“I’m not sure if he is in or not, but please, have a seat and I’ll find out. Your name?”
I don’t believe him. He knows exactly whether or not he’s in, he just doesn’t want to tell me until he knows if Mr. Master’s entertaining visitors.
“Violet.”
“Last name as well, please, miss.”
“Violet Price.” The name I adopted when I turned eighteen.
He nods. “I’ll be right back, Miss Price.” As he walks away, he takes a phone out of his pocket and begins to type. Texting.
The guard looks at me, immovable and serious.
“Hey.” I give him a little side-wave.
He doesn’t even blink.
“You come here often?” Funny, Vi. Real funny. He just stares at me without responding, a real-life stoic. I sigh and turn away.
I take the opportunity to observe more details. The interior of Cain Master’s home is simple yet elegant and updated, coupling the charm of an earlier time with the technological advancements of the twenty-first century. Hardwood floors line the entire house. The walls and trim are clean and off-white, the furniture both sturdy and understated. A large, wide-screen TV adorns a wall along with what looks like state-of-the-art intercom and alarm systems. In the kitchen, light blue and white tiles line the backsplash, setting off large stainless-steel appliances, while a massive digital calendar occupies one wall of the uber masculine room.
Fancy.
Every detail speaks of wealth and comfort. It’s exquisite.
But the truth is, I’m more interested in the titles of the books on the shelves I see when I wander into the sitting room, little clues into the character of Cain Master. Most of these are in English, though I catch a few foreign titles. Many are the types of books you’d expect a well-read retired army general to read.
The Art of War.
Elemental Strategy.
The classics, some titles a bit surprising.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
Cold Mountain.
Pride and Prejudice.
I’ve seen libraries like this before, outfitted with popular titles for show. But if you take a book off the shelf, you’ll find the spine’s never been cracked, the poor books left to collect dust. Not these, though. They’re well-worn and clearly loved, every one of them bearing marks of repeated use.
Interesting. No e-book readers for Cain Master. Does he occasionally eschew modern technology, then? Or is there another reason for the volume of print books?
Footsteps sound in the foyer outside this sitting room, and I pause in my perusal. Is it him? But the footsteps retreat, along with the sound of a deep, masculine voice.
My pulse races. I don’t recognize the voices as being from the night before, and for some reason, my intuition tells me they aren’t the man I’ve come to see.
I twiddle my thumbs, read every title I can see in front of me on the lined shelves, then sit down and begin counting to twenty in every language I know. I’m at number ten in Hindi when footsteps approach, heading this way. I get to my feet. I know who it is.
A shadow precedes him. I still at his breadth and height just before he enters.
I know before he speaks, by the way the air seems thinner and the furniture somehow smaller… this is the master of the house.
He’s taller than I am, by a full foot or more. Thick, dark brown hair just a touch longer than acceptable military length frames a ruggedly masculine face, his square jaw lined with stubble that underscores harsh, brutal beauty. If not for the cut of his jaw and the harsh lines of his face, he’d be too pretty.
He’s younger than I expected. At least… physically.
His eyes tell another story.
They spark with latent energy and power. His posture commands respect, and swift, blind obedience, like the kings of old. I can’t decide if I expect him to pull a sword out of a stone or bare his teeth with a show of fangs.
I meet his gaze, which is harder than it sounds, as it takes an act of sheer will not to look away. Stark, naked cruelty lies in the savage sapphire depths. Barely civil. He holds me in the power of that gaze for one wild, terrifying moment. A mere glimpse of the ferocious honesty in his eyes shows a world of barely contained fury and power, as if the blood of an unnamed god thrums in his veins, demanding homage and obedience before he snaps his fingers and orders destruction.
A shiver skates down my spine.
Heavy, dark brows slant over his eyes, and his mouth is a harsh slash softened by full lips. He stares at me, unblinking, his hands on his hips.
“May I help you?” I nearly startle at the rumble of his voice, as the polite words he’s chosen bely a savage intensity I feel from across the room. He wears faded jeans and a black Henley, but the simple clothing doesn’t hide the resilient cords of muscle that outline the column of his large neck and run down the nearly graceful slope of his powerful shoulders to the sleeves stretched tight across the carved biceps of his arms. His is a body perfected and honed for the sole purpose of harnessing a human’s full potential.