many rooms were there? She’d lost count in the fifties.
Crazy, crazy.
And to think it hadn’t been the only thing she had inherited from her father. Money … there had been so much money, too.
To the point where, even though she had shared half of it all with John Matthew after he’d come into their lives? Hadn’t made a dent in spite of her half-brother taking millions and millions.
Totally nuts.
Crossing over the depiction of an apple tree in bloom, she hit the bloodred carpeted stairs and gunned for the second floor. An orphan all her life, it had been a shock to find out her father had known of her, had watched over her, had provided for her. But then from everything she’d heard, Darius had been like that. Never one to shirk duty.
God, she wished she’d known him.
Especially now.
As she reached the top of the stairs, she found the doors to the study open, and her man was where he hated to be—curled over acres of paperwork done in Braille, his huge shoulders blocking out most of the carved throne he sat in, his talented fingers tracing line by line, his brow furrowed trench-deep behind those wraparounds—