Then came the sounds of the room, its quiet hum, the tick of a distant clock, the soft groan of old wood settling beneath me. Somewhere, farther away, the wind dragged its fingers along the side of the lodge.
I fidgeted, picking at my silk skirt, savoring the smooth fabric as it slid through my fingers over and over and over.
What had this dress cost Mr. Stonewood? Probably more than my entire wardrobe combined, if I had to hazard a guess.
I did my best to sit still, perched on the edge of the bed like someone waiting for judgment. No… like someone who was begging for it.
I should’ve been terrified, and part of me was, just… not enough to change anything.
I stopped worrying at my skirt, and folded my hands loosely in my lap so I wouldn’t cling to the blanket like a lifeline. Sucking in another deep breath, I forced my shoulders to relax, and tried to remember how to breathe like a normal human being, not a woman who’d just offered herself up to the unknown for seven hundred and fifty thousand reasons.
If you pass, Granny never has to hear the words ‘past due balance’ again.
The thought almost brought tears to my eyes, but a soft knock startled them back. Just three quiet raps, precise and controlled.
“Miss Jones.” The voice was muffled by the door, but something about it slid under my skin.
The sound was somehow familiar, but certainly not Jacob. He was rougher. Warmer. All gravel and heat and barely leashed concern. My heart dropped a little, one desperate hope dashed.
This voice was smoother. It was clipped and careful, like cold velvet running along my nerve endings.
I swallowed hard and chewed on my bottom lip for a second before answering.
“Yes,” I said. My voice was so damn small and unsteady. “I — I’m ready.”
“Is your blindfold in place?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You cannot see the door, the windows, or your own hands?”
The phrasing made my pulse skip. I lifted my palms and wiggled my fingers in the absolute dark.
“No,” I said. “I can’t see anything.”
“Good girl.”
The handle turned and the door opened with a soft, unhurried squeak. I heard it close again a moment later. Then the faint sound of a lock sliding home.
My spine snapped straight.
Heavy, measured footsteps crossed the room — one, two, three, each one sinking into the rug like a countdown. The air changed around me, warmed by another presence. Something expensive and clean threaded through the scents of bergamot and old wood.
I catalogued the mixture, trying anything to keep my nerves in check. Cologne, soap, and cold air from outside still clinging to his clothes.
He didn’t speak at first, nor did he shift or pace. The man didn’t rush, either. He just let the silence stretch, full and thick, like maybe he was watching me and cataloging every breath and every twitch.
My fingers dug into the edge of the mattress.
“This is an interview,” he said at last.
His sophisticated voice wrapped around the words like silk around a blade. Low, smooth, perfectly enunciated, with a hint of distance that made it feel like a king addressing one of his subjects.
“You will answer my questions honestly,” he went on, something insufferably confident and arrogant in his tone. “If you lie, I will know. If you attempt to be clever, I will know. If I decide you are wasting my time, you will be escorted off the property before you can blink.”
My throat worked.
“Do you understand me, little doll?”
