Chapter 11 Landon
Chapter Eleven: Landon
Iwake up in a room that’s unfamiliar.
The first thing I notice is the air—thin, cold, not just unfiltered but so clean it hurts to breathe.
The walls are wood, real and expensive, knotted with a craftsman’s pride.
I’m on a king-sized bed, sheets white and thick, the comforter heavy enough to be bulletproof.
There’s a faint blue light crawling over the hardwood, and when I look up, the window is nothing but snow and sky, unbroken but for a single black shadow on the far horizon.
I sit up and the memory slams into me: Briar, the plane, the transfer, the blind terror of being rewired in a system that shouldn’t even know my name. I half-expect to see him next to me, or at least his outline in the door.
But I’m alone. And nothing in this house, in this new world, makes sense.
For a second, I think I’m dead.
I slide out of the bed. My feet are instantly cold, so cold I can’t feel my toes. There’s a pair of thick wool socks folded on the end of the bed, and I pull them on, grateful for small mercies. My body still feels used and a little hollow. I’m sore in all the places that matter, but not broken.
The room is old-money luxury—every surface polished to a gloss, no clutter or wasted objects.
There’s a chair and a lamp in the corner, both designed more for aesthetic than comfort.
I find a pile of clothes, neatly folded on a leather trunk at the foot of the bed, washed and still warm like someone put them there just before I woke.
I pull on the softest of the sweaters, then step to the window.
Everything is in my size.
The view is breathtaking.
We’re somewhere high, way above tree line.
The chalet juts out from the mountain itself, a glass-and-timber masterpiece clinging to the edge of a drop that would kill us with even the slightest mountain shake.
The window doesn’t have a screen or even a visible lock; it’s just a single unbroken sheet of glass, the only barrier between me and an impending death fall.
Looking down and to the left, I notice there’s a big infinity pool and a hot tub.
There’s also a terrace, and on the terrace, two men: one is Briar—shoulders set, posture like a loaded spring, blue eyes sharp even at this distance.
The other is Brooks, or I assume so from the dark, tailored lines of the coat and the way he moves with a kind of practiced slowness that says “I own everything I touch, including you.”
They’re talking, but I can’t hear them. Even so, I know exactly how the conversation goes. Power speaks in silence, not in noise.
I watch them through the glass, curious about why Brooks is here.
Brooks says something, then glances up at the window. I know he sees me. He gives a little wave, too fast for mockery but too slow for real greeting. His smile is the kind you see in old paintings, right before someone poisons the wine.
Briar doesn’t look up, but I can tell he knows I’m there too. He’s got that predator’s awareness, the kind that reads the whole world with a look. He stands just a fraction too close to Brooks, body angled like he’s either about to rip his throat out or beg him for something.
I can’t tell which.
Brooks says another thing, and Briar shakes his head, almost a flinch. Then Brooks laughs, sharp and short. He pats Briar’s shoulder, then leans in close, whispers something that I want so badly to hear it aches.
Then it’s over. Brooks steps back, nods once at me through the window, and heads inside.
Briar stands there, alone, for a full minute before he turns and makes his way inside.
I step back from the window, heart pounding. I half-expect an alarm, a bullet through the glass, a command to run.
Nothing happens.
I wander the room, test the door. It’s unlocked.
The hallway is wide and almost too bright—sunlight ricochets off the snow and bounces in through the windows, making every surface sting with light.
There’s a runner down the length of the floor, hand-knotted, and the pattern is familiar.
Not in the “I’ve seen this before” way, but in the way trauma repeats itself: dark blue, shot through with lines that are almost the exact color of Briar’s eyes.
I walk the hall, slow. No one stops me. I find the stairs, a spiral of steel and wood that drops two floors to a main living space the size of my old high school gym.
I follow the sound of a fire, the low crackle and the faint smell of cedar.
The air here is even colder, but the fire in the massive stone hearth is big enough to heat a small country.
Briar stands at the edge of the fireplace, his back to the room. He’s changed out of yesterday’s clothes—now in a thick black sweater, jeans, and boots that could probably kill a man with a single kick. He doesn’t turn when I approach, but I know he hears every step.
I pause a few feet behind him, not sure if I’m allowed closer.
He fixes it for me.
