Within fifteen minutes, I’m out of my room. Surprised to see the light on, I tentatively walk into the lounge, and find Keller sprawled over his velvet sofa, a book in hand.

“Oh. You’re not sleeping?” I ask lamely.

Blue eyes meet mine. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Reading anything interesting?” I can’t see the title of the leatherbound volume in his hand.

“Not particularly. Prepping for class. You’re up early.”

“I’m going next door, to watch Daisy bake. If that’s all right?” I check.

I’m gratified by an epic eye roll. “I’m not your keeper, Claire. Do as you please. Well, so long as you don’t go around showing your perky little ass to everyone. I’m not much into sharing.”

I’m annoyed at myself for blushing, when I’m more annoyed than embarrassed. “I’m not some slut, lifting my skirt to the closest dick available.”

That makes him chuckle. “I wonder what your boyfriend would have to say about that, if he’d seen you beg for me last night.”

I stare at him, speechless, not out of shock, but because there’s nothing I can actually say to that. If Noah knew what was going on, he would be devastated.

I’ll talk to him next week. I’ll be in Michigan in a few days. It makes sense to handle it then. But in the meantime, I really can’t offer any response that’ll show me in a good light. Because Keller’s right.

“Well,” I finally manage. “Your cock is the exception, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

He smirks, amused, before returning to his book, and I head out of the Vesper House.

This morning, passing the stairs leading down to the basement, I remember vividly the club downstairs. The vibe last night was a million miles away from what I saw on Sunday. It almost felt like a big family dinner, boisterous, full of laughter. And the day before, there were masked people fucking each other on a dance floor in the basement. I really don’t understand this place.

Next door, I pass a security guy in a suit, who nods at me before continuing his rounds. At the door, I ring, and am soon greeted by someone I don’t know.

“I’m—”

“Kitchen’s last door on the left,” the long-haired blond drawls, half yawning.

“Thanks.”

He offers me his hand. “Beaufort.”

The name rings a bell. “Like Calla?”

“Exactly like Calla. She’s my wife.”

That makes me gape. His wife? Then why is he here and she’s next door? And why are they married so young?

He walks away, heading up the stairs before I can make an ass of myself by asking too many questions which are none of my business.