"But Killian, if you would just listen to—"
"I said good night."
I shut the door, the click of the lock sounding final. I didn't turn on the lights. I walked straight to the window and looked up, thinking about climbing the tree. Then I thought better of it.
I sighed. Me marrying into this family was starting to sound worse than I anticipated. The father was a parasite. I pulled out my phone, the screen a jagged glare in the dark.
To Cartier:Have you found out anything worth finding?
Cartier had already left the estate to investigate a lead in the city, so I didn't expect an immediate reply. I tossed the phone onto the bed and headed to the shower.
I stripped off my jeans and T-shirt and stepped into the spray, turning the water as hot as I could stand it. As the steam filled the glass enclosure, I closed my eyes, and I saw Chloe’s eyes staring back at me. My body instantly began to respond. I leaned my head against the tile, the heat of the water doingnothing to calm me. What was it about her that was quickly turning into a singular, dangerous obsession?
Chapter 9: Killian
I’d been out of the shower for hours. I couldn’t sleep because I was lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, hoping she would come.
I checked my watch at 11:52. Then at 12:18, I thought,Maybe she’s sleeping.At 1:03, I started feeling that maybe she was in danger. That thought sat in my chest like a stone. Something felt off.
This house itself, the people in it—everything here felt predatory. The parents felt like leeches. The servants moved around the house like zombies when they weren't hiding. They didn’t make eye contact; they didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then, they didn’t answer questions. There was a rot beneath the floorboards and a layer of filth on everyone I'd met, but it was hidden under expensive finishes and polished manners.
I breathed out and pulled the pillow over my face, listening for any movement. Next time I looked at the time, it was 1:47.
Fuck this.I got up, my patience snapping, and threw on my robe. I eased the room door open and waited to see if Olivia, the stepmother, or the father would appear. I moved through the dark house like I’d been trained to—quiet, careful, aware of every creaking floorboard—until I was at the attic stairs.
The wood was cold under my feet. The steps groaned softly, like they were keeping my secret. At the top, there was a heavy door—the kind that looked like it belonged in a prison, not a home. A key was dangling from the lock. I unlocked it, the metallic click echoing in the narrow space, and pushed the door open, pocketing the key.
The smell hit me first. Old wood, the scent of her skin, and something sweet she used in her hair.
And blood.
My heart sped up. I searched the wall next to the door. I found the light switch. The single bare bulb flickered to life, casting long, jagged shadows across a room that looked like a war had been fought inside it. The mattress was flipped. Broken porcelain was scattered across the floor like jagged white teeth. Dark spots stained the wall with smears of fresh blood. The floor was slick with spilled water.
My heart stopped. I saw her.
She was in the corner, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them so tight her knuckles looked like they hurt. She was curled into the shadows as if she were trying to disappear into the very wood of the house.
"Chloe."
Nothing.
I crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal I knew was capable of biting. I dropped to my haunches in front of her, close enough to see the frantic, shallow rise and fall of her shoulders. Close enough to see the raw, split skin on her hands.
"Chloe. Look at me."
She didn't look up, but her voice cracked through the silence, barely a whisper. "Are you hurt?"
"Hold me," she said instead of answering.
That was all it took. I didn't ask questions. I didn't push. I sat down against the wall and hauled her into my lap, wrapping my arms around her as tight as I could, hoping I could physically shield her from whatever ghost had torn this room apart. She was rigid at first, a statue of grief, then her fingers found my robe, clutching the fabric, holding onto me like I was the only solid thing in a world trying to swallow her whole.
I held her. Said nothing. But my mind was frantic. What had happened here?
I don’t know how long we sat there. Long enough for my legs to go numb. Long enough for her breathing to steady. Long enough for the tension in her body to ease just enough.
Then she moved. She pulled back just far enough to look at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and exhausted, but something else lived behind them. She stood, reached down, and took my hand, pulling with more strength than I expected. I let her guide me to the only chair in the room—a rocking chair with a thin cushion, older than I was. She pushed me into it, then disappeared for a moment, rummaging beneath a loose floorboard. When she turned back, she had a piece of paper in her hand.
She settled into my lap. Then she held up the paper.
