Taking my hand, Loren leads me to a leather couch, and we sit together, side by side. He doesn’t let go of my hand. “Master Bordeaux is a very demanding and complicated man. He has no reason to hate you, but you’ll have to earn his trust and respect before he gives back the liberties we all take for granted.”

“Like the freedom to go outside?” I wince at my caustic tone.

Instead of taking offense, the dry question makes Loren smile. “It’s the little things in life we miss, isn’t it?”

“Do you mind if I ask why you work for him?”

Loren contemplates whether to answer—I can pinpoint the second his openness shuts down and he withdraws, letting my hand slip out of his.

“I’m sorry,” I say, backing away from that thread of conversation. “It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay. Master Bordeaux wants the two of us to get to know each other.” He clears his throat, and I can’t tell if he’s nervous, or suffering from a sudden case of springtime allergies. “So it’s important you know I don’t work for him. He’s my master in every sense of the word, Novalee.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I serve and obey him, and in return, he takes care of me.” Loren stands. “In time, you’ll understand.” He holds out a hand, urging me to follow his lead. “But we’ve only got a few days before he returns, so how about we start in the kitchen and I teach you a few basics?”

5

Six days later, Mr. Bordeaux still hasn’t returned, and I can’t say I miss the man with all of his unbending rules. Embracing the solitude, I’ve excelled at scrubbing floors, dusting antiques and jewels that would feed a starving nation, and learning which knives to use for which vegetables—and which ones to avoid if I don’t want to cut myself again.

My role in the House of Taurus is little more than a maid without compensation, but I don’t mind the busy work. The meal prep and house cleaning keep me distracted, and though I’ve never scrubbed a toilet a day in my life, doing so now gives me a sense of calmness, left alone to the task with no one to answer to but the gleaming porcelain beneath my hands.

“You’re quite the quick study.”

At the sound of Mr. Bordeaux’s voice, I scramble into position on my knees, bleach-scented palms facing up on my thighs. The cutoff jeans I put on for chores are frayed, pockets peeking out beneath my hands. They were among the few belongings he allowed Liam to send. My keeper chose to put the rest of my clothing collection in storage until the next man in charge decides whether to give my things to me.