Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Axel,” I said, and he leaned down so he could hear me over the excited chatter of the Reapers. “Would you like to go somewhere with me this evening?” It was only a little after five now, if I hustled I could swing a later date.
He pulled back enough to look at me, an eyebrow cocked. “Is it a business meeting?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “No, it’s a surprise.”
Intrigue flashed in his eyes. “Absolutely.”
* * *
“The Provost Dungeon once housed prisoners during the Revolutionary War,” the tour guide said as he led us and a handful of other tour-goers through the arched brick and into said dungeon. “Most were jailed for treason or sedition, and more than a few had their final days within these walls.”
A cold chill raced down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck rising the farther the guide took us into the dungeon. Salt and brine and musk scented the air, as if history itself had been trapped between the bricks. Iron bars covered the few moonlit windows carved into the brick, the night sky beyond only adding to the other-worldly atmosphere. Mannequins in historical garb, surrounded by period-accurate artifacts, completed the eerie picture—each step like taking a walk into the past.
“Legend has it many of those spirits haunt these very dungeons. Be sure to be mindful of that and respect their space,” the tour guide continued before giving our group free rein to explore at our leisure for a few minutes.
“This is incredible,” Axel said, guiding us toward one of the deepest parts of the dungeon. The exposed brick arches narrowed over a set of double wooden doors with slits of iron in the top portion. The burnished-gold light illuminating the doors made it look like a room from Hell that beckoned only the bravest—or the rashest—souls to enter.
“Totally,” I said, stepping closer to him in an attempt to ward off the chill. I swore there was a draft in here because every so often it was like someone softly blew cold air onto the back of my neck.
Axel chuckled and casually tucked me under his arm, his heat instantly enveloping me. “If you’re scared of this sort of thing,” he said, glancing down at me, “then why did you book this tour?”
I swallowed down the nerves that had been eating at me all night. This…this was definitely a date. No matter how I tried to deny it. Echo was right. I had wanted to do this for Axel. Wanted to do something just for him. Because despite him being officially my husband, he had become my friend these past weeks.
A confidant.
A supporter.
Someone who believed in my work and took my sass without falling over. He deserved a fun night tapered to his likes, and from the look on his face, I’d chosen exactly right.
“I wanted to do something nice for you,” I finally said. “And you love Stephen King so I assumed you would like all creepy things.”
Another smile—this one so surprising and genuine and raw. This light made his hazel eyes more brown than green, but heat and appreciation crackled there.
“I knew you were good at your job,” Axel said, a tease in his voice. “Lukas told me. But you really do know how to read a client.”
The word clanged through my chest with a sting. Was that truly all we were? Clients? I suppose that was the basest term for our arrangement. But tonight…and earlier when we’d celebrated my lawyer’s news about Hufflepuff…it had felt real. This felt real—tucked into his side, learning about the history of this incredible town that now was home to the Reapers. Was I imagining it?
“Hey, min enda kärlek,” he said, stopping to smooth the wrinkle between my brows. “You are not a client to me.”
Had I spoken out loud? Or could he simply read those fears on my face?
That finger trailed the line of my jaw and down the seam of my neck. “You are—”
“Who is ready to move on to one of Charleston’s oldest cemeteries?” The tour guide cut off whatever Axel had been about to say. Instead, he smiled softly at me, trailing that hand all the way down to mine before interlocking our fingers.
“Can you handle a bit more?” he asked, the question sincere. If I said the word, he’d take me straight home.
Home.
Not a bad place to be.
Not anymore.
But tonight wasn’t about me.
Tonight was about Axel.
My friend.
My husband.
And maybe what was more terrifying than the ghosts we chased that night was the fact that my heart—that once hollow piece of my soul—was starting to hope he might be even more than that.
7
Axel
“That was unbelievable,” I told Langley as we walked into our home. I knew she still kept her apartment down by the arena. She hadn’t been willing to give up what she called a “prime location” for something as temporary as we were. I understood.