Chapter 8
8
L iam’s been in the library for what feels like forever. I pace the corridor, the soles of my flats scuffing the polished marble.
Forward. Pivot. Back again.
That closed door taunts me. I don’t know how much time has passed. Ten minutes? Twenty? Regardless, every second drags, stretching my nerves to the breaking point. My thoughts spiral through the worst possibilities…
Oliver Whitney’s expectations.
The details Liam might be sharing.
And the looming threat of the dungeon.
The toast and eggs I forced down this morning want to make a reappearance. I hug my rebellious stomach and turn on my heel once more, and that’s when the door creaks open.
Liam steps out, followed by Oliver, who’s even taller than I remember, easily clearing six feet. The precision of his tailored suit clashes with the unruly fall of midnight hair grazing his ears. His brown eyes, lighter than Liam’s by several shades, sweep over me.
“I’ll give you a minute to say your goodbyes.” Oliver strides toward the elevator and stops a few feet away, allowing us space to breathe.
As Liam closes the distance between us, a strained silence lingers. He clears his throat, as if he’s trying to dislodge something heavier than words. “I don’t know what to say.” His hands slide into the pockets of his light grey trousers, shoulders stiff. “I’m not ready for this.”
My gaze lowers to his rustic brown shoes. “Did you tell him about last night? I mean the cliff.”
“He’s aware. We also came to an understanding.”
“What kind of understanding?”
“We agreed that you need to see Dr. Price.”
“Who?”
“Dr. Sullivan Price, from the House of Pisces. He’s a psychiatrist.”
“I don’t need a shrink.”
“Oliver disagrees. So do I.”
“You can disagree all you want.” I fold my arms, the picture of petulance. “You might be able to drag me there, but you can’t make me talk.”
“Then you’ll be very bored.” He lifts his chin. “Because you’re not leaving Sully’s office until you cooperate.”
“You can’t do this!”
“You’re right. I can’t. But Oliver can.” Liam’s stare is unwavering. “He’s also assigning someone to watch you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I snap.
“Your stunt on the cliff says otherwise.”
“I said I wouldn’t do it again.”
“I know what you said.” He scans my face, studying me as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “And I believe you meant it, but I have to be sure. Until I know you’re not a danger to yourself, the babysitter , as you called her, stays.”
The fates must be laughing, because a woman rounds the corner from the tower’s grand foyer, the tap of her heels sharp against the floor. Dressed in navy slacks and a fitted cream blouse, she carries herself with a no-nonsense air that sets my teeth on edge.
Oliver rejoins us, his gaze settling on the woman I assume is my babysitter. “This is Astrid,” he announces. “She’ll be staying with you.”
The woman gives a single nod, her face an unapproachable mask. She’s tall and poised, the embodiment of composure, with her dark hair swept into a sleek bun.
I press my lips together and fight the impulse to argue. Objecting outright won’t get me anywhere, not with Liam’s mind made up, so I shift to Oliver instead.
“I understand the concern, but is this really necessary? I’m sure Astrid has better things to do.”
“Better things than her job? She’s a professional, hired to keep you safe.” Oliver adjusts his cuff. “And I agree with the chancellor. We can’t risk you, my queen.” His words leave no room for debate, so I bite back any further protest.
If I’ve learned anything from these men, it’s that resistance is pointless.
Liam meets my gaze, and though he says nothing, emotion swells behind the quiet. The message is clear.
Don’t forget your promise to me.
Only then does he look away, his voice rough as he turns to Oliver. “Take care of her. I’m counting on you.”
“Of course.”
Liam hesitates, jaw set, his earth-toned eyes revealing too much. Without another word, he turns away, and I can’t bring myself to watch him go.
A beat of disquiet hangs, but Oliver doesn’t extend the moment. “Follow me.” He moves forward like a man used to being obeyed.
I fall in step beside him, Astrid trailing behind, and no one speaks during the short elevator ride to the fourth floor. When we enter the House of Capricorn, I’m not prepared for what awaits.
The space is the opposite of the penthouse’s contemporary design, and while its layout mirrors the other floors of Zodiac Estate, Oliver’s taste for antique decor sets it apart. High end pieces of mahogany furniture define the sitting room, each sofa, chair, and accent table carved with meticulous detail. A grandfather clock marks time in quiet, deliberate beats, and low lighting glints off crystal decanters on a sleek bar cabinet.
