Contract marriage with the ruthless billionaire ceo boss

Molly's POV

"Your room is ready upstairs," she added, not smiling.

"What suite does my parents have?" More out of habit than ambition, I asked.

Her quiet spoke to me enough.

I passed the drawing room and stopped at the door to show my father his study. There was something dragging at me. One breath, a whisper, a flutter of remembrance. My hand stretched for the doorknob. Lock locked. naturally.

Still, the smell of leather and ancient paper permeated the opening under the door. My chest seized. His confessional, his war chamber, his haven had been that room. It was simply another place under ghost protection now.

I closed my eyes and pushed my palm up to the door. I could hear him again for a moment, his laughter, his voice calling me pumpkin, the sound of his glass clinking as he poured brandy at midnight. But the moment passed just as fast as it arrived.

I spun on a slight creak behind me. Not anything there. Alternatively I reasoned.

Underneath the sideboard, I caught glimmer. I stooped down and reached. My fingers swept something metallic, an ancient key. Bronze faded. perfect edges. Though it had no name, I knew.

I stood with a beating heartbeat. Let it slide into the lock.

That clicked.

The door sighed open.

The smell initially came to me Aging parchment and tobacco. My heart tore open.

Everything stayed unaltered. The office desk. The racks. The chessboard midway through the game. Still hanging on the hanger like he would have returned any second is my father's coat.

I then spotted it, the desk's bottom drawer. a strange latch. I grabbed it.

locks.

I stooped to look at it. a mark cut on the handle. The symbol of my father. There is no keyhole.

I straightened gradually, something invisible weighing on me.

Footsteps behind me.

Edith sat at the head of the table, face perfectly powdered like porcelain, stance stiff. Her dark hair was tied tightly into a bun that hurt. Pearls like a rope hung to her throat. She raised her wine glass and gave me a weak grin that never touched her eyes.

"Molly," she said, her voice synthetic honey. "You have completed."

I tightened and practiced while smiling. That is what college cuisine does.

She murmured, eyes glancing at me like I was a sculpture she disliked.

Jack arrived without formality smelling of pricey cologne and casual attitude. Designed suit suiting his towering body, hair slicked back precisely, smile sharp enough to cut glass. He moved like a man who believed the place belonged to him. Perhaps he thought it as well.

He murmured, gliding into the chair next to mine without asking, "Look who's back." His look stayed a second too long. Las Vegas missed its little princess.

I choked the heat rising up my neck. "Jack, I am not royalty."

He let out a quiet laugh. "That's what drives fun in it."

Dinner came on lobster, saffron rice, asparagus twisted into ribbons on silver dishes. I put none of it in taste. Under Edith's continuous comments, every bite became sand in my mouth.

"You should think about switching your major," she said, cutting her food like she was operating. "Business promises a better future than literature. Though your father may have granted your wishes, the real reality we live in now.

My fork stopped halfway between here. "My father approved of my decisions."

She laughed briefly in clipped tones. Indeed, and check how far that got him.

The remarks impacted more forcefully than they ought to have. Jack's hand slid over the table, fingers just brushing mine. Far too slow. Too deliberate.

I moved away.

He bent forward, his breath tickling my ear. "We ought to discuss later. Not just you and me.

I grabbed for my glass instead of the steak knife and mustered a kind grin.

Edith saw everything across the table, calm delight curling in the margins of her mouth.

Jack's hand came back to my wrist, hanging longer than required beneath the table. His grip was strong and possessive. My pulse started to revolt.

"We should talk," he murmured, soft this time then strong.

I turned not to look at him I stayed calm. Still, I understood then that this was not dinner. This was a rehearsal. A forerunner to something more sinister. He was not showing flirtation. He was assertively declaring.

And Edith was letting him too.

The air became dense. Just to keep my glass from shaking, my fingers wrapped around its stem.

I got down. "Excuse me."

At first, I strolled aimlessly, past tall oil paintings and ancient grandfather clocks ticking with hollow rhythm, trailed fingers along the wood-panelled walls. The house still looked the same. Not in its most basic form. Still, it wasn't the house I knew. Now it felt like a cage golden in history and custom, one I had not agreed to enter.

