His eyes dart to the trunk almost imperceptibly quickly before he grabs a pile of clothes neatly folded on the end of his bed. In a few quick strides, he’s in his washroom connected to his bed chamber, closing the door behind him.
The moment he shuts the door, I look back at the bulky trunk sitting at the foot of his bed. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before, not even when I was sitting on it, but this trunk stands out like a sore thumb. There’s a weathered and vintage appearance to it, and there’s no mistaking the way Braxton glanced at it. It must have been out of reflex.
I drop to my knees in front of the trunk, ignoring how my already stiff muscles scream in protest. Defeat sinks inside my core when I see a bolted lock holding the trunk shut. Hastily wrapping my fingers around it, I gently tug to see if it will, by some miracle, pop open on its own accord. Much to my dismay, it doesn’t.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath.
Bounding back to my feet, I rush to the table at the side of Braxton’s bed and yank the drawer open. Disappointment courses through me when I find it empty. Blowing a breath out through my nose, I plop onto his bed, immediately noticing how much more comfortable it is than mine. Figures.
As my fingers begin to twine around the laces of my dress, I suddenly remember the key to Braxton’s study that I still have. Quickly extracting it from the folds in my dress I tucked it between, I analyze it thoughtfully. I realize I’ve never seen Braxton walking around with more than one key, which he uses on his study and the bedroom, making me wonder if what I’m holding is actually a skeleton key for the castle.
Sending up a silent prayer, I slide back in front of the trunk and slip the key into its lock. My heart clatters with a nervous excitement as I hear a soft click before the lock falls open. I practically clap my hand over my mouth to cover my squeal of delight, as my fingers nimbly unlatch the lock and toss it to the ground.
I hastily toss the trunk’s lid open, struggling only slightly against its weight. When I look into the contents of the trunk, I’m confused to find stacks and stacks of journals. My face scrunches as I reach down, curling my fingers around the leather bindings of one of the journals lying at the top of the trunk. My fingers idly flip through the pages, but I stop when I get a better look at the handwriting. A better look atmyhandwriting.
I hastily reach in and grab another journal, flipping to a random page and seeing my handwriting again. A piece of paper flutters out of the journal, falling to the floor, and I realize it’s one of my letters to Phillip. My head spins from the confusion it’s drowning in.
I grab another journal.
Another.
Another.
Another.
I keep pulling out journal after journal until they’re spread around me, and every single one has countless passages written by my hand. The problem is, I have no recollection of writing in any of these.
I recall my discovery of not being entirely sure how long I’ve been trapped in the castle, but now looking at the dated entires to some of these journals, I’m terrified to think of exactly how long my curse has been holding me hostage.
My head snaps up when I hear Braxton walk back into the room.
“What the fuck is this?” The question bursts from me as I gesture to the countless journals lying beside me.
His nostrils flare before he finally grumbles, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
27
Azalea
Ipracticallyimplodeathis audacity, my mouth momentarily dropping open.
“What I’ve done?” I all but screech. “Why do you have these?” He opens his mouth to speak but I continue with my barrage of questions that flow out of me like a river. “How did you get these? Why don’t I remember writing any of them?”
“I told you not to fucking touch anything,” he seethes.
“Why do you have these?” I yell, hurtling one of the books at him. He ducks in time for it to miss his head, but only barely.
Braxton looks between me and the journals, and his angry facade crumbles before my eyes, leaving him looking utterly defeated.
“Why couldn’t you, for once, just stop being so fucking curious?”
I let my confusion mold my features as I listen to the sorrow lacing his words.
His shoulders slump forward before he asks, “How much did you read?” He slips into the chair that’s located by the desk in his room and runs his hand over his face.
“I haven’t read them.”
A flicker of hope sparks behind his eyes, and I quickly begin gathering the journals closer to me.
