“Join the club,” I mutter. Just outside the door, Huxley calls Dax’s name, the pair falling into a hushed conversation. Carefully and silently, I step around Avery, crouching to pick up her bag. I upturn the contents onto the floor and zip the bag closed, keeping it clenched in my fist. When I straighten, she’s watching me, her expression unreadable.
“Go to bed, Angel,” I say, brushing past her toward the door. Her fingers reach for my arm, a tentative brush that causes me to pause. Dropping her gaze to the floor, Avery nods, and she bites her bruised bottom lip.
“Goodnight, Wyatt,” she murmurs. I swallow hard, lifting my head to hold it high as I step into the hall and stride away before Huxley or Dax can comment. I find myself in the very same bathroom Dax vacated, steam billowing all around me. Shutting the door, I slump against the wood, releasing a shaky breath.
She’s still here. For now. But keeping her safe feels like trying to hold back the tide. With that thought in mind, I slip Avery’s pink phone outof her bag, delete Fredrick’s message and attached phone number, and toss it aside.
I meant what I said; I was wrong to separate us from the Souls. I was stupid to think it wouldn’t take all of us to look after her, especially when Avery seems intent on getting herself killed.
Chapter Seventeen
Warmth presses against the line of my back. I shuffle along the mattress slightly, tucking my pillow beneath itself to raise my head slightly. A hardback by Truman Capote rests awkwardly in my hands, a stream of morning light causing me to squint at the small text while my companion snoozes gently.
Apparently, after whatever happened in the room next door, Wyatt felt the need to stay close to someone last night. He wriggles again, pressing his back against mine and leaving me with around two inches of space at the edge of the four-poster. I give up on trying to read through the early hours, replacing the book on the bedside table and slipping free of the covers, giving him the kingsize to himself.
Stretching, I crack my neck and back, taking in my surroundings. It seems this particular guest room is being used as the storage space for all of Axel’s late father’s possessions. I didn’t meet Mr. Barrett while he was alive, but the framed portrait against the wall holds too many resemblances to Axel to be anyone else. Boxes of classic literature and ornaments fill the space, some of the finest suits I’ve ever seen line the opposite wall, collecting dust. A whole life packed up and stashed away as if he never existed.
Another shuffle followed by a groan sounds to my left, Wyatt seeming unsettled. I stare down at him for a moment. His eyes areclenched, a pained expression pinching at his brows. He shifts again, his breathing uneven as his frown deepens.
For a moment, I consider waking him, but something stops me. In all the years I’ve known him, Wyatt has always slept soundly. Always been certain of himself. But whatever happened with Avery this past week has changed him. There’s a vulnerability I don’t understand—a dent in his armor. But like with all of Wyatt’s struggles, this feels personal. The kind of battle fought behind closed doors.
Grabbing a fresh set of clothes from my bag, I sneak out into the corridor and close the door with a soft click. The bathroom is along the hall, and I stroll slowly, letting my eyes roam over the interior bathed in daylight after arriving in pitch black last night. As far as mansions go, I would say this is the grandest I’ve seen. A complete contrast to Axel’s humble soul.
The ceiling is a masterpiece of intersecting wooden beams, the geometric pattern mirrored in the marbled flooring. Suspended at the heart of the lobby ahead is a glimmering chandelier, its cascade of crystals scattering spots of light across the winding staircase below. Pointed archways rise at either end of the hallway, their curves framing the passageways and echoing the character of thick, wooden doors set every few feet apart along the hall.
As my fingers trace the smooth mahogany bannister, the sharp tang of paint fumes drifts through the labyrinth of corridors, mingling with the faint scent of aged wood and varnish. The butler who showed us to our rooms last night briefly spoke of the recent renovations in an irritable tone that matched the way he spoke about Sharon and her new husband.
After a quick wash in an equally lavish double bathroom, I change into jeans and a black T-shirt and go in search of breakfast. Not that I’m hungry in the slightest, but I promised myself to make the effort and restore my strength. The time might come where Avery’s life depends on it. I need to be ready.
Turning towards the wide staircase, a door at the end of the hallway catches my eye. Not because it's white, unlike all the rest, which are a range of the deepest and richest browns, but because there’s a small rectangular sign on this one. Creeping forward, curiosity filling my veins, the sign comes into focus. A starry background sits behind a suitedastronaut with ‘Axel’s Room’ scrawled in the centre. It appears to be handmade.
I instantly feel sick, turning away from the innocence of a boy who endured so much torture behind this door. Who is back in there now, unknowing of what we’ve brought him into. Should we have fought harder? Will our being here be enough?
Shuffling sounds within just as the door swings open, an exhausted Garrett appears in the doorway with a towel clutched in his hand. His hair is long enough to cover his eyes when he allows it to flop forward, a yawn pulling his mouth wide open.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he pulls the door closed behind him and almost crashes into me. The bastard didn’t even look up. Jumping out of his way, he continues up the hallway without any acknowledgement. My gaze flicks to the door handle, wondering if Axel might be awake yet.
“Don’t even think about it,” Garrett shouts back, entering the bathroom and slamming the door shut.Asshole.Maybe I should be happy that some things never change and that Garrett is the same possessive dick as always. At least he’s taking care of Axel the way he deserves now, not pulling him along on an invisible leash and dropping him like yesterday’s trash whenever he felt like it. Axel always came right back despite my hushed warnings. I can only hope he’s finally got what he was hoping for.
Jogging downstairs and emerging in the kitchen, I’m stunned to find a whole team of house staff lifting their heads to greet me kindly. I blink through their chorused ‘good morning’, flicking my gaze between their sex-shop style maid’s and butler’s outfits. They’re nothing like the elderly gentleman who greeted us last night. They’re much moreyouthful.
A guy around my age with a top knot grins at me while stirring a huge pan of pasta. A black jacket hangs open around tanned abs, a tie hanging from his neck with no shirt. The belt of his slacks is dangerously low, revealing a dark tuft of hair trailing south.
He beckons me in, gesturing to the kitchen island. Beside him, the group chats easily as they make subs in a production line. Another pair is preparing tubs of salads on the far end of the same island. I slowly lower onto a stool, watching their easy going dynamics as if it’s surreal.
“You guys know it's barely eight in the morning, right?” I finally ask. “Isn’t breakfast on the menu?” Top Knot widens his grin, whereas a young woman to his right fumbles with her apron.
“Of course, sir. Whatever you need,” she rushes off to the fridge, whipping out the eggs and bacon.
“Oh no, I didn’t mean-” I start, but Top Knot chuckles.
“It’s cool, man. Whatever you want, we can do it. Anything for a friend of Axel’s.” The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Axel has never mentioned having friends back home.
“You know Axel?” My brow raises. A round of sniggers rotates around the kitchen.
“Not yet, but we’ve heard so much about him,” Top Knot’s eyes glisten into the distance. “He’s the original. Like Steve Jobs, and we’re his apples.” Feeling eyes on me, I glance around to the others, who quickly drop their awe-filled gazes and giggle like schoolgirls, even the men. Licking my lips, the heat of that gaze intensifies, and I quickly catch myself.
Top Knot turns off the hob and puts aside his pasta pot. “To answer your question, it's Sunday. We prep our lunches and meals for when we’re back at college during the week and return on Fridays to stay through the weekends. Although Sharon requested extras to be made while you and your friends are staying.” I narrow my eyes at his first-name basis with Axel’s mom, feeling like I’m missing something obvious.