Something drew me down a corridor I hadn't walked since childhood. My father used to vanish with his ledgers and locked files along a passage covered in dark velvet drapes soiled with time. Nobody ever mentioned his activities in that area of the residence. I imagined secrets beyond those walls as a girl, then I knew better.

I stopped beyond the study door. Though I had not planned to visit here, my steps had guided me as though recollection still murmurs through these walls.

I slid the knob.

It granted.

Inside, the room had a quiet unlike that of the rest of the home, dense, respectful. From floor to ceiling, mahogany shelves piled volumes with age-worn cracked spines. Half full of brandy, a decanter rested unbroken on the side table. Tobacco still smelled, ghosting the room like a memory not letting go.

The desk took front stage in the space. Sleek. Significant. Not movable. The king that is my father. I went gently around it, eyes glancing over the papers left behind. Some were old account ledgers, not unusual. But I noticed something under the heap, a parchment peep-through corner.

I drew it free.

a record. Beautiful black writing on thick cream paper. Not recent, not ancient enough to let gather dust. Across the top, gold stamped "Private Addendum to Will."

I turned to look at it.

provision about inheritance.

My breath came to a stop.

As my mind whirled, the ink faded. The clause is the one they avoided direct discussion of. I examined the paper, my fingers shaking. Married by twenty-three or all assets would go to the next qualified male lineage. No deviations.

Under my ribs my heart thundered. This was leverage, not only a formality in cruelty. Control. Their waiting for was exactly this. This was the foundation of everything.

Behind me, footsteps.

Too gentle for Eliza's tastes. Too rapid to be an echo.

With pulse thrashing in my ears, I turned automatically and held the document to my chest.

Not at all.

Still, the sensation slid down my spine.

One had followed me.

The paper still in my fingers, I turned toward the desk. My fingers lightly brushed something metallic.

John's voice floated low, low, demanding, cruel down the hall.

"She is a youngster. ignorant. Give it a few months; she will sign anything we show her.

Jack's voice came next, sleek and seductive, slinkily poisoned. You are pushing just too softly. She was twenty-one already. We lose everything if she marries not at twenty-three.

There is a pause. My breath was held.

John said, " colder this time." "I have long enough waited time. Her father's haughtiness was the clause; he never considered she would survive without him. She is here, nonetheless, and vulnerable. The will ties all to her marriage. We run the estate; we choose her marriage partner.

Their leisurely walks across the hall brought them closer to the corner from where I crouched behind the wall.

Jack said, "You've made her comfortable," with irritation tumbling through his words. "We should be tightening the chain."

"I have set aside the engagement party for next month," John stated calmly. She will see it as a celebration of her comeback.

Jack shot back, "She's not stupid." She looks at me like she sees straight through.

"She doesn't have to like you," John said squarely. She only has to wed you.

quiet. Then laughing, harsh and deep, like a razor glancing glass.

And should she fail as well? Jack query.

There was silence in the corridor. Then John's voice once more, darker now. Then we present it as an accident. Automobile. a drop. Something sad yet plausible.

My throat tightened.

My hands trembled over the paper. Grounding myself, I pushed my palm to the wall, but everything around slanted. The air seemed to weigh more. Everything crushed downward, including the floor, the ceiling, the history.

I backed off carefully, trying not to create noise. Every stride away from the study door was like sludging through muck. Not wanting to move were my legs. My ears ringing.

an accident. My parents died in that manner.

Stuttering into the hall, I stayed in the shadows. Turning the corner and walked for the stairway, my heart throbbed under my skin.

Voices behind me kept on, fading now.

"You'll have your bride," John replied with certainty. Even if she walks down the aisle in chains.

My boyhood bedroom remained the same. The same flowered wallpaper faded all around the corners. I had wept myself to sleep in the same four-poster bed my parents passed through late at night. Even that familiarity seemed like a stranger now.

