Her eyes dimmed with dread and sparked with something else, something she didn’t want. Something she didn’t understand yet.
Perfect.
“Go upstairs,” I said softly. “He’ll come to you at ten o’clock again. Don’t forget your blindfold.”
She nodded once, shaky, even as her face reddened with the realization that Jacob knew, or at least suspected, what she’d done with Mr. Stonewood over the past couple of nights.
Then she turned and walked away, her back straight, hands trembling, skin flushing at the memory of my palm bruising her last night and the night before.
I watched her go, drinking in the sway of her hips, the tremor in her calves, the way she touched my mother’s ring like it grounded her.
She thought tonight was going to be about a broken vase. She thought tonight was about protecting the staff. She thought tonight was about consequences for her interference, even if I theoretically agreed with the outcome of her protecting my staff.
She had no idea the only thing I cared about punishing was the way her voice shook when she said she’d take the blame.
And God help both of us, I intended to hear it shake again before the night was over.
I waiteduntil the lodge was silent, the clock ticking past ten like a heartbeat I couldn’t slow. Tonight felt heavier — different — because she hadn’t just defied the Game. She’d stepped in front of a bullet meant for someone else and dared me to pull the trigger on her instead.
I waited until the lodge was silent, the clock ticking past ten like a heartbeat I couldn’t slow. Tonight felt heavier — different — because she hadn’t just defied the Game. She’d stepped in front of a bullet meant for someone else and dared me to pull the trigger on her instead.
I entered through the passage, the door whispering shut behind me. Locked it. The room was dim, lamplight pooling gold on the rug, and there she was: blindfolded, sitting rigid on the bed’s edge, hands knotted in her lap. The ring caught the light every time her fingers moved — my mother’s ring, twisting like a worry bead.
I didn’t circle her this time. I didn’t speak.
I just stood there, letting the silence stretch until her breathing fractured. Until she felt the weight of what she’d done settle on her shoulders like a hand.
Then I moved.
I stopped directly in front of her, close enough that the heat of my body brushed her knees. She flinched — just a small jerk — but didn’t pull away.
“You took the blame today,” I said, voice low, almost conversational. “Volunteered yourself like a sacrifice.”
She nodded once, small.
“Why?”
Her throat worked.
“Because it was the right thing to do.”
Simple. Clean. No strategy. No calculation. Just Chrissy Jones being Chrissy Jones.
Something in me snapped — not anger, not jealousy. Something deeper. Awe, maybe. Or the terrifying realization that she was better than this house, better than this Game, better than the man running it.
I reached out and caught her chin, tilting her face up. My thumb brushed her lower lip, rougher than I meant.
“You think I’d hurt her?” I asked, quieter. “That I’d let someone in my house be punished for an accident?”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I still don’t know what you’d do.”
That honesty gutted me.
I released her chin and stepped back.
“Stand up.”
She did, legs unsteady. I took her hand — the one with the ring — and led her to the foot of the bed, turning her to face it. I pressed between her shoulder blades until she bent forward, palms flat on the duvet, ass presented.
