The room is dark, so I fumble to the side and discover a bedside table and a lamp. It takes me a few seconds, but I find the knob and twist it to illuminate the room.
Panicking, I hurriedly look at the other side of the bed. It is empty. Good. Relief flows through me and I take in the fact that I’m still wearing my uncomfortable tanktop and skirt. Glancing down, I see dried blood all over my top and even my bare chest. My skin crawls, and I push my hair back over my shoulder.
The room is full of plush textures and opulent materials. I’m in an expensive four-poster bed with a gold-gilded frame up against cream-colored walls. Heavy velvet curtains cover what appear to be massive windows. They must have blackout materials, because no light is really coming in. The bedspread is a golden cream and the pillow’s a light peach. The room is decidedly feminine, yet in looking around, I can see no personal touches.
There is no doubt that garnets are the room’s highlight, as they are woven into the decor. I see the deep red gems in the drawer handles of the bedside tables and the matching armoire. Two overlarge garnet candleholders decorate the mantelpiece, and when I look closer, I discern delicate garnet accents woven into the throw pillows shoved to the side of the bed. Even if I hadn’t noticed these, there is no question the sparkling garnet-and-crystal chandelier in the center of the ceiling displays its owner’s talisman.
My gaze catches on stacked boxes near what I assume to be the main door, and I climb out of the bed, walk over, and open a couple. Clothes, from skirts to dresses to undergarments, overflow the containers.
How long does he plan to keep me here? I shiver.
I gingerly test the doorknob and am shocked to find it unlocked. But first, the bathroom beckons. I hurriedly grab a skirt, a sweater, panties, and cute black tennis shoes before running in and using the facilities, including an ultrafast shower to clean off the blood.
I’m a little too thrilled to find a toothbrush, and I clean my teeth before attempting to smooth some of the curls out of my hair. As usual, I fail, so I scramble through one of the many drawers and find a clip to pull part of the mass away from my face.
Dressing in the clothing, I pull on the tennis shoes, and then for some reason tiptoe toward the window. At the very least, I need to see where I am.
I start to open the shades and then stop instantly as I see the argyle pattern of multiple Xs, created by hammered metal within the glass. The one that rules my nightmares. My stomach drops and I gag.
Reacting as if I’ve been burned, I backpedal hurriedly toward the main door. I don’t have time for a full-blown panic attack. I open it as quietly as possible and peer into a vacant hallway. Its length stretches past multiple doors to a staircase at the end.
Huh? Well, this is just weird, but if I have a chance for freedom, I have to grab it with both hands. I slip outside and walk down the hallway to see a circular staircase leading down to what appears to be a foyer. The chandelier at least three stories above it is a good five times the size of the one in my temporary bedroom. The garnets gleam, beautifully polished, glinting cold fire.
I gulp. He brought me to his lair, and yet, there’s nobody around. Does he truly think I’m that harmless? If so, I might as well push my luck a little bit more. I walk silently down the stairs to the polished tiles of the entryway. They’re black and red and white, and the pattern is intriguing. I look around and see not a soul, so I cross to the front door and open it, walking quickly outside to a cobblestone driveway.
The world stretches out in front of me. A wide, perfectly manicured lawn all around the structure is surrounded by . . . Holy crap. Is that a moat? Yep. It’s an actual moat.
Figures move at the far tree line, obviously on patrol, and I fight the urge to duck. At the moment, I have no idea what Thorn’s orders are to his people, so I might as well test my boundaries. Trying to calm my nerves, I look up at the sky and note dark clouds gathering again, but at least the rain has ebbed. However, there’s no doubt the earth has already been saturated.
Crossing the cobblestone walk as if I have every right to explore, I soon reach the large expanse of drenched grass. The individual blades cling to my tennis shoes and soak them as I keep walking, wishing I had searched for a jacket, but it’s too late to turn back now.
Halfway across the expansive lawn, I pivot and glance back at the home. What I see makes me stumble, and then I straighten my legs. On all that is holy. The guy has a castle fortress. The structure is very modern-day, with stone in varying shades of gray and blue that match the tumultuous ocean on its far side. Craning my neck, I can see down the coastline. We’re atop a huge cliff, and the ocean, angry and stormy, rolls out before me.
Rosebushes, red and white, line the entire drive, their thorns evident from where I stand.
Shivering, I turn and continue on my trek across this wide—way too wide—lawn. Oh, I understand the defensive strategy that anybody crossing the clearing remains in clear sight. I get that. What I don’t understand is why nobody has stopped me.
As I near the moat, I see the raised metal and wood bridge with garnets inlaid in its intricate railing. The guy actually has a drawbridge. I shake my head. This place would be mystical and magical if it wasn’t owned by my enemy. I look closer at the moat. The water curves in a half circle from one end of the property around to the other, ending on either side at the cliffs. I wonder how often he has to fill it, or if the rain does that for him.
On the other side of the moat is another clear space of manicured lawn before the trees take over. The narrow driveway continues on until it disappears out of sight. All right. I learned how to swim when I was just a child, so I can escape right now. Perhaps Thorn didn’t expect me to have the courage to run away.
Insult and hope mingle inside me.
Just as I’m about to gather my courage and dive into what no doubt is freezing cold water, several men emerge from the forest on the other side, all with guns pointed at me. I cock my head. If they have orders to shoot, they would have already done so. Even so, I wring my hands together.
A shot fires behind me, and I jump a good foot before turning and swallowing wildly.
Thorn Beathach is already halfway across the lawn, today dressed in black slacks and a white button-down shirt that looks much more at home on him than the casual clothing he wore the night before. He smoothly tucks his gun at the back of his waist, and I can see that there’s something else in his other hand, an object wrapped in white paper.
He cuts a sharp figure against his moody castle as he strides calmly over the meticulously manicured lawn. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing tautly muscled forearms, and the top of that crisp shirt is unbuttoned, offering a glimpse of bronze skin with ink. I hadn’t noticed his tattoo the night before.
The breeze picks up and ruffles his hair as if she can’t resist his pull.
It shocks me then. He’s good-looking. Not just handsome but brutally so. A stirring tugs deep in my abdomen that doesn’t make sense.
Isn’t there a saying about predators holding beauty? All natural hunters are striking. Heat flushes into my face and I have to force myself to remain still. I want to take a step back, but falling into the water would dampen my defiant glare. So instead, I set my stance and watch him walk closer.
He’s even more devastating in the gloomy morning light than he was the night before. The scar across his face gives him a look of danger. No, scratch that. He is danger. The scar merely confirms the fact. I’d forgotten already how big he is, six foot six at least. The silver in his eyes looks mellow this morning, and I try to gather my thoughts. How is he not angry that I’m attempting an escape?
Or is he about to strike?
“Did you have a nice walk?” he asks calmly as he nears me. While his body is relaxed, those eyes burn with threat and promise. A deadly combination but one that almost has me turning to run away. But I don’t stand a chance fleeing him. With him comes that inevitable heat he gives off, as well as the scent of . . . What is that? Testosterone and cedar? I truly don’t know.
“I thought I’d head home,” I say lamely. “Have you seen my phone?”
“I threw it out of the window last night,” he says in the same conversational tone.
My legs feel weak. “I need a phone.”
He isn’t fazed. “You haven’t earned one. Yet.”
I clench my fingers. If I decide to fight him, a surprise attack is my only chance. “I’m not staying long enough for you to acquire a phone for me.”
“You’re staying as long as I want you.” He hands over the white-wrapped package.
The paper crinkles in my hand and my throat goes bone dry. “What’s this?”
“Open it.”