Pacing the room, fingers pulling through my hair, I threw the paper on the dresser. My breathing came irregular and shallow. Though it didn't help, I counted it out, inhaled, exhaled, repeated. The walls still gave the impression of receding.

I went back over their voices in my head. Every sound. Every threat.

a marriage under duress. an expected mishap.

I slid into the old velvet chair by the window. My gaze turned down the street. void. silence. I did not, however, feel alone.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I turned once more to study the paper. There was a real clause here. Not paranoid here was this This was not a hunched posture. Written, signed, and hidden until the right time to capture me.

I had straight stepped into it.

One pawn changed to look like a daughter.

The doorknob hummed.

I stopped freezing.

Once more, it turned.

I inhaled and focused on the door. It had not occurred to me.

Another turn, this one more acute and angry.

There was someone trying to enter.

Before my head caught up, my legs moved. I hauled the paperwork beneath the mattress. I then stretched for the empty nightstand drawer and opened it.

No key. No weapon here.

The knob swirled once more. The lock moaned.

Molly? Jack spoke from the other side, dripping. "Why'd you hurry off so quickly?"

I took a step back.

"Exit."

His voice sank to lower pitch. "Are you concealing something?"

I missed the response.

Quiet.

Then a little laugh in silence.

"I can be patient," he said. "But you should know, this house has a way of unlocking what's hidden."

Molly's POV

Fibrizio, I'm leaving. I wish I could bring you this personally. But I am tired of waiting now. I won to be another pawn in John's hands; they want to trap me. Forget you; if you ever looked after me. Don't try to find me; if you ever loved me as a brother. Simply said, I had no choice.

I folded the paper and my fingers shook. I pushed it well inside my notebook, felt the brink of the envelope, looked at my name scribbled across it in uneven script, then pushed it further within.

But the emotion stayed with me. The weight stayed in my chest like something left unsaid. As I got out of the chair, a lump in my throat got tighter. I looked about the room, at the walls formerly filled with laughing, the shelf still holding my mother's beloved books, the broken windowpane never corrected.

That letter cannot be left behind.

It would only cause conflict.

I moved quite quickly, nearly too quickly. The notebook opened out in my hand. The envelope dropped free and floated toward the carpet like a dead leaf. I took it up, flipped it over once, then twice, then once more. The hearth's fire cracked and spewed cinders.

I moved nearer.

The paper grabbed fire more quickly than I anticipated. It whirled and blackened, ashes floating like small ghosts. I watched the last of it break down, a faint scorching emerging from the ashes.

Not now was turning back possible.

Underneath my bed, I withdrew the faded canvas bag. My hands worked without thought, folding garments, tucking in the little cash I had saved, a picture of my parents, a pair of gloves, my student ID, and the fake papers I had stashed under the loose floorboard for months.

the phoney license. changed birth certificate. Under another name is the transportation pass.

I slid them under my blouse, toward the skin, tightly wrapped against my body. Looking at myself in the mirror, same face, same eyes, but something strange in the reflection, my heart stuttered. A woman on the edge of running.

As I pushed my body against the wall, my fingertips stroked the brick covered with ivy. I started to breathe faster now. I passed the old fountain; its marble angels, their stony features worn down to smooth, sorrowful smiles, chipped and coated with moss.

I started toward the corner post.

Stiff with rust, the wrought iron gate creaked under my hand. I started to hurt. In darkness, every sound seemed more powerful. I pressed inch by inch until the aperture was wide enough to slide through.

But the second I passed the threshold and light burst behind me.

a movement sensor.

Sadly late.

As I dove low, bag crushed at my side, my pulse hammered across my ribs. The light created lengthy shadows on the brick path as it spilled across the hedges in a broad arc.

Had they seen me?

I was not waiting to learn.

Boots crunching with each stride, I shot across the gravel alleyway. My body followed instinct, head down, arms close, heart jumping higher every second. Looking back would be too expensive.

The street cleared ahead. Beyond the boundaries of the estate, the city breathed noise, traffic, anonymity. liberty.

