Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
The first door I try is painted deep burgundy with a keyhole shaped like a heart. The handle turns under my hand, but the door doesn’t budge. Locked, just like I somehow knew it would be.
The second door, this one covered in blue velvet, is also locked. As is the third, painted silver with a keyhole surrounded by carved roses.
Every door I try stays stubbornly closed, their keyholes dark and secretive. But one of those keys hanging overhead has to fit each lock. That’s the only reason for such a display. Blue hasn’t just locked these rooms; he’s turned the whole process into some kind of elaborate puzzle.
The hallway seems to stretch forever, with more doors than any reasonable person could need. What could possibly require this much secured storage space? Art collection? Wine cellar? Historic artifacts?
Or seven wives who asked too many questions?
Christ, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like one of those true crime podcasts.
I’m halfway down the hallway when curiosity finally wins over common sense. I kneel beside a door painted the color of dried blood, pressing my eye to the keyhole like some Victorian gossip trying to spy on the neighbors.
It’s too dark to see anything clearly, but there’s definitely a room beyond the door. And something pale that might be fabric. Or skin. Or—
“I told you not to go to the third floor.”
I jump so hard I nearly fall backward onto the carpet. I scramble to my feet, adrenaline spiking through my system as I turn to face him.
Blue’s standing at the other end of the hallway, still wearing the clothes he left in, but now they are rumpled and stained with something dark across his shirt front. His hair is disheveled, like he’s been in a fight, a storm, or both, and there’s something in the way he looks at me that makes every instinct scream at me to run.
But there’s nowhere to go except past him, and something tells me that’s not happening.
“You’re back early,” I say, trying for casual and missing by about a mile. “I thought you’d miss dinner.”
“Plans changed.” He starts walking toward me, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Care to explain why you’re kneeling in front of doors you have no business opening?”
“I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t open anything.” The words tumble out too fast, making me sound exactly as guilty as I am. “I was just curious about the keys. They’re beautiful. Very . . . decorative.”
Blue stops about six feet away, close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw but far enough that I can’t read his face clearly in the dim light.
“Curious,” he repeats, his tone suggesting curiosity might be a capital offense in his world.
“I’m sorry. I know you said the third floor was private, but I was alone in this enormous house and I got bored and started wandering and—” I’m babbling now, words spilling out like I can somehow explain away the fact that I’m obviously snooping through his most personal space. “I didn’t actually go into any rooms. I tried the handles but they’re all locked anyway, so really I was just looking at the hallway, which is honestly very impressive from an interior design perspective—”
“Saylor.”
The way he says my name makes me stop mid-sentence.
“We have dinner guests waiting downstairs,” he says. “We can talk about this later.”
Dinner guests. Right. Because nothing says “I’m definitely not hiding seven dead wives in my coffin manor,” like hosting a dinner party immediately after catching your current girlfriend snooping around locked doors.
“Dinner guests?” I repeat. “Right now?”
“They’re waiting downstairs.” His tone shows this isn’t up for negotiation.
“Blue, about what just happened—”
“Later.” He steps aside, gesturing toward the stairs with exaggerated politeness that feels more like a threat. “After you.”
As I walk past him toward the staircase, trying to project confidence I definitely don’t feel, I catch a glimpse of his glare in my peripheral vision.
He’s not angry.
He’s calculating.
And somehow, that’s infinitely worse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blue
Wren has truly outdone herself with tonight’s table setting. The crystal gleams, the silver is polished to mirror brightness, and our three dinner guests are tied so expertly to their chairs that they could pass for enthusiastic participants if you ignored the duct tape.
I guide Saylor into the dining room with my hand at the small of her back, feeling the tension radiating through her body as she takes in the scene. Leroy “The Prince” Crow sits to the immediate right of where Saylor normally sits, his refined features twisted with fury despite the gag. Jack “The Knife” Crow occupies the chair across from him, while Victor “The Veteran” Crow, the old-school gangster with the cane sword, completes our dinner party triumvirate.
“Gentlemen,” I say pleasantly, pulling out Saylor’s chair next to Leroy with the courtesy of a perfect host. “So pleased you could join us for dinner.”