Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“I won’t go!”
Sex fairies were known to be adventurous. Reckless even. Damien wondered what Pet had been subjected to that would make her so afraid, but the last thing he wanted was to play fairy therapist. All he needed were the facts so he could finish this job for Cimil and return to his quiet shop.
As for the thugs who’d been threatening Sky and her family, well, he would take care of them. Now that he knew they’d crossed into his domain—the world of the supernatural—they were playing by his rules. Basically that meant he killed anyone who annoyed or crossed him.
Hold on now. That was the old him, the dark him. These days he only killed innocent women with his car. I’ve come so far in life.
The fairy went for the door handle, tugging with all her strength. She didn’t realize the doors were locked.
“Pet, if you leave, I won’t be able to help your friends in that bunker or make the Brown brothers pay for what they did to you.”
Pet laughed. “You think you’re a match for them?”
He was a match for anyone, a perk of being cursed. He didn’t fear death. Hell, he’d welcome it when his time came. As for pain, Damien was no stranger to receiving it, and he was an expert at giving it. He was especially gifted with a knife.
Hold on. What the hell was he thinking again? He’d left his violent ways behind for good reason. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be persuasive. “You leave the Brown brothers to me. They will get what’s coming.”
“Who are you?” Pet asked.
“Just a tailor.”
“Not like any I’ve heard of.”
After the late flight back to LA, Damien went straight home to his second sanctuary: his two-story house nestled in the hills above Sunset, with endless views of the city lights. It used to belong to a shady vampire who “accidentally” filmed himself drinking five women to death and posted it online, thinking it was a private group chat.
Damien had fixed the problem, but it had cost the vampire a pretty penny in bribes on top of Damien’s fixer fee. This had been part of the payment. Five bedrooms, infinity pool, outdoor bar, rooftop lounging area, spacious garage, and a five-hundred-square-foot closet just for his suits. Oh. And a wine cellar, which used to be the vampire’s “S&S” cave. Suck and Sex. Which was where Damien put Pet for the night so she wouldn’t wander off while he slept. There were still a few boxes of the vampire’s sexy toys down there to keep her occupied.
In the morning, they’d drive to San Diego and find the house were Pet had been held. Hopefully, this would soon be over so he could close out this job and go back to his life.
That night, Damien tossed and turned in his thousand-thread-count sheets, unable to dislodge Sky from his thoughts—her creamy olive skin, her expressive brown eyes, and luscious lips. It took billions of years of evolution, millions of humans coupling, and an infinite number of events to create such a magnificent woman. One of a kind. And I fucking snubbed her out in two seconds. Gods, I am a piece of shit.
He sat up, scrubbing his face with his hands. He could still smell her sweet shampoo, as if she were in the room.
“What is the matter with me?” he muttered and got up from bed. He headed past his private sitting area—a separate space adjacent to the floor-to-ceiling windows, where he enjoyed reading or looking at the latest suit-pattern catalogs. He unlocked the sliding glass doors and stepped out on the balcony to take in the glittering LA lights.
Usually, he found the view calming, giving him the feeling of being part of the world while remaining at a safe distance. But tonight, the city and all its life below felt like an untouchable realm, a fantasy just beyond his grasp. To be clear, he was always alone—more or less—but he had never felt quite so lonely. Not since her.
Oh gods. Do not go there, tailor.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Over two hundred years ago, Willamina had walked into his father’s shop situated in a small village near Geneva, Switzerland. Damien had been unable to take his eyes off her silky blonde locks, rosy cheeks, and long neck. As she perused the ribbons, her mother fought with his father over making two ballgowns—something his father simply did not do. Clothing for men, yes. Tailoring, too. But Greystone and Sons did not make ballgowns.
“But the dressmaker is ill, and my daughter leaves in two weeks for London. She is to stay with her aunt and uncle and come out!” her mother had argued.
Damien could tell from his father’s stern gaze that he would not bend.
“I will do it.” Damien stood from his workbench. “I can make the dresses.”