Book 6: Not His Luna

Ella

Ryatt keeps a firm grip on my wrist as he leads me through his maze of a castle. Dressed in a form fitting black shirt and black pants and free of his leather armor, I can see every solid line of his body from his ripped chest to his muscular thighs. He moves like a predator honing in on its prey when we reach his bedroom–our bedroom–and shuts the door firmly behind him.

The sun is beginning to set. The curtains whisper in the cool mountain breeze as golden light floods the room through the open doors leading to the balcony. A dinner service has been laid out on a round table near one of the ceiling-height windows–steak, vegetables, salad, and bread–as well as a few plates of fruit and dessert.

Ryatt says nothing as I walk to the center of the room and look around, still in awe that this is where I live now, where I call home. It’s grander than anything I’ve ever seen in my life.

“You need to eat something,” he says from the walk-in clos