Ensnared (Brutes of Bristlebrook, #1)(68)

Or is his scary, sadistic evil twin playing games with me?



I flick through the pages of the book, searching for his notes, the little insights and witticisms I’ve come to crave, but they’re naked of anyone’s thoughts but Stoker’s. I frown, tapping the spine with my finger.

Is the book itself the message? A more sensual choice than some of the others . . . but also screaming with misogyny. He chose a quote from Mina, a praised and perfect Victorian woman. Is that how he sees me? Intelligent and beautiful, fine, but a woman whose success, whose value, is assigned by how she props up her male counterparts?

Maybe I’m being too sensitive.

My frustration with the men is growing—their insistence on secrets is infuriating, these unexplained tensions in the house are confusing, and the whole farcical bargain is starting to grate. It pushes me into a position in the house that is becoming more uncomfortable by the day.

If I’m being honest, it’s because I’m enjoying myself so much that it’s beginning to hurt. The last two days have been . . .

surprisingly pleasant. No, more than that. They’ve been delightful.

Yesterday, I worked in Jayk’s barn until night fell and he fixed me a bland but deeply appreciated meal of dried jerky and garden vegetables that he fidgeted over for far too long. We fell into a quiet rhythm as we puttered, and for the first time since I arrived, I felt useful. Like I was contributing in a meaningful way.

His gruff corrections didn’t sting like failure and his rare approving nods had me glowing. When it grew late enough that I decided I should probably get some sleep, I left with the greatest reluctance. I’d even found the courage to ask if I could help him again soon and received a rough, “Suit yourself” in response.

From Jayk, I’m pretty sure that counts as an open invitation.

My sneaky satisfaction with him, the sweet heat I feel with Beau, laughing with Lucky, all of it has me wanting . . . more.

Maybe even everything.

A greedy, impossible thought.

But an honest one.

I stifle a sigh. How can I ever even hope for more when there is such an imbalance between us? While they’re making the rules, how can I make my own? And I do want new rules, I think. To finally make some for myself.

I want to be able to speak my mind without fear of consequence.

I want to fill my days with whatever or whomever I want.

I want to be able to form real relationships. To know that if we’re together, it’s because that’s what I want, and what they want, and to know it’s based on more than convenient sex.

Ducking back into my room, I check the grandfather clock. It’s two fifty-five. Decision time.

I look down at the highlighted words. “I am longing to be with you.”

Longing seems too soft a word for all the things I want.

I place the book on my bedside table and make my way to Jasper’s room.

“COME IN, EDEN.”

My hand pauses where it’s raised ready to knock on Jasper’s door, then drops to press against my stomach. I glance around the hall for a camera but can’t see one. Perhaps Jasper’s latest book delivery was a hint, a telling clue that he truly isn’t human, but rather some kind of ancient, beautiful vampire lying in wait for his unsuspecting prey.

Only, I’m more than a little suspicious of Jasper.

And I only feel about sixty percent like prey.

Steeling myself, I open the door.

Large, elegant, and understated. Jasper’s room is decorated thoughtfully, and surprisingly cozily. There’s a lovely picture of him with an older couple who I assume must be his parents in front of a beautiful palace, and a hand-knitted blanket is draped over one of the armchairs. The chessboard is set up on an artful table by a toasty-looking heater, and delicate classical music wends through the room. Soft light turns the rich colors misty. Romantic.

There are no whips, or chains, or bloodied nail marks on the walls.

If he’s a vampire, he’s a very tidy one.

I decide it’s safe to step inside.

Jasper stands beside a small kitchenette, pouring from a teapot that seems to be fused by veins of gold. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem more pronounced today, and there’s an exhausted drag to his movements, like his limbs are falling asleep before his brain has agreed it’s time.

The familiar scent of chamomile soothes me . . . though the cream sweater he’s wearing riles my insides back into instant, passionate riot. It looks gloriously soft, and I have the absurd urge to bury my face in him.

It.

In it.

“I think I’ve read about that,” I offer into the lengthening silence, hoping he doesn’t notice how flustered I am. When he looks up at me from under sinfully sooty lashes, my mouth goes dry, and it takes me a moment to gesture at the teapot he’s holding. “It’s broken pottery, isn’t it? Mended with gold and lacquer?”

“Kintsugi,” he says, setting it down. “It’s a Japanese art form.”

He hands me a cup and saucer. Our fingers don’t brush, but I track the near miss with obsessive focus.

“To show that sometimes the greatest beauty lies in our flaws. The most strength, in the ways we break.”

They’re pretty words, but they ring hollow, and his expression is so carefully still, I know he’s hiding something.

Again.