Chapter 3
Iopen the bathroom door and cautiously step into the bedroom that has become my opulent prison cell. Wincing at the pain shooting through my foot at the applied pressure, my gaze immediately darts around the space, searching for what The Beast has left me.
Yesterday, in addition to my bag from my car filled with the few things I had packed and my purse, a stack of brand-new clothes awaited. Comfy yoga pants. Jeans. Sweatshirts and tees. A pair of slides that will be easy to get on and off with my injured foot.
All in exactly the right sizes and set next to a lavish basket of expensive, fancy bath products and a tray of food that must have been crafted by some talented chef he keeps hidden in the bowels of this massive house.
Though annoyed that The Beast timed the deliveries perfectly to arrive while I was in the en suite and couldn’t confront him about keeping me locked up in here, I can’t deny the man appears to be trying to make me as comfortable as he can.
But a lavish prison is still a prison.
Even though it’s only been a day since I woke in the massive bed with The Beast watching me from the corner, I’m already going stir-crazy. There are only so many times I can open every drawer, examine every inch of the room—to find nothing.
No clothes in the dresser or large walk-in closet.
Nothing personal in the bathroom vanity—only supplies I might need to care for the stitched wound on my foot.
Yet, a scent infuses the air in here. Something masculine. Fresh-cut wood, sunshine, leather, crisp mountain air, and that musky smell men only get when they’re outside doing manual labor. As if The Beast has spent a lot of time in this room.
It hangs heavy now, like I just missed him while I was showering.
A single sheet of paper rests in the middle of the king-sized bed—stark white against the rich, dark fabric of the comforter.
My stomach twists as I move cautiously toward where I tried to sleep last night without much luck. After spending countless hours crying and staring out the window at the vast wilderness that offers no means of escape, I would have thought my mind and body would have needed the rest. But I lay in the silky sheets wide awake, tossing and turning, trying desperately to shut off the never-ending list of questions that keeps running through my head.
One more insistent than the others.
What does The Beast want from me?
The message he’s left me may hold the answer. Part of me wants to read it, while the other wants to lock myself away in the bathroom, cowering in the corner, the only place I have to hide even though The Beast could easily get to me there—or anywhere.
My hand trembles as I reach for it.
A meticulous scrawl spreads across the thick paper embossed with the Barker family seal.
Come down for breakfast.
Four words that don’t feel like a request, but they mean one of my prayers has been answered.
Hope flutters in my chest as I whirl toward the door.
It’s unlocked.
I lost track of how many times I tried that handle over the last twenty-four hours, how often I’ve twisted and tugged and rattled it in vain.
It seems stupid to believe the words on that paper, to let myself hope that I might get the hell out of this room and maybe start to understand what’s happening.
Maybe even find a way to run.
The memory of The Beast chasing me through the woods, of the pain of each scratch and scrape, of tumbling through the bushes and the brambles, of the rocks slicing my foot…all of it comes racing back.
That man won’t let me flee, and even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything.
Father will be back in the country soon, and once he’s within reach of the Barkers, the only thing that will prevent them from taking their revenge is me.
I can’t leave even if I physically could.
Which means I have to join The Beast for breakfast.
I take a tentative step toward the door, gritting my teeth through the pain that shoots through my foot. Moving cautiously, trying not to put too much pressure on it, I move toward the solid slab of wood that has kept me locked in here.
The hand I raise won’t stop quivering as I grasp the door handle and turn it, holding my breath. It moves, and the mechanism clicks, releasing it.
Shit, he really did leave it unlocked.
I pull it open carefully, slowly, listening for signs of him, but the house remains deathly silent. The eerie stillness envelops me as I limp out into the hallway, my feet sinking into the plush blood-red runner laid out down the center of the wood floors.
Everything in the hallway screams at me to turn back around. Though beautiful and lavish, a dark, almost sinister vibe surrounds the decorations, as if the Barkers chose them specifically for their presence and the statements they make.
A vase on the table I pass on the right depicts an ancient Greek hunt. Spears driven into the sides of a wild bovine of some sort, blood trickling from the animal.
Mounted heads above me on either side—deer and elk—stare down at me with glossy, fake eyes that seem to follow each step I take.
The feeling of being watched settles over me, making every hair on my body stand on end as I hobble in the only direction I can until I find a staircase.
Massive, hand-carved railings and steps split in two directions. One set leads up to a third floor, where a single landing holds a closed set of doors. The second descends to the foyer and the front entry, where I stood on the other side less than thirty-six hours ago with what amounted to a really shitty plan on how to handle this man.
What the fuck was I thinking?
No one handles The Beast of Barker Mountain.
I was stupid to even try.
You did it to save Dad.
