“Sons of the first House of Van Helsing from front to back are Mikel, Nikolas, who we now call Cole, Acyn, Rhys, Silas, Cadmus, Illeron, Sorin, Xanth, Arryn, Kaden, Dagen, and Xavier. Their mother is pregnant with Lady Nyota in the picture. She died five days after birthing the little princess. They were murdered by that bastard Donte Silversmith for no good reason other than jealousy. Arthur was a good husband to her, and you can tell by their brood of children they adored one another. Handsome bunch, are they not?” she asked, turning to find me grimacing at her assessment.
“Very much so,” I agreed honestly. “And this one, she must be the Lady Nyota?”
The picture was of a female with black hair, much like Rhys, but where his eyes were blue, hers were a startling crystalline blue that held an emotion that left me shivering. She was posed in a chair with the brothers standing behind her.
Gone was the carefree Van Helsings, and in their place were cold, hate-filled men that didn’t care what the artist captured. Cole was the only one with any emotion other than hate filling his eyes. His eyes held a sadness that caused my stomach to tighten with the pain he exuded.
“We should get you out of here before one of the brothers finishes feeding,” she whispered while placing her hand on my shoulder.
“Indeed, since I instructed you to keep my guest out of the family room, Isa,” Rhys’s voice slithered down my spine, noting the coldness in his tone.
“Don’t get angry at Isa. I was already in the room when she found me. I couldn’t stomach the vile noises coming from the room next to mine,” I stated, turning to glare at him.
“Ask me if I care, Silversmith,” he grunted, and Isa turned, looking at me coldness burning in her eyes.
“You’re one of those bloody bastard Silversmiths that killed our Lord and Lady?” she growled, spitting at my feet before she turned on her heel, leaving the room.
“She’s lovely,” I muttered, turning to walk past Rhys, only to find a blonde female stroking his arm silently, staring at me through malice-filled eyes.
“Problem, Remington?” Rhys asked softly, his eyes narrowing on me as I took in his meal with jealousy I couldn’t understand and didn’t care to examine.
She wasn’t just pretty; she was beautiful with a smooth, alabaster complexion. She wore a sheer red nightgown, uncaring that it exposed her ample breasts or landing strip between her thighs. Her hair fell in gentle waves to her hips, sexily mussed from hours of endless sex with Rhys. She lowered her hand, stroking over his crotch with ownership burning in her glare.
“Okay then,” I whispered, moving past him and his feeder. I started toward the bedroom, dismissing them both. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist as my chest rose and fell with an emotion I didn’t understand.
“Were you looking for something?” he asked softly.
“An escape hatch or the kitchen,” I swallowed, yanking my arm away from his grip. “In all the excitement of you guys getting back, and heading off to eat for hours, I wasn’t provided sustenance. Unlike you, I don’t eat from my dick. I need actual food, so after hours of listening to Miss Thang here scream your name to the bloody rafters, I decided to go looking for the kitchen to see if I could get something to eat. I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to walk around inside your home, my bad. I’ll return to my cell,” I growled, stomping off toward the staircase.
I entered the room, closing the door behind me, staring up at the newly fixed ceiling. I shed my clothes, heading toward the bathroom to shower. I grabbed my bag off the bed, tossing it onto the counter before moving to the shower to start the water. Seeing the stereo, I messed with the station, finding a soothing song before opening my bag.
Pulling out a pair of lounge pants and a soft white camisole top, I placed them onto the counter with plain white panties. My eyes studied my reflection, frowning. I was gaudy compared to the model-looking woman Rhys had healing him tonight. My hair was a mess, untamable on my best day, and naturally curly. It was a mass of red hues, along with blonde highlights oddly scattered throughout the mess of tresses.
I had porcelain skin but tanned easily enough in the summer months. But it wasn’t spring in the Pacific Northwest. That meant tanning or even sun for that matter was months away. My breasts were perky, but on the smaller side, barely filling a C-cup with the help of hormones. My electric-blue eyes were my saving grace, directing the eye away from the freckles that covered my nose and cheeks, adding to the redhead stereotype in which I fit perfectly.
Shucking my clothes, I moved into the shower, sliding beneath the blissful heat spray. I washed my hair, lathering it, and repeating the process. Once it was clean from the craptastic day I’d had, I smothered my hair in conditioner. Rinsing it out, my fingers ran down my body and paused over the swollen nipple Rhys had sucked on, nipping it with his teeth. He’d taken my piercings, the backup silver that never left my body in the event that I needed it.
Asshole.
I exited out of the shower, drying off before I slipped into my clothes. Quickly braiding my hair into two parted sections, I stared at my pale reflection, rubbing my eyes. Rolling my dirty clothes up, I put them into the second pocket of my backpack, and then pulled the knit shirt back out, moving toward the garbage to toss it in before exiting the bathroom.
Rhys was seated on my bed, shirtless. He lifted his head, letting his eyes slide down my frame before they moved back up slowly. He didn’t speak for a moment, swallowing past the heat burning in his gaze. I rolled my eyes, staring anywhere but at him and his magnificent body.
“What are you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be off feeding or something?” I snapped dismissively, moving to the other side of the bed, setting my bag down before the smell of cinnamon hit my nose.
Turning toward the small table, I took in the food covering it. My stomach growled, and I padded on bare feet toward it, pausing to take in the assortment of food. Fresh fruits, stuffed French toast, cinnamon rolls, and an array of meats and cheeses with fancy crackers covered the entire tabletop, with a single bottle of whiskey sat in the middle.
I grabbed a cinnamon roll, bringing it to my nose, inhaling the delicious scent of freshly baked bread. It wasn’t store-bought. Someone had actually made it from scratch! I bit into it, moaning around the mouthful before closing my eyes at the orgasm happening to my taste buds. Polishing it off without care that I had an audience, I reached over the food, grabbing the whiskey, pouring a glassful, and holding it to my nose before scrunching it up at the aroma.
I still failed to see why people did that, or what purpose it had. It would still taste the same whether I sniffed the crap before or after I downed the cup’s contents. I took a long drink, turning to gaze at the male watching me through narrowed eyes.
“They made this stuff from scratch?” I asked, uncertain how they had accomplished it since I’d been in the shower. The cinnamon rolls were hot, as if they’d just come out of the oven moments ago.
“I keep several cooks on staff, and this one was cooking for the staff’s children. They enjoy waking up to freshly made biscuits and bread in the morning. Eat another cinnamon roll, woman. You’re too skinny. Didn’t they feed you at E.V.I.E.?”
“I’m not skin and bones. Just because I don’t have curves like your feeder, it doesn’t mean I’m skinny. I’m average, which, by the way, works for me. I don’t need your damn approval,” I seethed, turning back to the ruined meal as a strange feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. “You can go.”