“There’s coffee on the counter,” he says. “Help yourself.”
I do. The kitchen is at the far end of the room, a marble-and-stainless monster. I pour a mug, find the cream and the sugar, and by the time I turn back, Briar is waiting for me by the windows.
I approach, the mug burning my hands.
We stand side by side, looking out at the snow and the blue sky, the silence a thing with its own mass.
“Nice place,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
He smiles, but it’s not happy. “Brooks has always liked his comfort. Even when we were kids, he couldn’t stand anything less than perfect.”
“Was he really your friend?”
He laughs, short and cold. “Friend is the wrong word. He was the only person who didn’t try to kill me during training. That makes him family, in our world.”
I sip the coffee, letting it scald my tongue before I swallow.
“So,” I say, “why did he help us?”
Briar doesn’t answer right away. He watches a bird land on the terrace railing, tilt its head, then launch itself back into the void. “Brooks likes to be owed. He likes leverage. Someday, he’ll call in the favor. For now, he gets to be the hero who saved the problem child and his pet.”
I bristle at the word, but I know he’s right. I’m not a person here, not really. Just a liability, a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game where the rules are written in code and blood.
“You okay?” he asks, softer.
I look at him, at the line of his jaw, the way the light hits the scar on his cheek. “Are you?”
He snorts. “No.”
We stand there for a while. The fire cracks, the coffee cools, and the world keeps spinning even though everything feels like it should have stopped.
Eventually, Briar turns to me, studies my face like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. He reaches out, slow, and tugs the sleeve of my sweater so the cuff covers my wrist.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“Yeah,” I admit.
He steps away for a second, returns with a blanket—thick, woven, the kind you see in old movies. He drapes it over my shoulders. I’m wrapped up, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel more safe than scared.
“You want to talk about what Bentley said?” he asks, but I hear the dread under the words.
“No,” I say, and mean it. “Not yet.”
He nods, like he expected that.
We sit on the sofa in front of the fire. He sprawls, one leg out, arms folded over his chest. I curl up, blanket tight around me, mug cradled like a relic.
For a long time, there’s no sound but the fire and the wind and the occasional pop as a log splits.
It’s almost peaceful. But peace, in my life, is always just the eye of the storm.
I remember the way Brooks looked at me, the way Briar stood between me and the rest of the world, and I know that no matter how good this feels, it won’t last.
Nothing in this world is free.
The sun goes down early in the mountains. It isn’t even six and the light outside has faded to a blue almost as deep as black. The snow has turned the world monochrome, drifts building up against the glass, the sky a perfect blank.
Inside, the house is too quiet. I’ve read every magazine on the coffee table, walked every inch of the living room’s perimeter, watched the logs burn to coal and back again. Briar disappeared up the stairs two hours ago, and if he’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him. He needs it more than I do.
The silence starts to get to me. I’ve never been good at being idle.
My skin crawls with the urge to do something—anything.
I start by exploring the main floor, telling myself I’m just killing time, but there’s a part of me that wants to know more.
About Brooks, about this place, about why it feels like the world’s most luxurious holding cell.
The layout is weird, open and closed at the same time.
There’s the main living space with its ridiculous fireplace, a dining room set for twelve but used by none, and a library that’s more for show than for reading—leatherbound books with perfect dust jackets, probably never opened.
There’s a mudroom with six pairs of boots in descending sizes, and a coat rack hung with jackets that are all in shades of black or navy.
Every room is spotless. The furniture is pure angles and raw materials: leather, steel, glass. The rugs are handwoven, the kind of thing you’d see in a museum, and the walls are hung with art that’s either deliberately ugly or just expensive.
I count three bedrooms on the main level, plus an office. The office is locked.
Of course it is.
The handle is brass, polished to a shine. The door itself is a rich, dark wood, carved with a pattern of interlocking triangles. There’s a keypad just above the handle, subtle, black on black. Most people wouldn’t notice it. Most people aren’t me.
I stare at the keypad for a full minute, curiosity burning in my gut.
Then, I try the obvious: 0-0-0-0, then 1-2-3-4. Both blink red.
Hmm… it has to be something meaningful. In the library, I remember seeing books by Kafka, Dostoevsky, Pynchon, all shelved in order of publication year.