Page 25 of Who Owns You?

“Fuck, ouch.” I try to complain, but my mouth is so dry that my tongue is sticking to the roof of it. “Water, breakfast, need.”

Rolling out of bed is a Herculean effort, but I manage it and even get myself into a pair of overalls and a T-shirt before I walk out stark naked. What a way to greet the day and my new roommates, with my tits just…right there.

I shuffle out of my room with my eyes basically closed and find my way to the kitchen on the ground floor. The room is warm and smells of baking bread, but as I tiptoe around, I find where the scent and sounds of life are actually coming from. Tucked into the corner is a small, nondescript staircase. Taking it down a few steps brings me into an even larger and more castle-chic commercial-style kitchen.

Julius stands before one of the three different stove tops, stirring a pot. Freshly baked loaves of bread and muffins sit steaming on the counter.

My mouth waters at the smell of citrus and sweetness, so I follow my nose right to the muffins. I lick my lips, not having alerted Julius to my presence yet, as I slowly scoop one up. I didn’t notice that none of the muffins have liners until I’m holding a steaming hot breakfast pastry in my hand.

“Hot!” I yelp, dropping the poor muffin to the floor and shaking out my reddening hand.

Julius is beside me in a second, cradling my hand in both of his, the tips of his fingers brushing gently over the skin as he looks at the injury.

“Nothing permanent or life threatening, thankfully. Maybe grab a plate next time.” He chuckles softly but doesn’t let go of my hands as he looks down at me. “Want a muffin? Or was it just the thrill of the pilfering that gets you going?”

My face goes more crimson than my smarting hand. “No! Nothing gets me going. I’m not a pervert.”

The green gargoyle laughs again, and I notice his wings are gone, along with his tail, and he isn’t actually all that green anymore. Instead, he has human-like skin, and he’s tan, as if he spent a few hours soaking up the sun on a beach. His hair is soft looking and warm brown with a slight wave to it, but he still has verdant green horns. I force myself not to look at his perfect mouth. I did way too much of that while he was telling me about his love of cooking last night.

“What happened to your—” I point at him, snapping my mouth shut so I don’t offend him any more than I probably have already.

I need to get food and water and hide in my art room for the rest of eternity, or however long it takes to discover myself, whichever is longer.

He smiles and pushes up the gold frames of his cool octagonal glasses. “It’s a bit of magic. We can…be more or less of our supernatural selves at will. This is like…twenty-five percent,” he says and tips his head in thought, his horns catching the light and sparkling brilliantly.

“Do you have gems in your horns?” I can’t help the question.

I was talking to this guy for a few hours last night before going to bed, and I didn’t notice just how truly spectacular he is to look at. Silly me. Spank bank has been updated.

“Yes, I installed them myself.” He reaches up and touches the base absentmindedly.

My jaw drops.Installed them.

The pot on the stove bubbles up angrily, hissing steam and making him curse.

“Sorry, simmer pots like to be tended.” He returns to his place and begins to stir the pot gently, coaxing it back to an actual simmer.

“This is really weird.”

“What is?” Julius asks, keeping his eyes on the pot.

“Everything, but mostly the fact that magic is real, and this castle is magic, and you’re magic.”

“I think it’s a beautiful thing, not a weird thing.” He teases me so easily, the grin on his face taking any sting from the words before it can even land.

“Beautiful, sure, you’re beautiful, but—” I pause. “Wait.”

“Why, thank you, Charlotte. I think you are very beautiful yourself,” he says, and the dark little chuckle that follows makes me shiver, my nipples getting hard as fucking diamonds.

“Thank you. I just keep making this more and more awkward, don’t I?” I deflate as the words tumble out.

“No, not really. You’re sweet. Here, take this and serve yourself a muffin with the tongs. Have a nice slice of bread if youlike. Butter is in the fridge and jam is in the pantry.” He offers me a plate with his non-stirring hand.

I take the plate wordlessly and do as the gargoyle says. I give myself another muffin and a thick slice of bread, slathering it in cold butter that melts almost instantly and then jam. As I leave the kitchen, I try not to think about where the dropped muffin disappeared to.

My makeshift art studio is quiet in the early afternoon light. My empty breakfast plate sits licked clean on the small “paint-free zone” table beside me. The muffin that Julius made was the best I’ve ever had. Two points to Ireland. One for their muffins. And another one to their orgasms. Maybe that’s why all I can think about is painting pastries with thick white glaze.

I flick the brush across the canvas, adding a softer white for a highlight, and sit back on the stool I stole from the kitchen when I first moved in.

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