I look at him, at the line of his jaw, the way the light hits the scar on his cheek. “Are you?”
He snorts. “No.”
We stand there for a while. The fire cracks, the coffee cools, and the world keeps spinning even though everything feels like it should have stopped.
Eventually, Briar turns to me, studies my face like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. He reaches out, slow, and tugs the sleeve of my sweater so the cuff covers my wrist.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“Yeah,” I admit.
He steps away for a second, returns with a blanket—thick, woven, the kind you see in old movies. He drapes it over my shoulders. I’m wrapped up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel more safe than scared.
“You want to talk about what Bentley said?” he asks, but I hear the dread under the words.
“No,” I say, and mean it. “Not yet.”
He nods, like he expected that.
We sit on the sofa in front of the fire. He sprawls, one leg out, arms folded over his chest. I curl up, blanket tight around me, mug cradled like a relic.
For a long time, there’s no sound but the fire and the wind and the occasional pop as a log splits.
It’s almost peaceful. But peace, in my life, is always just the eye of the storm.
I remember the way Brooks looked at me, the way Briar stood between me and the rest of the world, and I know that no matter how good this feels, it won’t last.
Nothing in this world is free.
The sun goes down early in the mountains. It isn’t even six and the light outside has faded to a blue almost as deep as black.The snow has turned the world monochrome, drifts building up against the glass, the sky a perfect blank.
Inside, the house is too quiet. I’ve read every magazine on the coffee table, walked every inch of the living room’s perimeter, watched the logs burn to coal and back again. Briar disappeared up the stairs two hours ago, and if he’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him. He needs it more than I do.
The silence starts to get to me. I’ve never been good at being idle. My skin crawls with the urge to do something—anything. I start by exploring the main floor, telling myself I’m just killing time, but there’s a part of me that wants to know more. About Brooks, about this place, about why it feels like the world’s most luxurious holding cell.
The layout is weird, open and closed at the same time. There’s the main living space with its ridiculous fireplace, a dining room set for twelve but used by none, and a library that’s more for show than for reading—leatherbound books with perfect dust jackets, probably never opened. There’s a mudroom with six pairs of boots in descending sizes, and a coat rack hung with jackets that are all in shades of black or navy.
Every room is spotless. The furniture is pure angles and raw materials: leather, steel, glass. The rugs are handwoven, the kind of thing you’d see in a museum, and the walls are hung with art that’s either deliberately ugly or just expensive.
I count three bedrooms on the main level, plus an office. The office is locked.
Of course it is.
The handle is brass, polished to a shine. The door itself is a rich, dark wood, carved with a pattern of interlocking triangles. There’s a keypad just above the handle, subtle, black on black. Most people wouldn’t notice it. Most people aren’t me.
I stare at the keypad for a full minute, curiosity burning in my gut.
Then, I try the obvious: 0-0-0-0, then 1-2-3-4. Both blink red.
Hmm… it has to be something meaningful. In the library, I remember seeing books by Kafka, Dostoevsky, Pynchon, all shelved in order of publication year.
I try 1-8-8-3, the year on the title page of the oldest book I saw in there. Nothing.
Then I notice the runner on the floor in front of the office. It’s different from the others—lighter, almost white, with a blue diamond at the center. I remember the pattern on the rug from my bedroom. I walk back, double-check it: same blue, same motif, just repeated six times instead of one.
I return to the office, key in 0-6-0-1. The display blinks green, and there’s a quiet click.
The door opens on the second try.
