Starlet: A Dark Retelling - Cora Kenborn Page 0,48

front of that detective and then deflating into complete silence like someone let the air out of her balloon. For giving me whiplash by waking up this morning acting like a skittish pony, barely saying two words the whole drive to Bel Air.

Now, a house full of people stand staring at her—waiting for some grand speech. So, I do the first thing that comes to mind. I pinch her ass. Hard.

Angel lets out a yelp, jumping forward and covering her mouth. Probably not the best idea I could’ve come up with, but at least she doesn’t look catatonic anymore. Clearing her throat, she turns a shy gaze toward Michaela. “I-I don’t know what to say. It’s very white.” Her eyes snap to me as a rumble of laughter ripples through the crowd of people gathered in the front parlor of the Romanov estate. Blushing at the attention, she lowers her eyes to her feet.

High heels to be exact. Six-inch fuck-me ones. Along with a tight black dress and smart gray jacket. Another delivery, courtesy of Milly—the woman I might skewer like a damn stiletto-ka-bob next time I see her.

It’s bad enough I’ve spent the last two weeks jerking my dick raw to the memory of Angel’s wet pussy. And now this? I’m not sure how to deal with this transformation.

“You don’t have to say anything, Miss Romanov.” Michaela flashes her a professional smile. “That’s the point. Your staff is here to take care of any need you may have before it arises. Your privacy is of their utmost concern, so they’ll remain in the shadows until that time comes.”

Angel slowly turns her gaze toward the small gathering of uniformed staff still staring at her. “Do they live here, too?”

“Of course.” Michaela nods, tucking a strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear. “Hilda is your housekeeper, Franz is your chef, Isaac is your groundskeeper, and Lars”—she points toward a guy I swear is the lab-created clone of Arnold Schwarzenegger—“is your personal driver.”

With the exception of muscle boy, each one is in their late forties or early fifties. Although I’ve only known Angel a little over three weeks, that bizarre electric connection we have starts to sizzle, and as she takes them in one by one, I know the question that’s coming before she asks it.

“Did they work here when...when...”

“Only me, ma’am.” Every eye turns as Hilda steps forward. A grandmotherly-looking woman with gray hair tucked in a tight bun. “I was asleep in the staff quarters when…” her voice trails off, and she forces a smile. “Well, it’s my honor to serve this family again.”

Angel returns her smile. “Thank you.” Looking toward Michaela, she adds, “This is a little overwhelming.”

Michaela pats her arm. “I’m sure. You have plenty of time to relax. Staff, you are dismissed.” As the staff disperse like ants, Michaela heads toward an elevator leading to an underground garage. “I’ll leave you to get reacquainted.” As the doors open, she smiles over her shoulder. “Welcome home, Alexandra.”

As soon as she’s gone, Angel lets out a labored breath. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true,” I whisper behind her ear.

“Right.” Tipping her head back, she leans into me, and who am I to complain? We’re like a magnetic force field. It doesn’t matter whether we want it or not, our bodies do, and they’re in control.

My hands slip under her jacket, molding around her hips. “Alexandra…”

She stiffens, and right away, I know that was the wrong thing to say. She’s still getting used to her new name, and hearing it used as a come-on is bad enough. Hearing it used as a come-on while being trapped inside the walls of a mass homicide?

Not my finest moment.

Shrugging out of my hold, she walks the perimeter of the massive foyer, running her fingers over things. Furniture. Piano. Paintings. Sculptures.

Portraits.

Fuck.

She stops at the oil painting hanging on the wall, her finger tracing the outline of eight year old Alexandra Romanov’s face. Beside her sit her three sisters and her brother, and behind them stand her parents. Rich, regal, and riddled with sin.

“Is this where it happened?”

“Sort of,” I admit, and knowing anyone could be listening, I continue playing our roles. “Your father, brother, and two of your sisters were shot by the rear west stairs. The other not far from there.”

“And the…” She clears her throat. “And my mother?”

I palm the back of my neck, the turn in conversation setting me on edge. “Rook, this is your home, do