Chapter 12
12
SOFIA
F or the first time since my arrival at Kingsbrook Manor, I see other people. Granted, it’s through the window of a room across the hall, an empty mirror image of my own. There are two men dressed in what appears to be black military gear, with a bulletproof vest and a rifle held in both their hands.
One is standing at the edge of the helipad and the other is talking to Gideon by the helicopter, probably getting instructions on what to do if I attempt an escape from the looks of it, because he glances toward the house several times.
Gideon then slaps the guy on the shoulder in way of dismissal. The man jogs toward his partner and Gideon climbs into the chopper. The blades begin to spin, and shortly after, he’s airborne.
I touch my hand to my neck as he disappears over the horizon. His kiss is so present, a pulsing burn on my skin, that he might as well still be here. It was his way of making sure I couldn’t forget about him even while he’s gone.
God, please let him have been speaking the truth when he told me he wouldn’t be going after Luca. I’d never forgive myself if because of my obsession with the gift Gideon gave me, I cost my brother his life.
Dammit. I am Belle. One gift and I lose sight of my mission. Seducing him has been put on the backburner, not that I have a clue where to start with a man like him. It’s especially hard when he can read my loathing so well.
He suggested I tap into my evil charm. I seem to do that without trying. There’s just something about Gideon that brings out the worst in me. Could it really be as easy as that? Giving in to my desire to snap at him, throttle him, bite him?
Yes. I think he rather likes me a little evil.
Because he wants to dominate you at your strongest.
That thought comes out of nowhere, but it rings true. Yes, there’s more to it than that, I can sense it. It’s more complex. Whatever he wants from me goes deeper than mere control. What am I missing?
Winter walks in to the empty room and hops onto the window bench. He meows and I pick him up, bringing him close.
“Hey, you. Where have you been hiding?”
Golden eyes blink slowly at me and I freeze.
“You’re not Winter.”
The cat purrs and tucks his head under my chin. Just as sweet, just as black, but definitely not Winter.
“Are you his brother?” I ask, rubbing his ears.
It strikes me funny that Gideon warned me to be careful about not letting cats into the manor, and there isn’t just one, but two.
“We won’t tell him,” I say. “Hmm. What will I name you? Do you like Autumn? Yeah. I like it too.”
I set Autumn down and make my way to the basement, pausing at the door that leads into the garage, just as I had guessed.
“Should I have my first go?” I ask Autumn.
He replies by weaving between my feet. Not much help.
Touching a finger to the key pad, I gander a guess, though I don’t punch any of the numbers. A sly smile plays across my lips. 666.
Surely it has to be that, but I don’t dare do it yet. It’s too precious an opportunity to use carelessly.
“Later,” I say. “I’ll try it later. Just have to think smart.”
I continue on to the dark room, cat in tow, and gather my camera and film. Making sure Autumn is out before I shut the door, there’s too much he can get into here, I head out on my mission.
Gather photo evidence.
With Gideon gone, I can roam the house and take pictures all day long. Sure, he might still watch me through his cameras, but he won’t be doing it the entire time. I’ll get as many shots as possible that can be taken back as evidence— where his holding cell is, the garage, images of his study. Who knows, maybe I’ll even find a body or two. Now that I’ve figured out this camera, I can be sure that the images I take will be good enough.
My first stop is the grotto. I do this for the pleasure of it, because I’ve never seen a pool like it in real life. It’s huge, expanding almost the entire width of the space, the water lapping against the far wall. I’m reminded of baths in Rome or Greece.
Next, it’s all business with the two steel doors. The hold and the garage. I make sure to capture the numbered keys, focusing on them should there be any indication of wear. Perhaps the camera will see something I don’t and give me a hint to the code.
I move on to the great room and dining, both of which I’ve memorized, but no point skipping. Then I pause at Gideon’s study and through the glass, get as many shots as possible. I zoom into the files on his desk and the portrait of the man over the fireplace. It’s daytime, and he’s not a mere shadow with glowing eyes like he was the first time I was here. He’s fully visible now and so much more terrifying.
If I had to guess on who he is, I’d say Gideon’s father. The man that started it all. Although Gideon is almost identical, the same striking face and silver eyes, the portrait is of someone much older. Harder.
“Evil,” I whisper. If ever there was the embodiment of it, I’m sure this man would be it.
On the second floor are several empty rooms I’ve already walked through, so I choose to bypass them.
