“I was fine. He didn’t need to leave,” I say, my voice thinner than I want it to be. I swallow hard, nerves curling tight in my stomach.
Flynn says nothing, just stares. He turns and walks away, slow and steady, like nothing happened.
I spot Kaden near the entrance, watching. Of course he’s here too.
My jaw clenches, heat rising up my neck.What the actual hell was that?Then I remember the voicemail. The one from that night.
Did he see the blood?
My face burns. I shove the thought down and turn away, snapping a dozen more photos just to look busy. Then I make a quick line for the elevator, wanting to disappear before my heart shows too much on my face.
I stop on every floor to take pictures. The hallways stretch long and wide, each one carved from old wealth. The ceilings are a mix of thick wood beams and exposed brick, the kind that whispers stories from centuries past. Tall iron chandeliers hang above, their candle-shaped bulbs casting warm glows along deep red carpets. Golden-framed paintings line the walls, nestled between massive floral arrangements of primrose and Easter lily. Everything smells faintly of lavender and oak polish, like a forgotten castle brought back to life.
Each floor feels like its own wing of royalty, draped in Irish grandeur and ghosted history.
Finally, I reach the top.
The air shifts slightly. Cooler. Quieter. I walk slowly, the red carpet here even softer beneath my shoes. The walls are a deeper shade of wood,polished to a mirror-like sheen. At the far end, I spot it, the King’s Room. Two enormous vases frame the door, bursting with local flowers. Delicate primrose, pale lilies, thick wild greenery. I pause to photograph them, the contrast of softness against the heavy oak door catching my eye.
Then I push the handle.
It’s unlocked. Just like Tiernan said.
I step inside, and the breath leaves my lungs.
The entrance is arched in carved walnut, thick and heavy. Old iron sconces flicker dimly on the stone walls, casting gentle shadows that stretch across the room like silk ribbons. The ceilings are high, held up by dark wooden beams that creak ever so slightly, like they’ve witnessed centuries of secrets. Thick red silk curtains hang by tall windows, each trimmed in gold thread, their folds shimmering as they shift in the breeze.
There’s an oak table near the centre, old and solid. Beyond it, the bed rises like a throne.
Jesus Christ. Who the hell sleeps here—Bigfoot?
It’s massive. Four posts, all carved and twisted like ancient vines, reach up toward the ceiling. Red silk sheets drape across it, the kind that look too expensive to touch, never mind sleep on. A matching fabric spills from above, caught in gold hooks like some sort of ceremonial canopy.
I move toward the window and pull the curtain aside.
The view steals my breath.
The sea stretches wide and glassy, reflecting the orange sky as the sun dips low. Everything looks dipped in gold and fire. It’s quiet. Beautiful. Sacred.
“This would’ve been a better place.”
I jump, spinning fast.
Flynn is leaning against the doorframe, his body half in shadow. His suit is black, tailored, hugging every inch of him like it belongs there. His eyes are unreadable, fixed on me with a cold, calculating calm. His hands rest in his pockets like he’s not a threat at all. That’s the trick of him.
A chill runs down my spine.
“Better for what?”
He takes one step inside. The air feels tighter.
“To take your virginity, Autumn.” His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that turns my blood cold.
He pulls his hands free and steps forward, slow and deliberate. Even with the space between us, I find myself moving back. There’s nowhere to go. Just the window behind me and a sheer drop into the sea.
“Virginity?” I laugh awkwardly, my voice catching. “What are you talking about?”
I try to sidestep him. Keep it light. Keep moving, but his arm moves faster than I expect.