That’s what I keep telling myself as I lean heavily on the banister and slowly make my way toward the main floor. Despite doing my best to keep the pressure off my injured foot, each step makes me wince, and I have to pause to catch my breath only halfway down.
The intense smell of fresh burning wood hits me, and I inhale deeply.
I’ve always loved that scent. It reminds me of fall and sitting beside the fireplace with Dad, reading a story or playing a board game when I was a child.
Tears prick my eyes, but I brush them away with my hand and descend to the foyer. A huge living room with a vaulted ceiling and a fireplace that ascends all three stories of the house draws me to the right.
Damn.
Flames roar in it.
In here, that smell of charred wood, coupled with all the deep, rich leather and upholstery, give the space an almost homey feel. Though that’s the last thing I want to feel about this place. There’s nothing warm and cozy about The Beast’s lair, or at least, there shouldn’t be.
But that bed was comfortable despite everything. My lack of sleep had nothing to do with the accommodations and everything to do with the uncertainty of the situation.
A flicker of movement to the right catches my attention, and I turn toward The Beast as he steps out from behind a massive wood beam.
In the light of day and the flames leaping in the fireplace, the man is even more intense and stunning than I thought he was. Thick head of silvery hair. Strong jaw covered with a matching beard. Heavy muscles barely contained in the dark T-shirt stretched across his barrel chest. Large, powerful-looking hands fisted at his sides.
His steely gaze lands on me and travels from head to toe, pausing an extra few seconds on my injured foot before he lifts his eyes to meet mine.
“Come.”
One word.
And, again, that doesn’t seem like a fucking request.
Following The Beast’s broad back, currently covered with a black T-shirt that’s pulled taut over bulging muscles, I limp through the living room around the left of the fireplace and pass into a massive dining room with a table big enough to seat at least twenty.
High-backed leather chairs surround it, but only one place setting rests on the glistening wood table surface—at what must be the foot. At least a dozen cloches cover plates on that end, and my stomach rumbles.
He stops and motions for me to take a seat without a word.
I keep my eye on him as I make my way around the table, grabbing the back of each chair to help support my weight and keep it off my injury.
The Beast watches me carefully until I finally lower myself into the plush leather seat. He points to the cloches. “Eat.”
Spinning toward the living room, he starts to stalk away.
I slide forward on the chair, though there’s no way I could chase the man on this foot even if I wanted to. “Wait, where are you going?”
He freezes, his shoulders and neck tensing, but he doesn’t look back at me. “Away from here.”
“You’re not going to eat?”
My question goes unanswered for long enough for me to squirm, waiting for his response.
His hands flex and fist at his sides, but he keeps his back to me when he finally decides to answer. “What I do or don’t do isn’t your concern, Beauty.”
Beauty?
I recoil slightly at the term, my own hands curling around the armrests, trying to ground myself to something when it feels like I’m lost in some horrible waking nightmare. “What is my concern? Because I don’t know what the hell is going on. I came up here for a reason—”
He whips around to face me, anger flashing deep in his gaze that shifts from its usual color to almost onyx. “A fucking stupid one, sacrificing yourself for your father.”
His words boom around the large space, bouncing off the metal cloches and pristinely polished silverware beside them and the candelabras at the center of the table.
I recoil slightly, shifting back fully into the chair, putting the little space I can between me and the volatile man.
He sucks in a sharp breath, like he’s trying to control his rage.
“But…” I open and close my mouth a few times as I attempt to sort through what’s happened in the last several days. “But that’s what you wanted, what you demanded. All I did was—”
“All you did was fuck up everything.”
His words make me bristle, and there are a thousand questions I want to ask him, a thousand answers I need, but he storms away with long, sure strides before I get the chance to even open my mouth again.
If he didn’t want me here, then why the hell did he demand that Dad send me?
It doesn’t look like I’m going to figure any of it out anytime soon, not with him basically running away from me.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me why I’m down here in the first place. I may want answers, but what my body needs is food.
I lift the nearest cloche, and my mouth waters at the plate filled with sausage and bacon.
Oh, God.
The next holds Belgian waffles and pancakes.
Another contains eggs cooked three different ways, like his chef wanted to make sure all the options were available.
Fresh fruit and pastries fill the final one.
And a beautiful teapot and matching cup and saucer sit ready beside the spread that’s large enough to feed a small army.
I pile my plate high with far more food than I’ll ever eat, then dig in, letting my eyes bounce around the elegant dining room and the massive double-sided fireplace that allows the flames and heat to permeate this space, too.
As I dip my head to spear another bite with my fork, my eye catches another slip of paper and a pen tucked under one of the cloches. I slide them out and find his neat scrawl again.
Use this to make your list of requests for meals.
