And what kind of hold does this woman I barely know already have on me?
Chapter Seven
LILLY
Stomach growling, I quietly make my way out of my room and to the stairs that I know creak and crack with every step.
After Keller left my room, I lay in my bed and stared up at the ceiling, hoping for any sort of sign. Anything that would help me make this monumental, life-changing decision. I considered texting Timmy, now that my phone is connected to the Internet, but I wasn’t sure he was the right person to talk to. Not because he wouldn’t give me good advice, but because I’m not sure how classified this information is. Also, I’m not sure he would quite understand. Not sure anyone would understand the position I’m in.
Coming up short, with no answers, I closed my eyes and took a nap. Unfortunately, that nap was at dinner time, and now that I’m awake at one in the morning with a stomach needing food, I’m desperate to make it to the kitchen.
Gripping the banister, I lean over it and lift my feet up, precariously balancing on the wood, and shimmy myself down so I avoid making the steps creak. How I plan on getting back up, I have no idea, but I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.
It takes some great effort on my end to not tip over to my death, especially with a fresh batch of sore abs—thank you, boulder Olympics—but when my feet land at the bottom of the stairs, I pat myself on the back. That landing easily would have scored a nine point nine out of a possible ten.
Now, planning ahead for a dark-ass first floor? Not so much on the genius level. Who knew a heap of stones could be so dark at night with the curtains drawn?
Probably everybody. Everybody knows that.
Hands extended, I shuffle through the eerily silent castle, attempting to remember where furniture was placed and hoping there’s something in the fridge for me to eat. Something that isn’t fermented cod cakes. Yes, I’m judging them before I even try them.
Seriously, Torskethorpe, why fermented?
Continuing my shuffle, one hand high, one hand low, I work my way all the way through the living room and into the kitchen, the promised land, where I smooth my hand along the wall, looking for a light switch.
My fingers rub against stone, along molding, and then . . . wait, what is that? Is that a light switch? It’s a knob. Yes, this is what I’m looking for. I turn it, illuminating the space just enough for—
“Ahhhhh!” I scream as a whicker broom hurtles toward my face.
I duck and cower against the wall but the propelled broom crashes into the side of my head, causing me to crash to the ground with a large smack.
“Oh, dear Jesus,” I hear Lara yell right before she’s at my side, slipping her hand under my head.
The stairs creak with the pounding of a thousand elephants careening down them.
Lights are flicked on.
Swear words are thrown into the formerly still night air, and the moment I open my eyes, not only do I see Lara with a scared look in her eyes, but I also spot Brimar and Keller, both of their chests heaving with what I can only imagine is a healthy dose of adrenaline.
“What the hell happened?” Keller asks, his hair mussed and his jaw coated in a five o’clock shadow.
“I heard a noise,” Lara says. “I came to investigate, and when the light turned on, I reacted. I had no idea it was Miss Campbell.”
“Let’s get her off the floor,” Brimar says.
I half expect them to all take a side and lift together, but I’m scooped up into a cradled position against a warm, bare chest.
Slightly dazed, I open my eyes to find Keller carrying me over to the living room, his arms holding me with what seems little effort as he gently lays me on the couch. He takes a seat on the coffee table across from me and leans forward.
A bit dizzy, a bit out of it, it takes me a second to notice the lack of shirt on Keller’s chest, but when I do, I can’t help myself, my eyes wander over his body shamelessly. Call it the knock on the head, call it pure curiosity, but my oh my what do we have here?
Let me break it down for you: an intricate tattoo spans his thick, muscular chest, connecting to a powerful set of shoulders that ripple with tension in the sexiest of ways. His arms are a work of sculpted art as they reach out to me, one of his large palms falling to my hand, easily eclipsing mine. And his torso is a feat of brawny density, the kind that makes it seem like he rips logs open for a living. Immense, dominant, and striking, he’s the model-like man you only see in magazines, very rarely on the streets.
“Lilly,” he says, “are you okay?”
I blink, startled, but it doesn’t stop my eyes from falling to the stack of abs that are still defined despite his seated, crouched-over position. Yup, he’s a beautiful, beautiful man.