Chapter 7 #2
The manhole is cold against my palm as I drag it over the opening once I’ve gotten a secure grip on one of the ladder rungs. Then I descend back into the sewer tunnel, the stench of wet moss and old filth making me gag after the night’s disappointment.
I move quickly through the tunnel, hyperaware of time slipping away. I need to make it back to my room before anyone notices I didn’t spend the night in the estate.
Sliding out of the exit in record time, I lock the entrance with my padlock again, then suck in the cool, balmy forest air and exhale, letting my frustration and disappointment out in one long breath.
Why is this so impossibly hard? Soon, I’ll get a call from the man who brought me here to ask what I've found—which is nothing. I’ve found nothing.
I need to have something to give him by then. Or at least have a promising lead on my sister. A trace, a hint, anything.
The pressure makes the ache in my head intensify, and I rub my temples hard as I emerge from the woods and hurry back to the maids’ quarters.
By the time I reach my narrow bedroom and ease the door closed behind me, it’s almost six, and a few of the other maids are already stirring, opening doors and getting ready for the day’s work.
I have the morning shift again, so I also need to get ready.
But the thought of showering and getting dressed feels insurmountable right now. I’d much rather use my precious remaining hour to grab a quick nap than to go through the motions of pretending I’m a normal person with a normal life.
I set a timer on my phone and collapse onto my bed, not even bothering to remove my shoes. Almost as soon as my eyes close, I’m falling into unconsciousness—not sleep, really, just the absolute exhaustion of a body and mind pushed past their limits.
Just one hour. That’s all I need.
It feels like barely seconds pass before the timer blares, jolting me awake. I curse as I check the time, confirming that indeed an entire hour has somehow already vanished.
Getting out of bed takes herculean effort. I drag myself to one of the shared bathrooms to brush my teeth, then back to my room to wipe the dried mud and tunnel grime off my arms and change into clean clothes and shoes.
One benefit of cutting my hair is that it’s easy to manage. A quick brush through and I'm good to go.
Or as good as I’m going to get on an hour of sleep…
The morning moves painfully slow, the time seeming to lag.
I mop, dust, scrub. Over and over. The endless ritual of cleaning this massive mansion stretches on, the sharp scent of lemon cleaner biting at my nose, the sting mixing with the dull ache in my arms and the steady throb behind my eyes.
Somewhere below, muted voices drift up from the ground floor, but they barely register through the mind-numbing rhythm of repetition.
By eleven, my body feels heavier than the mop in my hand. Every muscle protests, begging me to stop until it seems to take elephant-level willpower just to stay upright. So when I finish cleaning the great hall, I give in and decide to take a break.
The migraine from earlier is now a full-blown headache pounding across my skull. It’s a miracle I've managed to keep going this long. I need the break.
Just a minute, I tell myself, sinking onto one of the plush lounge chaises. Just one minute to rest my feet and arms. That’s all.
No one will even notice.
My eyes drift shut, and the soft cushion molds around my exhausted body, pulling me deeper into its comfort.
Just one minute...
Something tickles my cheek.
I twitch reflexively, batting halfheartedly at whatever it is as my mind claws its way up through thick layers of sleep. Another touch—warm, impossibly light, like a feather dragging across my skin.
What…?
My eyes blink open reluctantly, and I wince, squinting against the light streaming through the windows. Then I see him.
Roan.
Oh God.
He’s crouched beside me, his face so close I can count the individual shades of green in his eyes—emerald and jade with little flecks of amber swirling in them like trapped sunlight.
“Your eyes are so pretty,” the words slip out before I can catch them, my brain still half-asleep and stupid.
His lips pull into a slow, crooked smile, a hint of amusement lighting his gaze from within. That tiny shift sends my stomach flipping, butterflies going wild in my belly.
Geez, stop… it’s just a dream… right?
But I can’t look away from his lips—the way they part slightly, the way they hover just a breath away from mine. One small lean forward, and we’d be kissing.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, and his gaze drops to them, darkening several shades. Then his fingers trail lightly across my cheek—the same tickling sensation that woke me.
Oh.
It’s the gentlest touch imaginable, but it steals my breath as heat slams through me, so sudden and visceral that it’s like a spark igniting gasoline in my veins. My heart races, thundering so loud I’m sure he can hear every frantic beat.
I start to raise my own hand, wanting—needing—to tug at the little auburn curl that’s escaped from his bun and is hanging temptingly near his temple. He goes completely still, watching my hand’s slow ascent with intense interest, like I’m defusing a bomb rather than reaching for his hair.
But before I can make contact, my brain finally wakes up.
What the hell am I doing?
I lurch sideways instinctively, trying to put distance between us—and topple off the lounge chaise with a graceless thud.
Ow. Shit.
Pain flares across my hip and elbow, but my cheeks burn even hotter when I glance up. He’s still there, one hand resting casually on the arm of the chaise, eyes fixed on me.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice is a low, amused murmur that makes me want to melt into the floor.
“You—” I swallow, hating how breathless and flustered I sound. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
“Sure.” His smile doesn’t falter for a second. “Just... resting your eyes?”
God, I want to die.
I scramble to my feet, brushing off imaginary dust, trying desperately to ignore the flush creeping up my neck. “I have to go. I have work to do.”
So much work. All the work. Anywhere but here.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he says, straightening up. But his gaze lingers on me, a quiet intensity in those sharp eyes I was stupid enough to call pretty.
My heart is still racing as I grab my cleaning supplies and rush down the hall. I don’t glance back, but I still feel his gaze on me—warm and heavy—long after I’ve turned the corner and disappeared from sight.