Chapter 17
Dahlia
Minutes bleed into hours. I keep waiting for the door to rattle, for Xander’s shadow to break across the floor, for him to remind me that I don’t actually get a choice in when I see him. The way he looked at me before he left said enough. A warning to behave. A promise that he’ll come back.
Every creak in the hall has my head snapping up, eyes fixed on the chair braced under the knob. Useless—if Xander wanted in, the flimsy wood wouldn’t stop him.
The housekeeper came earlier, carrying another tray, her face lined with disapproval like I was somehow the unreasonable one. She fussed with the bandage, shook her head at me, clicked her tongue. She looked at me with sympathy, but her loyalty to him was clear.
I’m on my own. The thought crawls under my skin.
Just because he stayed away tonight doesn’t mean I’m safe here. Xander’s used to getting what he wants and has already proven just how little he cares about my choices.
The idea of him walking in one night, deciding he’s done waiting, has every nerve in my body on edge.
It’s hard to reconcile the man who’d made me feel more pleasure than anyone else with who he really is.
God, the way he looked at me like I was something rare, something worth worshipping, left me drunk on it.
For one night, I felt untouchable. Like I could have anything. Like I deserved everything.
The memory leaves a dull ache blooming in my chest. I should’ve known better. I grind my teeth, eyes pressed shut. Bradley’s voice slips in. Naive. Useless. Couldn’t do a thing without him holding my hand.
I hate that he’s right. Look at me now. Locked up with a monster.
Shame burns my eyes, and I blink back tears. I take several breaths, pushing down the anxiety trying to take over, and remind myself that I’m not helpless. I successfully ran, started a new life. I just need to do it again, and this time, I’ll make sure no one can find me.
The blanket slides off my shoulders as I sit up, and goose bumps rise along my arms. The draft sifting through the window drops the temperature, and even the wood under my feet is cold. I pull the soft fabric around me, knotting it in my fists as I cross to the door.
I press my ear against it, straining to listen. Nothing. No shuffle of shoes, no heavy breaths, no low voice waiting for me.
My throat grows dry, and I swallow a few times. If I want to escape, I can’t stay hiding in this box.
My hand finds the back of the chair wedged under the knob, and I ease it free. The legs scrape, the sound sharp in the silence. I stop, heart pounding, holding still long enough to count five beats and let it out slowly when there’s no response.
I set the chair aside and curl my fingers around the knob, my knuckles turning white as I twist and the latch clicks. Pausing, I take my time. Shadows stretch along the walls, sconces dimmed low, casting the space in warm light.
I step out, blanket draped over my shoulders like armor, and start walking. The staircase curves at the end, sweeping down into the open space below. My grip tightens on the banister as I take each step, pausing halfway to listen. Still nothing.
There’s a sitting room at the bottom. Oversized couches, plush, the kind you sink into and don’t get up from. A fireplace fills the far wall, stone stacked neatly, a rug laid perfectly square in front of it. Shelves rise on either side, packed with books, spines uncreased.
One thing breaks the order. A chessboard waits on a low table near the fire, pieces frozen mid-game. White pressing forward, black cornered.
I crouch a little closer, tracing the lines. The patterns don’t add up. Both sides made the same mistakes. Same aggressive openings, same sloppy trades. I study it before gently moving the knight. Check.
I don’t stay long, continuing my explorations.
Double doors open into a dining room. The table runs nearly the whole length of the space, dark wood polished to the same shine as the floors.
Too many chairs. Twenty at least. Every one of them tucked in, except the one at the far end, where a chair’s angled outward.
The only sign that anyone’s been in here.
I slip back into the hall. It feels like it goes on forever. Old wood trim frames every doorway, carved with intricate lines. The ceilings are heavy with detail, moldings stacked like crowns. This place is more like a castle than a house.
My hand trails along a paneled wall, following the grooves cut into the grain as I explore.
The hair stands up at the back of my neck when I see the thin strip of light bleeding out of the bottom of a door, glowing pale against the floor. My stomach drops, and I freeze, every muscle going rigid.
I back up slowly, my heel squeaking against the hardwood, and my pulse slams in my throat. I turn fast, moving the other way, breath tight, too loud. The halls split and twist until I lose track of where I am.
An open doorway waits ahead. I don’t hesitate to slip inside, pressing flat against the wall until my chest eases enough to inhale.
Glass walls rise around me, stretching high.
The ceiling arches, the night sky visible through the clear panes.
Constellations take up every inch of the black canvas.
I stay that way, head tipped back, mouth slightly open until my neck hurts.
My vision adjusts to the dark, the moonlight more than enough to illuminate the space.
The blanket slips from my shoulder as I step in farther, caught by the sheer size of it.