To the point.
Almost harshly direct.
The man certainly doesn’t mince words.
If I’m going to get any answers from him, I’m going to have to drag them out of him in a way that’s going to be very painful for both of us.
The clank of silverware hitting fine bone china that hasn’t been used in decades fills the house. After the deafening silence I’ve lived in for so long, the noise is unnerving. My skin crawls, and my knee bounces where I’m seated in the leather chair facing the fireplace, waiting for her to finish, unable to bring myself to join her at the table I haven’t shared with anyone in thirty years.
Sounds carry memories, and certain faces float in my head. Promises made and soft words spoken. Lies told and believed. Love held and easily lost by betrayal.
I fight the desire to leap up and race out of the house, to seek solace in the woods or with my axe in hand rather than force myself to suffer through listening to her enjoy her meal.
Because those sounds are a whole new type of torture.
A little moan of pleasure here.
A muttered word of praise to the chef there.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
An eternity, really, of having to hear signs of actual life in this place that has been cursed to remain dead.
Finally, Callista releases a little contented sigh that makes warmth bloom in places that have remained frozen solid, and the sound of chair legs scraping across the wood floor replaces that of her eating.
I sit and wait.
Her hobbled steps move toward the living room, and she passes around the fireplace, coming into my line of view. Those honey-blond locks fall over her shoulders softly as she tilts her head back, eyes wide, taking in the stonework.
“There will be rules.”
She jerks at my voice, whipping around to face me fully, her hand pressed over her chest. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
I have to fight the twitch of my lips.
Isn’t that the whole point?
My whole reason for existence has been to embody The Beast. A living, breathing threat. And this girl knows it.
Though, I shouldn’t call her a girl.
Callista is all woman. Lush curves in all the right places. Hips and ass I couldn’t help but notice when they were pressed against me as I carried her into the house, now accentuated by the skin-hugging black yoga pants. Her cleavage peeks out from the low V of her pale pink T-shirt that falls loosely off one shoulder, exposing her elegant collarbone.
She grips the stone of the fireplace with her right hand to hold herself steady and take pressure off her foot, lifting it slightly.
A pang of concern makes me shift forward slightly in the chair. “Does it hurt?”
Though I left her several pain medication options in the bathroom, I can’t help but notice how uncomfortable she appears to be with so little movement.
She glances down at it, then up at me, her brow furrowing. “What would you care if it does?”
I clench my jaw, fighting the swell of annoyance at her assumption. “No matter what you might think of me, I don’t wish to see you in pain.”
She scowls, the move tilting her perfect pink lips down in a defiant move that almost makes me grin again. This woman will never be easy to deal with. Every moment we spend in the same room will be a battle of wills. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have chased me through the fucking woods.”
Like that.
I allow one eyebrow to rise slowly. “Maybe you shouldn’t have entered my property uninvited and refused to answer my questions. Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to run, and I wouldn’t have had to chase you.”
Her jaw drops incredulously. “What the hell else was I supposed to do? You had a fucking axe.”
I growl low, digging my fingers into the leather chair’s arms to keep myself in place. “I live on a fucking mountain. We’re surrounded by trees. I chop firewood and fell trees around the property daily. My axe is my best friend up here.”
My only one, really.
She narrows her eyes on me. “Well, you don’t have to threaten people with it.”
Settling back casually, I shrug. “Did I?”
“Did you what?”
I fight a grin, her attitude both amusing and frustrating in equal measure. “Did I threaten you with it?”
“Yes.” Her brow furrows again, like she’s trying to remember the other night. She twists her lips, darting her gaze away from me momentarily. “Well…I guess not.” She points a finger at me, finally looking at me with accusation in her cool gaze. “But it was implied.”
Fucking implied.
I snort and push up from the chair, shaking my head. Even several feet away, I still tower over her, and I move closer, making her shrink back farther against the stonework fireplace. “Those are the kind of assumptions that get you hurt, Beauty.”
She flinches at the nickname.
“While you are here, there are rules that will be followed.” I pause to ensure I have her undivided attention, and when her gaze doesn’t falter, I continue. “One, you will eat here at the table, three meals a day, anything you want from the list I requested—at 8 a.m., 1 p.m., and 6:30 p.m. Two, I won’t keep you locked in your room, but if you try to run again, all bets are off.”
A shiver rolls through her, and her fingers whiten on the rock she has them pressed to.
“Three, the third floor is off limits. You may go anywhere else in the house. And finally, four, you stay out of my way.”
Her mouth gapes open, then she slams it shut again. “So, I’m staying?”
I huff out my response under my breath. “Unfortunately.”
Callista clearly catches it because her eyes narrow on me. She shakes her head, those soft curls floating around her beautiful face. “I don’t get it…if you don’t want me here, why did you tell my father to send me?”