Slinking between two buildings, I dropped behind a dumpster until the light behind me clicked off once more. My lungs cried out for breathing. My fingertips hurt with cold.

I still stopped for a moment.

I then smiled.

I would have made it outside.

Still, it was still under development.

Like every other female strolling late into the city night, I straightened, tightened the scarf around my neck, and sank into the glow of the streetlight.

Except I was not merely strolling.

I started to sprint.

Leaving for my life.

And they did not yet know.

but they would.

I couldn identify the sound the breeze conveyed.

a clean metallic scream.

I kept my hood down, scarf tightly over my chin, merging with the shuffle of night visitors. My eyes flew across the terminal board, departure timings flashing red against the screen covered in dust-smudges.

Sacramento, 11:15 PM.

San Diego, tonight midnight.

Los Angeles, twelve twenty in the morning.

No direct paths to the calmer coast of California. I had to vanish, not be spotted drinking tea in a downtown cafe. Heart still racing, I moved approached the kiosk.

Not even looking up, the woman behind the desk had languid rhythm with her fingers clanking against keys.

I said, keeping my voice low, "one-way." "San Bernardino."

Her fingers stopped, bored, distant, her eyes flicked up. "Cash or card?" asks

I moved folded cash under the glass.

Her hands did not move quickly. Not one thing about her did. Every second stretched too long as I tapped my fingers on the counter.

The ticket turned out with slow hiss.

Platform Four:

She said, "Next bus leaves in fifteen," handing it across.

I snatched it quickly, fingers stroking the edge like it may vanish with a blink-off.

I turned, but something hardened my gut.

One man leaned against the pillar close to the vending machine area. He turned away from the board. He was not perusing the newspaper. Apart from watching me, he was not doing anything.

a wool coat. Black gloves for leather. Dark cap pulled low over face I couldn't quite see.

But I was aware of that posture.

Too Still. Not too balanced.

He wasn't a tourist either. He was expecting.

I turned to look at the benches. A woman cradled her weeping infant. A man in overalls peicked at his sandwich. On her phone, a teenage girl skrolled.

Not one of them turned to see him.

He wasn't looking at them, though.

With my ticket like a lifeline, I proceeded carefully toward the platform.

Don't rush.

Running generates interest.

Act as if you belong here.

Every foot I pushed into steady rhythm. My shoulders came back to themselves. My breathing brought itself under control. My back burned, though, like if his eyes were engraved into it.

A bus rummled into the harbor, headlights cutting the darkness, brakes screaming.

I turned away from the past.

One foot after another, I persisted in walking till I came to the side of the bus and the driver opened the luggage hatch.

"Boarding now," he growled, nodding at the line developing behind me.

I gave him the ticket then started climbing.

Inside the air felt warm and stuffy. I crouched low, slid into a seat close to the rear, eyes locked on the shadowed glass.

Out there the man has disappeared.

But my skin felt like it crawled.

The bus door creaked close.

And with every mile, the world outside that station, the mansion, the threats, Jack, John, everything slid more behind me.

Still, I couldn't get it off my mind.

I had been observed by someone.

Nor would they stop.

Curling toward the window, I watched the blur of shadowed trees, half-lit buildings, and the infrequent neon flutter like ghosts. Faces came and went in those reflections, my mother's elegant eyes, my father's friendly smile, the way they used to laugh in the garden following Sunday lunch. The black road ahead swallowed the echoes then.

Needing something firm on my flesh, something that stayed the same when I blinked, I placed my forehead against the chilly glass. Inside me, all was falling apart.

Mom's voice reverberated in the hollowed corners of my consciousness, gentle, shaking, almost above a whisper.

"Never rely entirely on anyone, Molly. Including those who hold your hand.

I had dismissed it as paranoia then. It now hung about me like a second skin.

The other travellers were still silent. A pair close to the front had a thermos between them and quiet, familiar whispers. Ignorant of the weight held by others around her, a youngster slept snuggled next to her, thumb tucked into her lips. A man behind me snorted softly, his cap pulled low around his face.

But I stayed awake unable to go asleep.

