Chapter 3 No.3

The knock on the door the next morning wasn't loud, but it woke Bella instantly. She had slept in her clothes, curled in a tight ball.

Hansel stood in the doorway. He looked worse than the night before. His skin was pasty, and beads of sweat had collected along his receding hairline. He tossed a simple, gray maid's uniform onto the bed. In his hands, he held a silver tray. On it sat a porcelain teacup and a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

"Change. Now," he said. It wasn't a request.

"What's happening?" Bella asked, scrambling to pull on the stiff, unfamiliar uniform.

"No questions."

They walked fast. The house seemed even larger in the daylight, though the heavy curtains were drawn, keeping everything in a perpetual twilight. The staff they passed were practically pressing themselves into the walls to stay out of the way.

As they approached the mahogany doors of the West Wing, the sounds began. A low, guttural roaring. The sound of heavy furniture being overturned.

Hansel stopped at the bottom of the staircase leading up to the double doors. He shoved the silver tray into Bella's hands. The china rattled.

"Take this up," Hansel said. His voice wavered.

Bella stared at him. "You want me to go in there? He sounds... he sounds dangerous."

"He doesn't know your face," Hansel said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "He's been in seclusion for months, and he never bothered to look at your file. He knows us. He knows the guards. Seeing us right now triggers the violence. You are a variable. A new variable might buy us time."

"I can't," Bella said, stepping back.

Hansel grabbed her arm. His grip was bruising. "Your stepmother signed a contract, Miss Miller. If you don't go up those stairs, I make a call. Your father goes to prison for fraud, and your grandfather is evicted by noon."

Bella felt the blood drain from her face. It was a checkmate. She looked at the stairs. The carpet was a deep, blood red.

"Fine," she whispered.

She took the tray. Her arms trembled, making the teacup dance in its saucer. She took a breath and started to climb.

Every step was a battle against her own instinct to run. The roaring grew louder. She could hear words now, nonsensical shouts of rage. Stop it! Make it stop!

She reached the landing. The double doors were ajar. The smell hit her first-stale whiskey and the metallic tang of fresh blood.

Bella pushed the door open with her foot. The hinge gave a muffled groan, the sound absorbed by thick acoustic seals.

The room was a disaster zone. A four-poster bed had been stripped of its linens. An antique vanity lay on its side, the mirror smashed.

And there he was.

Adonis Morton IV stood by the window, his back to her. He was shirtless. His back was a landscape of tension, muscles coiled tight like steel cables. Scratches marred his skin, self-inflicted red lines that crisscrossed his shoulders. He was panting, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Bella tried to navigate the debris field of broken glass. She took a step. A shard of porcelain crunched under her slipper.

Adonis spun around.

Bella stopped breathing. His eyes were wild, the pupils blown wide. There was no recognition in them, only a raw, animalistic fury. He looked like a man being tortured by invisible demons.

"Get out!" he roared. The sound was a physical blow. He clapped his hands over his ears as if her presence itself was a deafening siren.

Bella froze. The tray shook violently. Clink-clink-clink.

Adonis's eyes locked onto the sound. He grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the desk beside him.

"Quiet!"

He hurled the ashtray directly at her head.