But the true centerpiece of the room isn’t the furniture or the clock.
It’s the walls.
They’re nothing short of scandalous, adorned with life-sized paintings of the same faceless woman in intricate forms of bondage.
The provocative imagery isn’t what stops me cold. It’s the devastation that follows, stealing my breath, because I’d recognize that beautiful, exotic style anywhere.
“Sebastian painted these.” It’s not a question. His signature, SAS , haunts the bottom right corner of each canvas, etched as permanently as the scars he left on my soul.
“Yes,” Oliver answers, matter-of-fact, as if he doesn’t notice how the sight of those paintings tears me apart. “As artists go, he was the best.”
I stumble after him, exhaling in a rush, and force myself to keep pace as he moves through the fourth floor with brisk efficiency.
“Kitchen. Home office. Gym.” He gestures at each area as we pass, then pauses at a great room. “I call this the solarium.”
Beyond the towering wall of glass, the sea sprawls in endless motion. I’ve watched those waves a thousand times, crashing against the cliffs, always in flux. Last night, I almost saw them up close and personal.
But there’s no time to dwell on my mistakes.
Oliver is already moving again, and just as I catch up, he falters in front of a set of double doors. “This is the library. You’re welcome to use it whenever you like.”
With a touch of awe, I take in the towering rows of books. The collection spans classics and thrillers…and, surprisingly, romance novels. My fingers itch to reach for one and disappear into someone else’s story for a while.
He continues past the library, stopping next at a heavy door. Dark engravings spiral across its surface, elaborate patterns twisting into something almost hypnotic—until my gaze snags on the keypad embedded in the frame.
“This room is off-limits for now.” He swings his gaze from me to the door. “Until I decide otherwise.”
I tilt my head, more curious than wary. “What’s in there?”
His lips curve, amusement sparking in his chestnut eyes. “Something you’re not ready for.”
He’s got me there, because I’m not ready for any of this. I never am.
We continue deeper until the hall opens into a large suite. “This is where you’ll stay for the month. I’ll have an extra bed brought in for Astrid.”
Stepping past him, I take in my surroundings. Rich cherrywood furnishings, a massive bed dressed in a charcoal-gray duvet, and a sitting area near the fireplace, its warmth painting the walls in burnt amber. An arched mullioned window seat promises the perfect place to disappear into a book.
Or zone out into nothingness.
The babysitter enters behind me, while Oliver stalls on the threshold, assessing each detail to ensure it meets his exacting standards.
“I had some of your things brought in.” He motions to the writing desk. “Sketching supplies, a few of your books. The wardrobe has some of your clothes as well.”
I glance at the familiar items, and my stomach tightens at the unexpected consideration.
Kindness from these men always comes with strings.
Before I can decide whether to reach for my sketchbook or pretend it doesn’t exist, he’s speaking again.
“I’ll come for you in two hours. Stay here until then.”
“What happens in two hours?”
“Your first session with Dr. Price.”
I fold my arms, already tired of this routine. “That will make me late for the monthly dinner.”
Crossing his arms to match my stance, he leans against the doorjamb, but the smirk I expect doesn’t come. Instead, his jaw tightens. “How do you figure? It’s a ninety-minute session.”
“Liam said I can’t leave until I talk.”
“Then I suggest you talk, or you’ll be there a while.”
“Hence,” I say through gritted teeth, “why I said I’ll be late tonight.”
“Good thing dinner’s been cancelled, then.”
I blink. “Cancelled? Why?” Not that I want to attend another gathering, but I prefer it to having a stranger prod me into spilling my guts.
“We held dinner last night…though you had other priorities .” His clipped words simmer with reproach.
I gape at him, thrown by the severity of his tone. Before I can make sense of it, he straightens in the doorway.
“Two hours,” he reminds me, holding up two fingers. “In the meantime, I’ll have lunch sent up.” His smooth voice drops. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”
“Where would I go?”
His gaze veers toward the window and the cliffs beyond, and a dark cloud hovers over his expression. “Nowhere. Be here when I return.”
He leaves the door open, and my pulse stutters as I watch his retreating back. I don’t know what rattles me more—the bite in his tone or the eerie sense that, somehow, what happened on the cliffs is personal to him.
And I’m left wondering whose pain I brushed against without meaning to.