My hands stayed buried in my lap, tightly closed fingers around nothing. Though my body was still moving, my mind spun in every other direction.

If they knew I would run... If they were already looking, how long before the distance stopped being important?

The bus swung softly onto a ramp for a freeway. I sat up somewhat, straighter. I lacked the means for comfort. I have to keep on watch.

Buzzed on my phone was something.

At first, I moved quite slowly. Though weak, the vibration slid across my thigh like a warning.

I grabbed from my coat pocket, the screen flickering with the pale glow of the unknown.

Name not specified. No ID. Simply a set of digits I couldn identify.

My thumb hung over the display.

Only one ring. Another. Silence comes next.

I fixed my gaze on the digits, heart rising slowly toward my throat.

Then still another message blazed over the screen.

You seem exhausted.

The voice of the driver cracked across the overhead speaker. Ten-minute halt for rest. Take what you require. Try not to stray too far.

Rising gradually, I tried not to attract notice. My legs felt rigid and tingly. I changed my coat and got off the bus; the frigid air encircled me like a second set of arms.

The station was little more than a run-down roadside cafe with flickering fluorescent lights and a twisted sign that, should the wind blow exactly right, would likely fall. A few vending machines hummed quietly along the wall. Benevolent behind dirty windows, a convenience store blinked.

First desiring a mirror more than anything else, I went toward the toilets. Most days I avoided thinking; but just now I had to see the girl who had dared to flee.

The mirror had edges discoloured and broken. My face turned back, weary eyes, hollowed-from-stress lips pressed thin under control. But under there I sensed fire. The sort of fire my mother used to describe calm strength. I looked that way for a breath longer then turned away.

I stopped at the bus's shadow's edge as I retreated outdoors.

Mobility.

Two males with low heads stood by the vending machines, whispering tightly. If only for the obvious flash of a cufflink glinting beneath one man's jacket, I may have discounted tourists, strangers, passersby, if not entirely.

Gold with a triangle.

Signature work for John Astor's personal security team.

Molly's POV

I burst out of the store, lungs pulling in cold air like fire. The man's footsteps followed me, methodical, tenacious, closing in. I turned around not looking back. Turning back lost time.

I rushed.

Underfoot the parking lot blurring from past drizzles, slippery. In the corner of my eye flashed headlights. I ran toward the curb and waved wildly at a yellow cab arriving into the station loop.

It came to a stop screaming.

"Wait!!" I pulled the door open and jumped in almost losing my backpack.

"Where to?" asks the motorist turned to check her mirror. His accent had a thick, tone bland quality.

Breathlessly, I murmured, "Anywhere away from here". "Just walk." Tell me please.

He asked once. Twice is not something he did. As he drew away, the tires screeched, the streetlights whirled by like fireflies caught behind foggy glass.

My body heaving into the seat collapsed. Trying to steady the tremor under my skin, I grabbed my coat.

Outside the station entrance, the man emerged with surgical accuracy surveying the street. His gaze flew over too slow, too cautious passing cars.

"Something wrong, miss?," said The driver asked, looking once more toward the rearview.

I silently said nothing.

Could not.

My voice hung in my throat.

The engine produced a low whistle. "You fleeing something?"

The query fell squarely. Basic. rather sharp. Too knowing.

I looked back in the mirror at his eyes. "I'm rushing from everything."

He didn't reply. He nodded once and stepped on the accelerator more forcefully. We were swallowed entirely by the metropolis.

Buildings faded. Traffic thickened. The lights went weak and strange. Pulling the window down a bit, I let the air slap my face. It proved helpful. Not enough but just a bit.

My head got clearer as we walked further. I went over my stuff once more, looking at ticket stub, bogus IDs, burner phone, cash envelope. Still in place everything.

I inhaled slowly now and deeper.

After many more miles, he inquired, "Where am I taking you exactly?"

"Beverly Hills," I said, sitting straight forwardly. "Rodeo drive." Not far from the former Sycamore Club. You already know?

Every LA driver is aware of the street.

Positive.

It was just enough. Silent enough. Most significantly, though, Eleanor was present.

