This made sense. Actually it all made sense which was a little disappointing. I’d prefer it was dark magic or something sinister and evil. It would give me something else to put in my Why I Hate Lucien Vault.
“So, you obviously aren’t nocturnal now,” I remarked.
“Some still keep to the old ways.” She leaned in and grinned. “Personally, I never wake up before at least noon.” We heard the men come back in. She looked over her shoulder at the door then at me and asked, “What’s with the boxes?”
“It appears Lucien is moving in,” I replied, unable to hide my distaste for this idea.
She looked over her shoulder at the door again and again mumbled under her breath, “He sure doesn’t waste any time.”
“Waste any time what?” I asked.
She looked back to me and answered, “I’ll let Lucien explain it.”
I shook my head. “Stephanie, no disrespect, but I’d rather you did the explaining.”
Her eyes softened and she said quietly, “I take it things aren’t going well between you two.”
“Nope,” I replied instantly.
“Did he not feed?” she asked, sounding slightly incredulous.
“Yep. He fed,” I shared. “Things got out of hand and he forgot to anesthetize me,” I waved my hand in the air, “or whatever.”
I watched her face shut down and realized it was to mask her reaction.
Then her hand came out and grabbed mine before she whispered in a voice that dripped compassion, “Oh honey.”
At her words and the tone in which they were uttered I wanted to cry. I really did. She obviously understood even if it was from her viewpoint, not the victim’s. It was good sitting across from someone, even someone I barely knew, who understood.
But I didn’t cry. I felt the tears welling but I held them back. It took a lot out of me but I f**king well did it.
She watched my struggle and when I’d come out victorious she gave my hand a firm squeeze.
“You need to get drunk,” she declared, taking her hand away.
I thought that was an excellent idea. Then I remembered why it might not be an excellent idea.
“Lucien said he’s feeding again tonight.”
She stood and pulled me up with her. “Good. It’ll serve him right to get some secondhand alcohol in his system,” she commented with feeling and leaned into me while she walked me from the room. “Feeding from someone inebriated,” she gave a mock shudder, “tastes crap.”
At learning that knowledge, I liked her plan all the better.
* * * * *
Stephanie and I were hanging off the stools that sat around the huge island bar that separated the enormous kitchen from the breakfast nook and comfy-kitchen-living-area. Yes, I had a comfy-kitchen-living-area with a big, fluffy couch, an attractive, low coffee table and a gigantic, round bean bag that two small adults could pile themselves into. Who needs all that? I already had a living room and family room for goodness sakes!
Both Stephanie and I had consumed more than our fair share of vodka martinis under the watchful and reproachful (I might add) eyes of Edwina when the next thing happened.
More boxes arrived.
These weren’t cardboard boxes filled with Lucien’s clothes. These were glossy black boxes of all shapes and sizes, each of them tied with a blood-red satin bow.
The minute Stephanie eyed the delivery man carrying a tower of boxes, she cried, “Yippee! Lucien’s been shopping.”
This news did not make me happy.
“Oh, my dear. You may be moody but you must have pleased him somehow,” Edwina pronounced having lost her stern glare and donning a gleaming smile. She was following delivery man number two.