The door closes behind him with a soft click, but I can hear him pause on the other side. Can picture him standing there, fighting the same battle I am. And I’m alone, surrounded by luxuries I never knew existed. The bed is enormous, piled high with pillows and covered in linens that probably have thread counts in the thousands. There’s a fireplace with logs already laid, waiting to be lit. Fresh flowers in crystal vases. An attached bathroom with marble surfaces and gold fixtures.
I should hate this. I should be furious at the presumption, the way he’s trying to buy my compliance with comfort and luxury. Ishould be planning my escape, figuring out how to get past Wren and her keys, over that wall with its cruel spikes.
But I’m not planning to escape anymore. I just asked a man to teach me how to kill. The words are still hanging in the air between us, impossible to take back. I told him I want to hunt down every single person who murdered my father. I laid out my plan for revenge like I was discussing the weather.
What kind of person does that make me?
I find myself sinking onto the bed, my body melting into a mattress that’s like sleeping on a cloud. And all I can think about is the way Blue looked at me just now—like he wanted to consume me and protect me at the same time.
When was the last time I slept somewhere without worrying about the couple fighting next door? When was the last time I ate a meal that didn’t come from a can or a takeout container?
When was the last time a man looked at me like that—like I matter?
The girl who worried about rent money never would have asked someone to teach her how to murder people. But maybe the person lying in this bed is someone else—someone who wants blood and doesn’t feel guilty about it.
As I sink deeper into Egyptian cotton sheets and pull a luxurious down comforter around my shoulders, I can’t help thinking about Cinderella. About what it might feel like to live in a world where money isn’t a constant source of anxiety, where someone else worries about keeping you safe and fed and comfortable.
But I’m not Cinderella. And Blue isn’t Prince Charming. He’s something much more complicated, much more dangerous. And God help me, that only makes me want him more.
But maybe just for one night, I can pretend this is real. Maybe just for one night, I can let myself imagine what it would be like to not be alone.
The thought of letting down my guard should terrify me.
Instead, it follows me toward sleep, even as a warning bell keeps chiming in the back of my mind—persistent and urgent, telling me I’m in danger and the only way I can protect myself is by learning how to become the danger.
Chapter Eleven
Saylor
Some mornings you wake up in a four-poster bed with exquisite sheets and think, “Well, this is my life now.”
Dad would have loved this place. Not the gothic mansion part—he wasn’t really into displays of wealth—but the fact that someone was finally taking care of me.
Except now Dad’s gone, and for the first time since I was eight years old, I’m actually considering taking his advice. Back then it was “Let me help you with your math homework, sweetheart.” Now it’s his voice in my head saying, “Stop being so stubborn and let someone take care of you for once.”
Blue would let me leave—I feel that in my bones. Yeah, he technically kidnapped me, but underneath all the murder and mystery, he seems like a decent guy trying to keep his promise to a dead friend.
Jesus, toxic thinking much? “He kidnapped me but he’s probably nice” isn’t exactly the foundation for healthy decision-making.
But maybe, just this once, I’m going to listen to what Dad’s telling me from the grave. I heard his final words to Blue. Maybe it’s time to stop insisting I can handle everything alone. Maybe it’s time to stop running and start fighting back.
I should be furious with my father. How did I not know what he really did for a living? Did he lie to me? Not exactly—I just assumed all that talk about “consulting” and “helping people with complicated situations” meant finance or something equally boring. Dad work. The kind of stuff that made my vision glaze over when he’d mention it over Sunday pancakes.
It’s not like I asked a lot of questions. I was a teenager focused on school and friend drama. I figured it was spreadsheets and meetings, not whatever the hell the Crow are or places like Crowshaven or friends named Blue who do whatever it is Blue does.
How could I have missed all of this? How did I live twenty-three years thinking my dad was just some middle-aged guy with a nine to five, when apparently he had an entire shadow life I never even suspected existed?
I guess boring dad work was never as boring as I thought.
I’m lurking outside the dining room at 7 a.m., watching Blue through the doorway as he performs what’s clearly a morning ritual. He’s traded yesterday’s funeral suit for a charcoal sweater that fits like it was made for him, paired with dark slacks that probably never wrinkle. His hair is damp from a shower, combed back but already starting to curl at the edges, and that blue-tinted beard frames a mustache with deliberate rockabilly curls at the ends that somehow make him look both vintage and untouchable.
He sits alone at a table built for entertaining, reading his newspaper... an actual newspaper. His coffee cup is so delicate I’m surprised it doesn’t dissolve when he touches it. Even his toast has been cut into perfect triangles and arranged with a care most people reserve for surgery.
The man makes breakfast look uptight but sexy.
I’m still wearing yesterday’s green dress because putting on the clothes the Crow stole from my apartment feels like surrender. The emerald fabric clings uncomfortably after a night of restless sleep, my hair has taken on a life of its own, and I’m about to walk into that dining room and ruin his perfect morning.
I walk through the doorway, my footsteps loud against the marble. “Morning.”