The third floor, at least my wing, except for one. Scarlet’s room.
I enter it, going directly to the balcony where the only trace left of her remains.
“People will know.” I take several photos of her name, of the view she had when she was here and of the place she slept. Though I’ll forever carry her with me, I want to have something tangible, proof that she was here. Maybe there was a search for her. Maybe her family is still searching. Maybe they need closure.
Moving on, I stop at the landing before heading down and glance toward the south wing. Gideon’s wing.
“He did say I could go anywhere,” I say to Autumn, only to find he’s gone.
Going that way, I enter the hallway that looks so much like mine. I begin to open doors, finding that in this too, it is an almost mirror image to the north wing. Empty suites, or partly furnished with everything covered in protective cloths.
I enter a few of the rooms to survey the views from their balconies. Even in this I find no difference. Nothing but trees in the distance. Trees and no way out.
The main difference between the two wings is that where the hall of the north would end with a set of windows, this one ends with a set of double doors. They’re tall and beautiful, with gold relief designs far more intricate than any others. I run my fingertips over them, feeling every detail and memorizing the morning glories and birds nestled in leaves.
This is Gideon’s room, there’s no doubt about it. He’d never settle for anything ordinary.
I shoot a couple of close-up pictures, and a few more from some feet away. Suddenly, they aren’t just tall, they’re huge and commanding, completely overwhelming the wide hall. They loom over me, imposing and demanding.
Come inside. We don’t bite.
“Yeah right,” I say, but my hand is already on the brass lever.
The door opens with a screech, the haunting echo filling me with both terror and curiosity. I ignore any warning bells ringing in my ears and enter.
The bedroom is moody and elegant, with slate gray damask panels on the walls and a large crystal chandelier hanging from a groin vaulted ceiling.
But the impressiveness of the architecture isn’t what catches my eye and has me blinking in surprise. It’s the three cats currently napping away the afternoon on his canopied bed.
“What in the world?”
One cat, an orange fluffy thing with green eyes, is splayed out at the foot of the bed. Another, a black one that might be Winter, I can’t be sure anymore, is in the middle. Lastly, a huge black and orange mix is curled up on a pillow, his face buried under his own tail.
Neither of the felines is bothered by my presence. They aren’t afraid I’ll shoo them away. That tells me they’re used to being here, which in turn means… Gideon knows about them. He not only knows, but he lets them sleep on his bed.
I’m not sure what to do with that information, especially when all it does is add questions to an already complicated man.
Does he let them in himself? Does he sleep in the bed with them? How many cats are currently in the house, anyway?
“Strange man,” I say as I approach the orange cat and stroke his thick coat.
I take photos of the cats sleeping on the villain’s bed, and of the modern velvet couch set in front of the antique fireplace. I’ve always been intrigued by the way different eras can come together so well. Gideon is in everything, the lines and contrasts. Lights and shadows.
This place is a photographer’s dream, and although I would never admit it to Gideon, I’m inspired. Every picture I take is done with more enthusiasm than the last. Because I’m not just capturing amazing architecture or evidence to be handed over. I’m peering into the secret world of Gideon Black. I am forever committing to memory the details of his life behind closed doors.
This is what he sees when no one is looking. What he touches. I open the chest of drawers and run a finger over his things— ties, cufflinks, belts, and a jar of pennies.
They call him the Ferryman and these are his calling card. I reach in and pick up a few, then let them slip between my fingers. Are they destined for someone specifically? Or does he simply collect them for fun?
I shut the drawer and stand in front of the mirror. Shutting one eyelid, I imagine a coin placed over it. It’s morbid as fuck, but I can’t help it. It’s hard not to wonder if Gideon’s ultimate plan for me isn’t to put pennies over my eyes.
Unless I do it to him first.
Just in case, I pluck two of the coins and stick them in my pocket before continuing on with my exploration. Creeped out or not, I want to satisfy my curiosity about the beautiful monster that’s taken me hostage.
Gideon is many things. Cocky, arrogant, and evil. Animal lover? What he isn’t is boring. I’m fascinated by him, by what makes him tick, what motivates him. Why is a billionaire that looks like some dark angel, who could have anything in the world, so hell-bent on revenge? Better yet, what is it about him that makes me want to find out? I want to discover if, like the photographs I take, there’s more to him than what I can see with the naked eye.
