Page 11 of Eternal Devotion

“The house is mine, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m quite sure.”

Mordecai didn’t carry a backpack, nor did he have luggage so far as I could see. The keys hadn’t transferred hands, so it wasn’t like furniture had arrived ahead of him.

“Are you all right, Mr. Elowen?”

Confused, I wanted to say. I had a million questions, but Mordecai’s relaxed demeanor gave me the sense I was overreacting. If this elegantly gorgeous man wanted to spend the night in a decrepit mansion in the middle of a densely wooded area, who was I to object?

“I’m great. Let me grab those papers and we can walk through.”

I fumbled with the passenger door of the Jeep and found what I was looking for. With the folder clutched to my chest, I offered Mordecai the most pleasant smile I could muster under the circumstances and guided him—against my better judgment—into the mansion.

The hallway remained lit from earlier. Mordecai strolled ahead, bolder and more confident than I’d been. He didn’t offer commentary on the state of the mansion, but his gaze caught and paused on each successive flaw and spiderweb.

We entered the room I’d coined a parlor. Mordecai walked the circumference and eyed the stack of furniture pushed against the wall. He nudged the fireplace grate with a polished dress shoe, and it creaked, closing halfway. Plucking an iron poker from its rack, he inspected it and put it back. Above the mantel hung the remains of a framed oil painting. A portrait. I didn’t notice it earlier, too caught up in the creep factor and getting the fuck outside.

Mordecai studied it with a tilt of his head, and I thought he might ask questions about the mansion’s previous owner, but he didn’t. The only history I’d gleaned from Dany was minimal. The group who had meant to restore the place had never lived within her walls. The furniture must have belonged to the last member of the Branson family before they died without an heir. If the man in the portrait was a Branson, I didn’t know his name.

“I can put you in touch with a property cleanout service if you’re interested. We use them often with estate sales. If a house owner passes away and there isn’t a family member to take over, the bank repossesses it and has an estate auction. The cleanout company gets rid of whatever remains.”

Mordecai eyed me from over top of a weathered book he’d plucked from the shelf. “Why get rid of it?” He snapped the book shut, sending a puff of dust into the air as he glanced around. “I find the place rather charming, don’t you?”

When I frowned, unsure if he was serious, the corner of his mouth twitched. The suggestion of a smile revealed the hint of an eyetooth, and if my gaze caught and held on his luscious lips, who would blame me? They were vibrantly red, standing out against his pale complexion. It hadn’t been a trick of moonlight. The man’s skin was alabaster: smooth, milky-white, and utterly unblemished.

Humor danced in his eyes. Under the yellowish glow of the sconces, they appeared the color of Bordeaux.

Again, I found myself utterly transfixed. Captivated.

Entranced.

I’d never met anyone with eyes that shade.

“It was a joke,” Mordecai said, breaking the spell.

I blinked several times, having lost the thread of the conversation. “I’m sorry?”

Mordecai’s smile widened, but he turned his back before I could see its full effect. “The phone number for the cleaning company, Mr. Elowen.” He aimed for a closed door on the far side of the parlor, one I hadn’t noticed. “It would be of great help.”

“Right. Of course.”

Every room was in similar disrepair. Most were empty, nothing more than worn hardwood floors and peeling wallpaper. Some held a few broken fragments of furniture, random pieces of artwork in cracked frames, books, and a mix of odds and ends. Every space was filled with a metric ton of dust and a network of cobwebs that made my skin crawl. It smelled like a thousand-year-old tomb. Not that I knew what a thousand-year-old tomb smelled like.

Mordecai didn’t seem bothered in the least.

It wasn’t so much a tour as two men exploring a timeworn mansion. Although I took in the state of the property, I was more attuned to Mordecai and his untroubled reaction. I waited for him to change his mind and request that I direct him to a local bed-and-breakfast, but he didn’t.

A winding staircase took us to the second floor. The banister was dangerously loose, and some of the steps sagged underfoot, moaning their complaints as we climbed. It delivered us to a vast mezzanine with two darkened hallways. One led east. The other west. An elegant chandelier hung crookedly in the center of the open space, but its light only bled so far, and there didn’t seem to be another source of illumination.

I turned on my phone’s flashlight app and expected Mordecai to do the same, but he didn’t.

Instead, he picked a direction and strolled into the shadows. The man seemed perfectly comfortable in the dark, and not a bit unnerved.

Closed doors lined the hallway. Mordecai spent little time exploring. He opened them at random, peered inside, then closed them again and carried on.

We came upon a bathroom midway down the hall, and Mordecai went inside to inspect the area. It was spacious, but I remained in the doorway, taking it in from a distance, stealing glances at the man, and soaking up his attractive features.