Someone I could have faith in.

Someone who has not yet lied to me.

There was nothing else the driver said. Just kept moving, lightly tapping the steering wheel to a song on his radio. For a time I closed my eyes, but I did not fall asleep.

The cab became a cobblestone driveway with huge stone lions on either side draped with roses. Under the tires, the wheels ground gently. The estate loomed ahead, broad, sophisticated, definitely rich. A place that wore its riches like second skin.

Eleanor's address.

With fingers tightly grasping the door handle, I leaned forward as the gates softly moaned open.

From arched windows, golden rays shimmered to create pleasant shadows across walls covered with ivy. Marble sculptures watched over the great fountain as water danced under moonlight like silver thread.

Guard. That was the appearance of it.

My body would not accept it yet though.

The taxi slowed right next to the front steps. Finger numb from too tightly held for too long, I groped for my bag.

The driver softly said, looking back, "I'll wait here."

Not. Simply walk. My voice fractured. " kindly."

He nodded without asking questions or gathering fares. He turned away just before I arrived at the gate.

Heart a tempest inside my breast, I ascended the steps. Both at once, my legs moved too rapidly and too slowly. Even as my body slanted into the illusion of safety, every instinct screamed to keep moving.

I pressed the bell.

Not anything.

I ringed once more, louder this time.

The door sprang open quickly.

Polly? Eleanor had her hair falling down her shoulders and stood barefoot in a silk robe. Startled, lovely, half-asleep she looked like a painting. "God, what,"

I went forward collapsed.

She caught me.

"Molly!",

My knees went under, and the bag dropped from my shoulder. I hung on her like the globe had at last stopped whirling. Her perfume enveloped me in vanilla, sandalwood, recall.

I stammered, choked on my breath, not knowing wherever else to go.

Her arms closed around me more tightly. "Come indoors."

She stayed with me across the doorway. Warmth consumed me entirely. The flooring in marble. The expansive stairway. Chandelier gleaming above. Nothing of it counted.

Just her arms. She speaks. Her existence is real.

"You're freezing," she murmured. "What happened to you?"

I went to try to respond. Nothing happened.

Her gaze lowered to my sleeve. She reached gently and drew it back.

Gasps seized in between us.

My wrist was bruised, the skin rough from Jack's too firm grasp.

Her face got dark right away. Not frightish.

rage.

Eyes never leaving the mark, she murmured, "Molly," "who did this to you?"

She bent in front of me with hands softly resting on my knees.

Speak with me, she advised. Tell me everything, please.

Stuck in my throat were the words. I looked down at my hands, scrubbed knuckles, shined fingers, dirt still clinging to my cuffs. Where on earth should I start? Everything seemed disorganized. Overindulgent. too quickly.

I said, "I heard them," softly.

Her eyebrows drew in. "Who?"

"John." Jack.) As I said the names burned. "They have been organizing it for months." The participation, the inheritance... It's control, not only a marriage they desire. Over me. Across all my parents left behind.

Eleanor's teeth tightened. She stood suddenly, pacing the room in a manner I had not seen since we were teenagers, back when she had punched lockers for me following a nasty comment from a classmate.

" They tried to own you." Her voice now was like fire. You also ran. Great. You behaved appropriately.

I gave my head a shake. They'll find me.

Not will.

"They will, louder now," I said. "They started already. Jack's man noticed me at the bus stop. He trailed me half-distance through a rest stop. Knowledgeable.

Her attitude changed from not fear but from not worry. Rage.

She said, "That bastard," beneath her breath. "And John; that parasite has always been waiting to sink his claws into something he didn't build."

It dawned on me that I was crying till she knelt next to me once more and used her sleeve to dab at the tears from my cheeks. She remained silent this time. She simply held my face softly in her palms, thumb touching the edge of my temple as though she were savoring the moment.

"You're safe right now," she murmured gently. "At least for tonight. Still, we have to be forward looking.

I nodded and sucked the lump from my throat.

She stood once more and pulled her phone from the robe pocket. "I have someone I have to call."