It smells faintly of earth, rows of planters filled with dry soil and dead vines.
For the first time in months, my muscles ease, shoulders dropping as I trace the rim of a chipped pot.
It’s easy to imagine what this place was like when it was still alive.
I let myself get lost in thoughts of peonies, dahlias, and bright pink cosmos, flowers spilling color across the space.
There’s a dull ache beneath my ribs as Bradley’s words seep in.
“You’re not talented like your grandmother.
You won’t be able to pay off the lien on your own.
” I push the thought away, but it lingers.
I gave away the cutters, boxed the ribbon, told myself I would be practical. Then I found him with someone else.
Pain cuts through my thoughts. Blood pools at the tip of my fingers from where it got caught on a sharp edge. I slip it into my mouth.
A floorboard complains behind me, and I spin to face it.
Xander stands blocking out the light from the hallway.
My throat tightens. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, but he’s blocking off the only exit.
His gaze flicks to the blood on my fingers, then to my face. His jaw shifts once. “What are you doing here?”
“Am I not allowed?” My voice comes out steady enough.
“I didn’t expect you to leave your room so soon.”
I shrug. “Wanted to examine my cage.”
He steps closer by an inch, his shadow stretching across the floor, nearly reaching me. Prickles tingle down my spine as the air compresses with his presence. He’s not looking at me, instead studying the room. “And you ended up in the greenhouse.”
“Who let it die?” I ask before I can talk myself out of it.
“It’s been this way since I was a child. No one’s shown any interest in keeping it up.” His voice is flat.
“Seems like a waste.”
“It is.” His mouth barely moves, but his gaze lands firmly on mine, and the weight of it has me pressing further into the planter.
My head grows light, a buzz building under my skin with each passing moment. Something about the night, this room, this man, has me entranced.
My grip tightens on the wood, and I wince, instantly bringing my hand up, but my wrist is caught before I can pop it back into my mouth and remove the sting.
Time freezes as Xander slowly lifts my hand, eyes never leaving mine, and brings his tongue to the cut. I gasp. Any pain is instantly forgotten, and electricity travels from his touch down my arm until it lights a fire in my stomach.
“You should be in bed.” Breaking the trance he holds me in, he releases my hand. It hovers between us for several mortifying seconds before dropping to my side, curling into a fist.
“I’ve been in bed.” The words come out as a rasp, and I swallow against my dry throat.
He hums deep in his chest before stepping back. “You’re done here.”
It’s not a question.
My heart thumps once, hard, like it wants to argue, wants to protest that I’ll never go with him, but I need to suck it up and stay as calm as possible until I figure out a way to get out of here.
I move around him, and he shifts just enough to give me space.
He’s still too close. The scent of soap, like he’s fresh out of the shower, fills my nose, and I force myself not to inhale harder.
He lets me put three steps between us before following, but any sense of comfort that gave me vanishes when he closes the distance between us.
We walk the corridor in silence. His stride matches mine. If I didn’t know exactly what type of man he was, I’d be fooled into thinking he was letting me set the pace for my sake. There’s never more than three inches between us, but he never touches me, instead leading the way up the stairs.
We stop at my door, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand with the weight of his gaze.
“If you need food, you can call for Mrs. Price,” he says. “If you go out, stay on this floor. No stairs without me.”
I turn to face him, crossing my arms. “Prison rules?”
His gaze travels to the gauze wrapped around my head. “Safety rules.”
“The greenhouse,” I say before I catch myself. “I want to go back.”
He nods once. “I’ll take you.”
I put my hand on the knob and open it, ignoring the heat branding the back of my neck as I step inside, closing it behind me. Sighing, I rest my forehead against it for a count of three. Now that Xander’s no longer taking up every one of my senses, the dull ache in my head grows louder.
I cross to the bed and sit. The room looks exactly as it did this morning, but now there’s a glass of water on the nightstand with two pills beside it.
I briefly debate not taking them; I want to stay as alert as possible.
The ache turns into a throb, matching my pulse.
Xander hasn’t stepped inside my room yet, as if declaring it my own space.
Taking them is just a risk I’ll have to take.
Collapsing on the bed, exhausted by my short trip, I picture the greenhouse again. Watering cans and fresh-cut stems. The way the soil would feel as I nurtured each plant. My chest loosens on that thought, then tightens because it’s stupid to want anything that lives in his house.
Xander’s brows had pulled together as he assessed the forgotten room. The look that crossed his face was contemplative, maybe even calculative.
I slide under the blanket and pull it to my chin, the soft fabric catching on where the pot caught my skin. The heat of Xander’s tongue, soft against the tip of my finger, has my thighs pressing together and my breath hitching. Dark eyes, full lips, my body pulled toward him like gravity.
It’s only then I think I should have pulled my hand away.