Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
But as I turn the pages, someone else appears. She never names him. Just "he" and "him." A man who watches her. Who knows things he shouldn't. Who corners her in hallways and smiles like he's already won.
The final entry is barely legible, the handwriting wild and slanting.
I know what he is now. I know what Father did. I'm not a bride—I'm a transaction. But I'm done hiding. I'm going to confront him tonight, and I'm going to—
The entry ends.
Mid-sentence. Mid-word.
Like someone stopped her.
I stare at the blank space where her words should continue, and the blood in my veins has gone to ice. My hands are shaking so badly the journal trembles in my grip.
Abigail didn't run from the wedding.
She ran from him—whoever he is.
And her father knew. Her father was part of it.
So what stopped her from finishing that sentence?
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. Coming closer.
I shove the journal under my pillow, heart hammering. The door opens before I can arrange my face into anything resembling calm.
Devyn.
Of course it's Devyn. Who else would walk into my room without knocking, like privacy is a concept that simply doesn't apply to him?
He closes the door behind him. Takes two steps inside. Stops.
His golden eyes sweep over me. My position on the bed. My too-still posture. The way my hand is resting just a little too casually near the pillow.
He sees everything. He always sees everything.
"You went to the chapel."
He moves closer as he speaks. I should stand up, should put myself on more equal footing, but I don't trust my legs right now.
He stops at the edge of the bed. Looking down at me.
"And you found the passage," he says.
I could tell him. I could pull out the journal and hand it over. But until I understand what I'm dealing with, I don't know who to trust.
“What else did you find?”
"Nothing," I say. "Just a dark hallway. I didn't go far."
Devyn doesn't move. Doesn't blink.
He knows I'm lying.
I can see it in his face. And I know he knows. And this terrible awareness stretches between us.
But he doesn't push.
Instead, he reaches out.
His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up toward him. It's the same gesture he's used before. But this time his thumb traces along the line of my jaw, slow and deliberate, and I stop breathing entirely.
"You're keeping secrets," he says, and his voice has dropped to something low and soft. "From me."
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Fourth time.
I'm still counting.
My pulse is doing something completely unreasonable. My skin is burning everywhere he's touching me, and everywhere he isn't.
Stop it, Bailey. Focus.
"Everyone has secrets," I manage. "Even you."
Something changes in his expression. That almost-smile again.
"Yes," he agrees. "Even me."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Long enough to feel the weight of everything we're not saying. Long enough for me to wonder what would happen if one of us moved, if one of us closed that last impossible distance.
Then he releases my chin.
Steps back.
"Dinner is at seven," he says, his voice cool again. "Don't be late."
And then he's gone.
I sit there, not moving, barely breathing, my hand pressed against the pillow that hides Abigail's journal.
He knows I found something. He knows I'm hiding it. And he let me keep it anyway.
I pull the journal out and clutch it to my chest.
I'm not a bride. I'm a transaction.
Abigail's warning was never finished.
But somehow, some way, I'm going to find out what stopped her.
Chapter Five
I PICK UP MY FORK. Put it down. Pick it up again.
Devyn is watching me do this. I can feel his gaze like a physical thing, steady and patient and probably cataloging every nervous tic I have. The candles flicker between us, casting shadows that make his golden eyes look darker, deeper, full of things I can't read.
"We should discuss expectations," he says.
"Expectations," I repeat, like an idiot.
"For the marriage."
Right. The marriage. The thing happening in two days. The thing I keep forgetting about because I'm too busy cataloging the exact shade of amber his eyes turn in candlelight.
Not something a normal person does, Bailey. Stop it.
I clear my throat. "So, um, about that—”
“It’s not up for negotiation.”
Seriously?
“It’s illegal to force—”
“I am not forcing you to do anything. You have a choice. Marry me and live. Do not marry me and die.”
SERIOUSLY?
“Shall we continue with our discussion?”
I almost ask him if I have a choice...when I see the way his eyes are gleaming, and ugh. I already know he’s going to tell me I have a choice again. Continue and live. Do not continue and die. I’m honestly tempted to call his bluff. Like 99% tempted. But since 1% of me isn’t completely convinced it is a bluff—
“What are your expectations?” I know how to choose my battles and when to admit defeat.
"Public appearances. You'll stand beside me at court. Present a unified front."