"Who?"

She hesitated, fingers dancing over the screen.

"A friend," she answered. Someone who does not lose battles.

I squinted narrowing. Eleanor:

She turned away to gaze at another. Just tapped the name and carried the phone to her ear.

From the other side, a man responded.

Little voice. Quantified. Cool.

She just gave a weak smile. "Charles... I am in need of a favor.

As Eleanor crossed the room opening the door, her heels clicked on the floor. I stayed motionless on the brink of the chaise, blanket slung from my shoulders slithering underfoot. My fingers clutched the upholstery's edge.

She got it opened.

Then he went inside.

Tower. Specific. Like a sword, polished.

Charles Lightoller moved as the world separated for him, not walking. His black coat, with its sharp tailing and clean lines down his shoulders, was Underneath it, his body was all sinew and stone, as if he had been fashioned from stillness. Steel-blue eyes calculated everything and everyone in one glance as they swicked across the room.

"Eleanor," he continued, tone controlled, polished, lacking of politeness.

She answered, kissing his cheek as though it were not a war.

He fixed his eyes on me.

Every object in my vicinity disappeared. I missed the coziness of the fire, the wrist soreness, the dull ringing in my ears from several long days. In that one instant, I felt disfigured, as though he were compiling every scar under my skin without even attempting.

Still not knowing why, I stood. Possibly reflex.

His gaze stayed constant.

"This is her??" His voice hardly raised, but it permeated the room like smoke.

"Molly," Eleanor said, walking toward me. "This is Charles Lightoller," says

I nodded and had a dry mouth. "Thank you for showing up."

His eyes narrowed just a little. "I came not to chat friendly-wise."

Eleanor cast a cautionary glance at him. She has gone through hell.

"She carried it with her," he mumbled. "And right now it's at my front door."

Before I could stop myself, "I didn't ask for any of this," I said.

His head slanted slightly, startled I had responded. Nothing. Still, it comes with you nevertheless.

His tone did not convey hatred. Just vague confidence. Like he wasn't accusing me, only repeating facts already etched in stone.

Eleanor went between us; her voice shrill now. She is not your adversary.

"That still has to be seen," he answered squarely.

Something inside erupted.

And for a split second I stopped fearing.

I got furious.

He fixed his eyes. Not on my face this time; instead, my hands. On my wrist, there were bruises. In my eyes, the wear is Something unintelligible flashed across his face, a change hardly perceptible before it could settle.

"I'm staying," I murmured, my voice more calm than I would have like.

He said, "I did not invite you."

Nevertheless, I am here.

Eleanor brought him a scotch glass. He grabbed it without gratitude, fingers around the crystal tumbler, eyes still fixed on me across the room.

I looked away.

It had little effect.

He was watching, learning, weighing, evaluating.

I occupied myself close to the mantel, posing as though I was looking at the bronze candels. Above them, my mirror reflection fluttered. I hated that he had seen the crimson glow of wrath from earlier still. My cheeks still bore it. That he had pulled it out of me with such little effort.

"You're staring again," Eleanor replied, sounding just slightly sarcastic.

"Observation isn't staring," he said austerely.

I heard him approach closer but ignored him. Two slow times. Not enough to reach me, but sufficient to compress the distance between us.

"You don't trust readily," I remarked, still staring at the glass.

" Nobody worthies of survival does."

His comments have more impact than they ought to have.

I turned softly. His blue, relentless, too clear gaze locked once again with mine. Still, they possessed something within of them. Something inaccessible. As though he were seeing more than only me.

"You don't know me," I said softly.

Still.

His tone stayed the same. Still, the weight of that one word rooted something deep in my chest.

I moved back, seeking some air. demanding distance.

More to myself than him, you think I am a menace.

No, he responded. " You seem to be a fuse. And the people hunting you already set the stage for the duel.

He lacked blinking. He remained unsoftening.

Still, I noticed one flutter in his eye. not pity. Not bothered.

Question.

I turned to get out of the room. His voice trailed along with me.

"Be aware of where you walk, Molly."