Graveyard Shifts: A Pat Wyatt Novel Read Online Free

well-lit sitting room, and figured it was my way out. “I’m kind of hungry,” I deflected, a little too loudly. “Do you have anything to eat?” I asked at a better volume. I didn’t want him to think the woman he had married was a lunatic, even if I thought it myself.
    He nodded a quick tilt of his head. “Certainly,” he said, shutting the door, and I was relieved when he walked away from the stairs. He gestured for me with his finger, saying, “Follow me.” And I followed out of sheer curiosity.
    While I walked behind him, I looked up at the endlessly tall ceiling, trying to figure out why this place was so familiar to me. It was gothic in architecture, yet everything in it was modern in style.
    I snapped my fingers when I realized what it had reminded me of. “Dracula!” I blurted.
    “Excuse me?” he asked, turning on his heels and looking menacingly down his nose at me. His eyes were like ice when he looked into mine.
    I glared up at him. There was no possible way that I going to be bullied by a man I hardly knew. “Your house reminds me of Dracula’s castle.” Let me say this if looks could kill, in that moment we would both be dead.
    “Oh.” He seemed pleased by something as he turned around. When he started to walk again, I stayed back a few feet. I was reluctant to follow but too intrigued not to. That’s how crazy this whole thing was.
    As I walked with him through the sitting room and into a long dimly lit hallway, chills went up my spine, and I tried to figure out a way to run. However, not before I noticed that the walls were strewn with old paintings, and realized that the lighting was necessary. Unnerving, but necessary.
    “What else do you think?” he asked after a moment of bone-chilling silence.
    “Hm?” I asked, distracted by the brass light fixtures that hung above the paintings.
    He smirked over his shoulder. “About my home,” he clarified.
    “It’s…” my voice faded as I stopped in my tracks, letting the thought go into oblivion as I stared at an amazingly beautiful painted woman dressed in white. The style of the painting itself was dark and mysterious, which matched the hall perfectly. Nevertheless, there was something about the woman’s soulful brown eyes. They seemed to follow you everywhere.
    “It’s…?” he asked from behind me; his cold breath caressed my neck, which was very unsettling.
    “Nice.” I answered as I looked over my shoulder at him.
    “Yes.” His eyes seemed troubled. “It is nice .” The way he said the word “nice” sounded almost dirty.
    “Who painted this?” I asked, changing the subject before I got myself into more trouble and wound up buried under a bridge somewhere.
    “I did.” He waved me off, gently grabbing my arm, pulling me down the hall.
    “Really?” I asked, still curious. I never learn.
    “Yes, really.” He was starting to sound annoyed, but I dismissed it. He pulled me through the archway and into the kitchen. Every appliance was stainless steel: the refrigerator, the two stoves, and even the toaster. In the middle of all this metal was a white marble countertop that had cutting boards, knives, and all the other food prep utensils on it.
    I gasped at this beautiful display of kitchen wear. “It’s gorgeous,” I managed to say. I couldn’t believe it. Who wouldn’t want to live here?
    “Thank you.” He gave out gratitude as if it was a tissue—just something that could be disposed of at will.
    I twirled around, looking up at the ceiling. “This house is amazing. It’s so modern and yet so gothic. It’s really something else.” I stopped talking and twirling long enough to look into his startled face. “I’m going to keep quiet now.”
    “Do not stop,” he said as he stepped closer to me, picking up a strand of my hair and smelling it. In any other situation that might have been considered weird or creepy. But when he did it, it was sexy. “I like it when you speak.”
    My eyes were fixed on his very