I hear the chair creak beneath me. The sound of the flute tipping.
Then nothing.
Hayden Herron
The house is dark when I pull in. Late, past midnight, but the lights should be on. Someone should be waiting at the door for my return. I told security I’d be back by dinner and not to leave her unattended.
Instead, the estate seems quieter, with few lights illuminating the massive building.
I leave my Porsche idling for a moment, headlights illuminating the east wing, and then I kill the engine. The silence hits harder than it should.
I’m not in the mood to be ignored.
My shoes crunch over stone as I cross the drive. The air smells like rain, like soil, and I breathe deeply to steady my shaking hands. The front door opens before I reach it, as it should. One of the footmen bows quickly and disappears just as fast. I don’t return the gesture. I don’t stop moving.
The staff know better than to speak to me when I look like this.
Another dead end, another wasted trip. Martine’s uncle has vanished like vapor, and the few names Ididmanage to trace in Prague are either silent or confirmed dead through my connections on the East Coast. I gave them two chances. I won’t give them a third.
I shrug off my coat and hand it to the butler as I step into the hall.
I pause.
“Where is she?” I ask quietly.
No one answers.
“Where isMartine?”
The butler clears his throat. “Still in the blue room, sir.”
I head down the corridor. The staff scatter ahead of me like dry leaves, and I push open the double doors to the dining room without knocking.
And there she is.
Her head is down on the table, slumped sideways, the elegant sweep of her neck exposed. One arm limp in her lap. Her hair is plastered across her face, stuck in something white and creamy.
Her lips are slightly parted, faintly stained with berry juice and cream. Her cheek bears the soft imprint of the bowl’s rim. There's a smear of white on her collarbone, and the chain of emeralds around her neck, the one I gave her, has shifted, caught in her hair.
She’s beautiful like this.
Still. Soft. Messy and vulnerable—exactly as I wanted. I rest my hand on the back of her neck, just for a moment, grounding her, grounding myself. She took the pill without hesitation, without needing my voice in the room. A low hum of satisfaction unfurls in my chest, deep, steady, proprietary.
I smooth her hair back gently, wiping cream from her temple with my thumb. She doesn’t stir.
Good girl.
That phrase lives in my blood now, like a pulse. It used to be a reward. Now it’s the truth.
I stand slowly, adjusting the chair beneath her, and signal to the staff just outside the door. They step in without a word, eyes lowered.
“She’s finished,” I say quietly. “Clean this.”
“Yes, sir.”
I reach down and slip one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She’s light, pliant in my arms, her head resting against my shoulder like she was made to fit there.
“Turn down my room,” I say as I carry her past them.
