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CHAPTER 6: She Wasn't Meant to Know
Last Updated:
2025-04-06 00:22:29
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Leya breathed deep, she stamped the spasm of fear beneath her in quiet. The notebook was heavy between her fingers, leather wrinkled under her hand pressed against it. She desired the attic desolate of her before person and beast could encounter its door. She took the journal and floated to the door, hesitant hand around the doorknob so as not to squeak. She jumped at a jump because squeaking back hinges were caught in the quiet of their silent turn. She floated out and closed the door quietly. She floated down creaking wooden stairs silently with no noise whatever through the black mansion halls. She had to find somewhere where she could sit and read the journal—a spot where they'd never think to search. The servants' block? No, too probable. The library? Too probable. Her mind ran in circles until she recalled one spot that might be beyond their reach. The greenhouse. It was towards the house, on the east side of the east wing—unmown and unpicked since Samuel died. Nobody ever we
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Leya leaned against the stone wall for a moment after Harrison departed, attempting to catch her breath. The air now felt colder with him gone, his scent-scented, clean-pervading still clinging around the greenhouse. She forced the notebook into her palm, her mind spinning at what he'd stated. He doubted that she did believe him—he was good with that. She never thought that he would, though. But how that he spoke, in which he seemingly could not accomplish that which was happening, shook her to the core of herself more than she ever would concede. Harrison was ever capable, ever hard and unstoppable. And this evening, she glimpsed something—a fear or uncertainty. She wasn't going to sit around waiting for him or anyone else to make a move, She must attempt to get something out of Samuel regarding what he had been holding back and why it mattered to him. Slipping unnoticed out of the greenhouse, Leya crept unseen back into the mansion. She did not go through the front door and glided
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Leya gasped, looking at the burned letter, Samuel's words branded like a cancerous blessing in her mind."If they find out what you are—"What was she?All that she had seemed to roll away from her like loose marble, leaving her chilled. She balled the burned paper in her hand, heat branding the shape of her palm where ash foamed like hidden secrets.Shayla watched her with wide eyes. “Leya… what does it mean?”“I don’t know,” she whispered, though her voice was sharp, her spine steel. “But I’m going to find out.”Moments Later – Harrison’s WingThe hallway leading to Harrison’s private rooms was veiled in shadow, the sconces dimmed, casting sharp lines on the marble. Leya stormed forward, no longer caring about being silent, about being proper.She wasn’t here for answers anymore.She'd arrived in needing the truth—and she was going to get it out of him if it was the very last thing she ever drew breath.Guards to his front gate started tattling, but one glimpse at her—and off they s
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For a timeless, gasping moment, they were still.Leya's mouth was still inflated from the kiss—if one could even call it a kiss. It had not been tender. It had been claiming. A collision. A surrender that neither of them would admit to.Harrison's heat remained on her cheek. His hands remained on her hips, whether he didn't know if he should pull her into him… or push her away from him.It was he who finally spoke."You were never meant to read that letter."Leya's fists were bunched up. "Then maybe you should have incinerated it yourself."He released a brusque, guttural laugh, falling back and playing with his hair. His chest labored and collapsed against the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, which still felt ruffled from her hands."I couldn't," he growled.Why? she asked. "What is frightening about the threat of a dead man?"Harrison held the bar. Filled a glass but didn't drink. Stood there looking at the amber liquid as if it would somehow give him strength."You want the truth, L
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The bedroom door slammed shut behind Leya with a cold, unforgiving clang.She leaned back against the hallway her chest thudding in her ears. Her father was in jail. Her life had been bought. Samuel's lies went deeper than she'd known—and Harrison knew them. Not all of them, perhaps, but enough to send him to prison.And now there was another.Someone Samuel had feared.A woman who might very well still be within, even.She hadn't let her fury get the upper hand on her, though. Not yet. She insisted on answers—and her mother was going to provide them to her.But as she spun, turning to ascend the stairs, the stile slid back down the marble behind her. Leya didn't need to turn. She already knew.Eleanor.Particularly, for that so-smooth voice that was finer than had ever uttered. "Entertaining," the voice declared, "when something is amiss in this house, I catch you hanging around."Leya turned on purpose. Eleanor stood like a statue sculpted out of poison and ice. Everything about her
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The sun was still below the roofs of Rome, but Leya was already up in a black jacket and black jeans, eyes colder than the chilling air seeping down her cheeks. She did not wait for dawn. Not any longer for truth.She stood before the rented apartment of the Andersons, the apartment where her mother had moved them after her dad's "accident."And now, with the truth burning in her heart and Samuel's ghostly whisper spitting into the void, she was not present here as a daughter.She was present here as a tempest.Her knuckles pounded out on the door.There was nothing. And then hesitant footsteps. And the groan of the open door—her mother's lined, creased face."Leya?" her mother asked, belting her robe around her to tie herself together."Tonight, you come here late as if this place belongs to you?"Leya didn't resent being sent out. She climbed onto her, bursting in with the seethed rage.Her mother gently closed the door behind her. "Sweetheart, what is it?"Leya turned again, this t
