CHAPTER 6: She Wasn't Meant to Know

The air had been thick and stagnant out there like a coiled spring, and Leya braked hard, Harrison's last words in the empty room echoing in her head.

Goodnight, wife.

She bit down hard on her cheek and took a breath. Her flesh was taut underneath where he was pressed atop hers, his pressure digging into her skin. She wasn't sure if the chill on top of her spine was fear or anger.

Or both.

Harrison was aware of it. Had been strewn about how his eyes had rested on her, imposing defective stubbornness over him. And he'd fought more fought against it—he'd risen up in protest. He had swirled her about like some plaything that revolved within his brain, unaware as to whether or not she would go back to it.

Her hands trembled and she hated it. Hated thin, hated being trapped in her own boudoir. She fought just to get herself out of bed, lead legs, shambling into the room to the window. In the mansion window outside, the mansion lawn spreads and stretches, glimmering in dark moonlight. Iron gates loom like white sentinels, taunting her to attempt to escape.

But that had been the issue, hadn't it? She hadn't been abducted by the house. She'd been abducted by them—the Blackwoods and their deceptions.

She rested her forehead on the warm glass windowpane, misting the glass with a line of breath. There was danger in the whisper. Someone did not want her there—but why now? Why, after all those months of cold disdain and contempt, would someone pick this moment to scare her tonight?

Unless.

Her eyes turned cold and unfocused, her mind racing with fragments of the puzzle. Timing. Everything that had happened this evening was otherwise forgotten. Something had been changed, and she needed to know why.

She would not shrink. She would not curl up like some cringing wife to be spoken to. She'd lost too much of herself already.

Leya leaned back far enough from the window Harrison couldn't quite grab for her, her stomach knotted tight with tension. She was not going to just sit there and wait for a break. Not now. If Harrison was going to push her, to test her and see if she would break—well, that was just fine. But she wasn't sitting there waiting for him.

Elsewhere in the Mansion.

Harrison slumped into the worn leather armchair, the fire dancing shadows across his features. The study was too still—too still. He was unable to focus on the stack of papers in front of him on the desk, couldn't get past the look on Leya's face when he'd departed in teasing her.

Her eyes had blazed with something he'd not anticipated—defiance.

He'd been conditioned to fear, or perhaps anger, but at least not this cold, impenetrable metal. It made his head and blood reel in anger and reluctant respect.

She wasn't cracking.

And how the others weren't.

A soft click of heels on the marble floor pulled his attention away as Eleanor slipped inside the room, his sharp and elegant silhouette by the doorway.

She looked up at him with narrowed eyes and he could sense the glint of suspicion in her gaze.

“She’s wandering through the hall again,” Eleanor said, annoyance bleeding into her tone.

Harrison smirked faintly. “Let her.”

Eleanor’s jaw clenched. “You’re being careless.”

His face turned cold. "I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" She stepped forward, her tone husky. "Because Father is running out of patience. He feels you're getting too close."

Harrison's eyes became frigid. "I'm not dating anyone."

"Then get rid of her, as you got rid of the others," Harrison snarled. "Or Father will have to step in—and we both know what that will achieve."

An ill look fell like a shadow upon Harrison's face. "I said I'd take care of it."

She stood motionless, and roughly, contemptuously, laughed. "You're losing your edge, Harrison. Just keep your head—she's the enemy. If you go too far with her, she'll ruin you."

He sat in silence, and in an anguish of silence, Eleanor got up and went out, leaving him to the creaking emptiness alone.

He yearned to be angry—to crush something between his fingers for the hard delight of mastery. But Eleanor's words stayed with him like a thundercloud.

He was not a prisoner. He could not be.

And why could he not forget Leya's eyes?

He returned to Leya.

The dark and menacing house where she crept unheard, all blackness that likely would prove fatal. Stealthy footsteps, controlled breathing, senses trying to find the pitch of the scream.

She was heading to the place she never dared to go before—the attic. That is where Samuel Blackwood stored most of his things after his wife's death—old memories locked in dust, hidden. Home secrets, if there were any, would be found there.

She went up the spiral staircase, her heart pounding at every step. She could get used to going up the stairs, the wood creaking under her.

The upper door creaked open an inch. Leya froze, a chill down her back, but an inch was all it took to open the door and enter the darkened space. Dust particles danced in the dim light that was coming through the dirty window.

Rank was the smell of air, stale leather, and old remembrance. Overturned crates and boxes, draped in cloth bulking bindings. She moved over them, fingers tracing over things, trying to discover some type of order among disorder.

And she stopped her fingers.

Teardrops over an old wood box was a small leather book, front inscription S.B. Samuel Blackwood.

She swallowed and let it out, harsh paper scratching on top of each other. It was neat, task writing—organization, messages, account keeping. Nothing was given on the page—except the last few entries.

A sentence leaped out at her, her stomach twisting.

"The girl will have to be kept safe. She's worth more to them than they realize. If Harrison gets wind—"

The page was torn, the words flowing into nothing. Leya's hands shook as she worked through the remaining pages, but they were blank or torn.

More important than they realized? What did that even mean to mean? And why shouldn't Harrison be told about it?

That fell like a lead in the pit of her stomach—Samuel was hiding something from her. Something important.

She received a blast of cold air before she even managed to take a sip. She was wakened by the creak of the back door hinge of the attic.

She heaved herself up and spun around, waving in the direction of the dark void. But nothing. All there was, was the whistle of wind in broken windows.

She hugged the journal to her and backed away slowly, her stomach yelling at her to flee. Whatever Samuel'd been plotting—whatever he'd intended to die with—someone didn't want her to know.

And that someone was still in the room.