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I accompany Nathaniel to the west wing where we check all the locked doors. He unlocks them with his master key, and we search, high and low, in every crevice, every corner.
Nothing.
Next we check the missing silver. It’s still missing, but we find no other clues. We check everything I noted in my head.
By the time we reach the kitchen corridor, the log is gone.
Not altered.
Gone.
The clipboard hangs empty from its hook beside the pantry inventory sheets.
A new clipboard has replaced it near the main counter. Fresh paper, fresh ink, all deliveries accounted for.
No missing line.
No torn page.
No proof.
Everything has led to a dead end. Why did I bother remembering everything then?
By the time we reach the old guest wing—where I was supposed to inspect the bathrooms but never got to them—it’s nearly dinnertime.
This part of Vexley House is rarely used.
Nathaniel stops outside an empty room, opens the door, and checks inside.
I follow because apparently making bad decisions is now a thing for me.
He closes the door. “We need a minute,” he says.
I laugh softly. “Do we?”
“Yes.”
“Or do you?”
He meets my gaze. I try not to notice how impossibly green his eyes are. How impossibly beautiful his entire face is.
“I never meant to make you feel like a thing I take when I need to feel human.” He steps closer, slowly this time.
No grabbing.
No command.
No assumption.
“If I touch you again,” he says, “it won’t be because I’m trying to forget this house.”
My heart beats once, hard. “Then why?”
“Because I can’t stop wanting you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
My breath catches. “Nathaniel,” I whisper.
“I never asked if you wanted what I gave you,” he says.