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Leya departed in silence from her mother's flat. The Roman streets slumbered half-awake, the sky bruised by the heaviness of a sun yet to rise. Her boots created soft reverberations on the pavement as she walked—no direction, no destination.She needed to think.To breathe.Her father had given his life to protect something. Someone. A woman, a fund, a secret so explosive that it had pushed a man like Samuel Blackwood, a man with the power to kill with words, to fake his own death and conceal the evidence in a wax-sealed document.And now it was hers.Her mother's words reverberated in her mind:"He said to her if the truth came out… it would destroy everything."She looked at the letter again. The burned edges. The cut-off sentence.".If they find out who you are—"Who was she?Not just a wife.Not just a daughter.There was something in her blood—something buried in her family tree—that made everyone either wanting to control her… or murder her.Her hands shook.She needed that miss
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The mansion fell softly again. Tonight, silence did not frighten Leya. Tonight, permission was the formality. She dressed with purpose—not out of fear, but because she knew details were essential. Black pants. Pullover pushed high. Topcoat light for the part of the night but precisely what the message required. Not hiding. Not running. Walking proudly as if this world belonged to her at her feet. The burner phone rang again. Nathaniel: Back gate to the yard. Ten minutes. Nobody in sight. Leya stuffed the phone into her jacket pocket, smoothed her hair again, and stood before the mirror. "Back" just managed to squeeze out the word. She didn't look like the captive girl Harrison had held. She looked like something born of agony. The bruises remained—the pale yellow and blue smudges across the curve of her ribs, her collarbone, and jaw. No longer embarrassed. They were proof. Proof. She survived. She floated. Down. The. Hall. Bare feet silent. The east wing. Empty. Even
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The whisper had stopped. But the silence that followed wasn't silence. It was charged. With purpose. With intent. Leya did not lie well once the voice had stopped—her body outstretched on the bed, back tense against the headboard, every hair on her arms bristling not due to fear, but due to awareness. Not every step is a threat. But there are warnings. And the one that had named her tonight. It hadn't been trying to scare her. It had been trying to communicate something. That she was still being watched. And perhaps—perhaps—that someone still cared that she was worth at least something. That cut deeper at her chest than splintered ribs. She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself, seething an angry glare at where the door had existed once in the darkness. Someone had whispered her name as if it still held meaning. And that was what disturbed her most. Because it meant there was someone in this house who still thought she was worth whispering about. And that? That m
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The voice continued. Soft. Tuned. Familiar—and otherwise. "Leya…" A breath—neither cold nor warm. Did not command, did not scold. Was. Like a stretched bowstring pulled taut behind her at her back. She blinked, sight blurring through fever and weariness, but her backbone firmed—beneath, a little. Her fingers clenched into a blanket on her lap, fine cloth now armor, her foothold in the world. > Who was it? They didn't knock the second time. Didn't stir. I just stood there long enough for her to regain her breath. Long enough for her to realize this hadn't been a mistake. And then, nothing. A withdrawal in silence. The steps light. Stealthy. Commanding. No squeak of the door. No sound of retreating feet. But the tension beyond had changed. As if something had looked at her. Listened to her. Comprehended her. And that had scared her. Not because it had threatened. But because it hadn't. Because for the first time in what had seemed like forever… Someone had said her
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Nathaniel was awake. Not that night. After he'd left Leya at the mansion, her silence armor, he'd headed to the east wing. Where the paintings were, where the button-down-bloke blokes with dead eyes in frames—false gods in frames. He didn't switch on the hall light. Didn't switch it on. The weight of her words fell behind him like footprints. I don't need saving, Nathaniel. I need respect. He stood beside the bed, suit jacket still buttoned, tie open but not yet undone. He gazed at the floor for what had to be minutes or maybe hours. He imagined Leya's bruised cheek. Imagine her shaking hands from exhaustion. Recall her eyes—not wide with terror, but level with fire. If she was a fake, then she was the family's finest work. But in a part of him, he knew she wasn't. Still… in the Blackwood house, believing wasn’t enough. You had to be certain. --- The Next Morning – Nathaniel’s Study The morning sun didn’t warm him. He made the call anyway. “St. Delacroix University,
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The alley reeked of desperation and stale beer. Leya's shift had run past closing time—again. The night had crawled, but Reed had stayed with her an hour past closing to clean up a spilled drink and split tips. She didn't mind. The more hours she worked, the less she was herself. As if she were somebody else. Somebody free. Somebody who didn't owe the Blackwoods. And then the bar door slammed shut behind her and she was alone in the dark. Zipper up as far as it would go around her neck, purse on her shoulder, and still buzzing hands against sock lining—where tip envelope folded back warm along her ankle. One block down. Just one. Then— A scrape. Heavy feet, too heavy to be mistaken. She shook her head over it, looking back over her shoulder. Two black figures. Too close. Too close by design. Her heartbeat came a little quicker. Muttered voice in the distance. "Hey now… what's a fine-looking girl like you doing way out here by herself?" She stood for military attenti