Turning away from her, I study the twisting flames leaping up the chimney. “It’s complicated. That’s all you need to know.”
“Is it?”
Her defiant tone makes me look back at her.
Nobody questions me.
Nobody dares.
Tears start to glimmer in her eyes. “If this is where I need to be to make sure my father stays safe, then I need to at least know what I’m getting into.”
My chest rumbles violently despite doing my best to temper my reply. “A fucking quagmire.”
She throws up her hands, still trying to balance on one foot. “What the hell does that even mean? What am I? What are we?”
I scowl and lock gazes with her, ensuring she won’t misconstrue my warning. “There is no we. You will be our guest for as long as it takes…”
“Our?” Her eyes scan the living room again. “Who else is here?”
Shit.
This is why I don’t do people; I can’t be trusted not to reveal something I shouldn’t, which is why I usually say nothing at all. Already, this woman has gotten under my skin and given me loose lips.
Which makes the rules even more important.
“Let me know if there’s anything else you require. Clothing, food, any other necessities.”
I start to walk out of the room, to give myself some much-needed space from her sweet scent and feisty attitude, but I hear her hobbling after me.
She gasps slightly. “Wait, but what am I supposed to do here?”
Pausing just inside the foyer, I turn back to her. It isn’t as if there’s much to do to pass the time around Barker House, at least nothing I would want her involved with. “What did you do at home?”
“Um, I’m a librarian.” She offers a slight shrug. “I work at the Lewis and Clark Library in Downtown Helena.”
You have to be kidding me.
Biting back an annoyed groan, I motion absently toward the dining room, where I left her the paper and pen. “Make a list of titles you might like to read, and I’ll provide them to you to pass the time.”
“You’re serious?” Her jaw drops. “You made me give up my entire life to come up here to sit around and read while you avoid me and try to fatten me up with meals like that.”
I let my gaze rake over her, taking in her natural beauty without all that makeup she was wearing the night she came to me. Flawless, peachy skin, high cheekbones, thick, dark lashes, and bright-green eyes that seem to see everything.
“I wouldn’t change a thing about you. I’m just trying to keep you fed so you don’t do something stupid like go foraging in the forest for something I haven’t offered.” I take a single step closer, emphasizing the difference in our sizes in a way she can physically feel. “Because I’ll tell you, Beauty, the next time you go out there, it will end very badly for you, one way or the other.”
The threat hangs in the air, and she retreats, gripping the back of the sofa to keep from toppling over with the weight on her injury. “What’s out there?” Her eyes dart to the picture windows filled with thick trees and, beyond that, stunning mountain vistas. “I saw you, you know…”
Saw me?
My back stiffens. “When?”
Given the things I was taking care of and double-checking since her unexpected arrival, paranoia that she might have somehow escaped her confines, followed me out onto the property, and seen what no one is supposed to makes a rock lodge in my gut.
It would be impossible with the cameras.
I would have been alerted.
I would have known.
But that tiny kernel of doubt blooms while I wait for her to explain.
“Yesterday, leaving the house and heading into the woods with your axe.” She returns her focus to me, shifting her weight again, leaning more heavily on the leather furniture to support her weight. “Where did you go?”
I release a tiny, relieved breath. “Nowhere you need to worry about. Nothing on this property is any of your concern, including what I do and how I spend my time.” I allow my gaze to drift down to her foot. “Take care of that. Stay off it as much as possible until it heals enough to remove the stitches.”
My fingers itch to lift her into my arms and carry her back to her room to ensure that she won’t be hurting herself simply by moving, but I fight the chivalrous urge. Something left from a different lifetime that has no place here with Callista.
I’ve done what I can to make her stay more bearable, but I can’t give in to any silly impulses that having a beautiful, vulnerable, lonely woman around might bring out in me.
That part of Weston Barker died a long time ago.
The Beast doesn’t care about the comfort of intruders or how to make their lives easier.
Yet I still find myself yearning to help her, to offer her anything that could lessen the stress of being stuck here.
Clearing my throat, I swallow back an apology for the situation that sits on the tip of my tongue. “And make your lists of what you need.”
Her soft, pink lips part on an annoyed huff, her cheeks reddening. “How about some fucking answers?”
If only it were that easy, Beauty.
I sought answers for years, tried to find the meaning in all this, tried to find a way to break the curse that haunts me day in and day out, that keeps me from sleeping at night.
And after all that time, those answers still elude me.
Walking toward the front door, I fight the urge to actually offer her one. I pause with my palm on the handle and turn back to her, leveling her with my hard gaze, hoping she’ll get the message this time and stop asking. “Those, I can’t provide you.”