trying day. Goodnight, Jean Paul,” I conclude, as a yawn cracks my jaw.
“Goodnight, sir, and may I say it is good to have you back,” he comments, and I laugh as I hang up the phone.
It is good to be back.
Unlocking the door of my house, the only occupied one on the block, I internally kick myself. This is a bad fucking idea. I have never invited anyone here, it is my space. My safe zone. Not even the council knows about it.
It’s my retreat, my armory, and here is my mate exploring it with curious eyes, her fucking mate wandering behind her.
Of course I would get a mate, only for her to have another. She has barely looked at me since he turned up. I can feel the power flowing off of him from here and I know he’s concealing it as well, he isn’t even trying, he’s just that fucking old and powerful.
It isn’t hard to figure out who he is from the way he spoke of the creatures—a fucking god of old. One that they spoke of in myths, even at my birth, and we have the same mate.
I glare at her from my perch in the corner as she goes from room to room, not giving a fuck about my privacy as she explores everything, exposing every secret. It feels like she’s ripping me open and examining me, causing me to take in my house with fresh eyes, so I look around to try and see what she sees.
It’s not cramped or cluttered, it’s not even dark. There are no shadows here, I don’t need them. Photographs, which were taken over my long life, fill the wall in the living room, all in greyscale.
Two black, pincushioned sofas take up the rest of the room with a flat-screen TV hanging on the wall, and a mantelpiece with a fireplace underneath it. Steel-plated blinds hang on the window with blackout curtains behind them for privacy.
The kitchen is modern and I handmade the table, counters, and doors myself over the years—each has little hand carvings in them, depicting my life and my story. Just something to leave behind in case I never come back.
My armory is down here with a safe door on it, which is standing open. A huge, silver table lies in the middle with a gun already displayed. Just because I don’t like them doesn’t mean I don’t have them. All the three walls are covered in every weapon you could imagine, from both past and present. Some I stole, some I bought, and some were passed down. All are mine now.
She touches them reverently, like they speak my secrets to her. Frowning, I follow her up the stairs as she goes. All of us trooping behind as she explores the spare bathroom, which is sparse and utilitarian, before she reaches my bedroom.
I suck in a breath and she pauses with her hand on the doorknob, before looking back at me for permission. I don’t know why, but I nod. She smiles and swings the door open and creeps inside.
My bed, made with black satin sheets, is unmade and I almost blush. My furniture all matches—more handmade pieces I’d made over the years, an old hobby from my childhood that I took up when I couldn’t sleep. If she had looked hard enough downstairs she would have found the basement door. Down there is a home gym and my woodworking center. I even have a firing range.
My bedroom is sparse as well, and the only personal touches are the little ornaments lining the corner bookcase, which I carved whenever I finished a mission. A matching black, pincushioned recliner sits next to it underneath the window, showing me the rain splashing down on the city.
She runs her finger above all of them, counting, and when she eyes me they are full of sadness. Why, I am not sure. Before I can get angry or snipe, she leaves the room and swings open the other door on the floor that leads up to the empty bedroom.
I’m not sure why I got this two bedroom house, it just...felt right, and with her ass sashaying up the stairs at the moment, maybe now I can admit I got it for a reason, I just didn’t know it then.
The room opens up and runs the full length of the house. An old, unused, four-poster bed, upon a raised dais, sits in the middle of the room and the carved headboard I