Being in his personal space gives me an intimate glimpse into his mind. Is it an invasion of privacy? Perhaps. But if I feel any guilt over snooping, I tamp it down with reminders of his transgressions against me. Besides, I’m too captivated by this opportunity. Even if it does bother me, my conscience won’t stop me from capturing it all. Imagining him here, lounging, deviously plotting. Sleeping in a pile of cats.
Tossing and turning when his nightmares visit him at night.
I drop the camera as that thought creeps into my mind.
For a moment, I stare at the bed, a faint image flashing through my head of Gideon lying there restlessly battling his demons. Why would I think of something like that? What did I observe that made me believe a man like him would have nightmares? He’s the Devil incarnate, there is no reason for him to fear the night.
Yet, when I go to take another shot, I can’t bring myself to do it.
It’s the light. Somehow, it’s changed. Shifted. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Letting the camera hang around my neck, I explore the room. At one end, is a door that leads to a massive bathroom with white marble floors, large walk in shower, claw foot tub and cream colored walls. Here, once again, the use of old and new combines flawlessly. Past and present.
I’m starting to see a pattern with Gideon.
Beyond the bathroom is a closet that’s bigger than my bedroom at Briar House. Suits in every shade of dark—like his soul, I add— line two sides of the room, dress shoes fill an entire wall shelf, and belts and other accessories are placed in wooden slots on the closet island.
“Wow,” I whisper, riffling through his clothes. Gucci, Dior and Armani, all tailored to fit him perfectly, I’m sure. And his shoes…
My thoughts are cutoff as, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something that seems out of place.
Between two black long coats, is a light-colored cotton material sticking out. I go to it, and yank on the sleeve to reveal a gray hoodie.
I gasp in horror/indignation. “It was him!”
Still unable to believe it, I turn the thing over and over again while simultaneously dredging up the memory of the guy that saved me from the fall that day outside the mall. Then, the morning Victor went to pick me up at Columbia, he was there.
“It was him,” I say, this time more calmly.
Has he been following me around? How long was he following me? How close did he get? Was he there just to spy, or had he planned on killing me?
If he’d wanted to, he could have. A chill crawls up my neck when I realize how very close to me he was, indeed. God, he was so near, that he was able to wrap his arms around me before my knees hit the pavement the day I fell. Close enough that I clearly heard his low rumbled “Morning” when he jogged by. Luca’s men were already on campus, probably too distracted by making sure I didn’t escape to notice Gideon was a mere two feet from me.
“The audacity,” I say. He’s got some serious nerve.
Well, I’ve got nerve too.
I pull the hoodie off the hanger and put it on. The constant chill I’ve been feeling since I arrived here dissipates immediately. Now, I’m not just warm, but hot. And it’s not the sweater. It’s that his scent is all over it. All over me.
My first reaction is to yank it off and throw it far away, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I burry my nose into the sleeves and inhale. God, he smells good, like vanilla and cloves and myrrh. It’s intoxicatingly sinful and dark.
Like him.
“Horrible man,” I say, taking another breath.
I step in front of the standing mirror and aim the camera at my reflection to snap a photo in the huge sweater.
For a while, I stay like that, staring at myself. It’s like being in Gideon’s skin. If only it were as easy to get into his head. Maybe I’d be able to figure out a way out of here.
My vision blurs and I rub my eyes and yawn. I’m suddenly so tired that when I glance at the bed, my feet move toward it out of their own accord.
The plush velvet comforter is as soft as I imagined, cushioning me like a cloud when I lay in it. No wonder the cats like it. I peer up at the canopy. A night sky has been painted on the underside, one that’s both beautiful and eerie, with a bright moon and foreboding black clouds.
This is what Gideon sees as he drifts off to sleep.
“Beautiful Nightmare,” I name it and snap a photo.
Then, I rest my camera against my chest and stare at the painting. I stare at it until the moon dims and the clouds begin to roll and form into eyes that stare back darkly.
I cling to my last dredges of consciousness, aware that if I go under, he’ll be there waiting.
“Why are you afraid of me?” His voice sounds in my head, deep and gravelly, sending a delicious shiver across my skin.
“I’m not afraid of you.” I stop resisting, and the clouds drop from the canopy and envelop me with their inky tendrils.
The last thing I hear through my mind as he takes me farther into this dark dream world is his satisfied praise.
Good, Little Bird.