Chapter 22 A Valley of Ashes
Chapter Twenty-Two
A Valley of Ashes
The lock clicked into place, and Daisy pressed her back against the door, the key biting into her palm as she squeezed to stop her hands from trembling. Her breath came in shallow bursts. The suite stretched before her, vast and silent, firelight casting long shadows across the walls.
She didn’t know how long she had.
The shirt he’d left lay draped over the chair where she’d abandoned it. She rushed to it on battered feet, each step a fresh reminder of the lengths she’d traveled to be there.
The blanket fell, and she shrugged on the shirt, the starched material swallowing her whole.
She fastened the buttons as quickly as her unsteady hands allowed.
The hem grazed her thighs, and the sleeves hung past her wrists, but it was better than twelve pounds of beaded gown or the blanket he’d offered.
The material smelled of cedar and something darker. Something that made her stomach tighten in ways she refused to name.
Her gaze snagged on the narrow drawer beside the door. The one he’d opened before retrieving the gun.
She crossed to it. Pulled the brass handle only to find it empty.
Her fingers traced the velvet lining where the weapon had rested. Nothing. Not even dust.
The next drawer yielded the same. And the next. She moved through the sitting area with mounting frustration, yanking open every compartment, every cabinet, every hidden panel she could find. All of them empty. Pristine. Unlived in.
Like a hotel room dressed for a guest who never arrived.
Who was this man? He had files on dozens of women, but kept nothing of himself. No photographs. No letters. No evidence that a human being occupied this space beyond the fire in the hearth and the half-empty decanter on the bar.
She scurried to the dressing room, her feet screaming in protest. The wardrobe revealed only one row of suits in charcoal and black. More than enough for someone of her means, but far less than what she expected for a man of his class.
Shirts hung beside the suits, pressed to military precision. Shoes lined up like little soldiers, polished to mirrors. She rifled through pockets, checked linings, searched for anything that might tell her who R.A. or Jack really was.
Nothing.
Her fingers paused on a small velvet box.
She lifted the lid and found what looked like earrings, plain onyx, flat and unadorned, but upon further inspection, she didn’t know what they were.
Lifting one, she twisted the strange metal post, then realized they were cufflinks—something no one in her world owned.
She’d expected something showier. Gold, perhaps. Or diamonds. The kind of ostentation that announced wealth like a battle cry. But these were simple. Too plain for even a thief to steal.
“You like being understated,” she whispered, sliding the cufflink back into the box beside its twin.
She scanned the hanging suits, each one a powerful wrapper he used to hide his ravaged body. How many people actually knew what he hid beneath the surface?
“Who are you?”
Was he really named Jack? And if R.A. was dead, like he claimed, why did he wear a dead man’s ring?
A squat safe tucked in the corner of the closet, its digital keypad glowing a patient green. She tried his initials. The letters RA from his ring. Random numbers that meant nothing. Each attempt earned a sharp beep of rejection.
Hopeless. She abandoned it after only a few tries, unwilling to waste time on locked doors when so many others stood open.
The bathroom offered more contradictions. Wrapped soaps lined the drawers in neat rows. Extra toothbrushes, still in their packaging, filled the next drawer. Towels folded with hotel precision. Everything arranged for a guest, nothing touched by habit.
His wet clothes lay in a heap on the heated floor. She crouched and searched the pockets with methodical desperation. Empty. All of them. Not even lint.
The man was a cipher. A ghost in a three-piece suit.
Her gaze settled on the leather toiletry case tucked neatly beside the rolled towels on the vanity.
She pulled open the zipper, and his scent wafted from the shadowed contents, intense and recognizable.
She dumped the contents, wincing when a glass bottle of shaving oil hit the counter and nearly rolled off the ledge.
“Shit.”
She sorted through the rest. Aftershave balm. Hair trimmers. A nail kit. Tweezers. Eye drops. Over-the-counter painkillers. And one single syringe filled with clear liquid.
“What the hell?” She held the syringe up to the light. It had no prescription markings. Just a cap on both ends and whatever fluid filled the inside.
Daisy removed the sharp metal nail file from the nail kit and shoved everything but the file and syringe back inside the leather case.
Wandering back to the sitting area, she swiped a hunk of cheese without ceremony. Biting into it, her eyes bulged at the sharp flavor. She pressed her fingers to her lips, unsure what to make of it as she chewed.
Ripping open the packet of Paracetamol, she swallowed the two pills and chased them down with water and another piece of cheese. She left the syringe and file hidden under the edge of the tray and moved toward the balcony doors, her feet slowing at the threshold.
Beyond the glass, the grounds stretched in silver and shadow, lit by scattered torches and the cold eye of the moon.
And there, far below, the hunt continued.
Women darted from the tree line like startled deer, their gowns streaming behind them as men gave chase.
Shadowed bodies clustered in alcoves and open fields, moving in hedonistic rhythms that should have shocked her, but the distance allowed her to watch with cold detachment to what others felt below.
Music drifted to her ears. Moans. Laughter. The wet percussion of flesh. A bell tolled loudly from above, and Daisy flinched—not as desensitized as she thought.
Was he out there? Was that where he ran off to?
She searched the shadowed figures again, but none of them resembled him.
How was it she could tell him apart from the others so easily?
Even before she saw the scars that marked him in a way no other body could mimic, there was something unique about him, something that radiated from his silence and set him apart.
A woman’s scream pierced the night, sharp and sudden, then dissolved into something that might have been pleasure or terror or both. Daisy couldn’t tell the difference anymore. Wasn’t sure there was one.
She backed away from the glass. The balcony held nothing for her but nightmares made of flesh and terrible memories. What if he sent her back out there?
She pulled the door shut and turned the lock with trembling fingers, adding one more barrier between herself and the chaos below. For now, she was safe. And alone.
The bar gleamed in the firelight. Crystal decanters lined the surface, their contents glowing amber and gold. She approached slowly, lifting each stopper, sniffing carefully. Wine. Something clear burned her nostrils. And a half-empty one that looked favored more than all the rest.
She poured a finger into a heavy glass. The scent rose sharp and smoky. She took a tentative sip and sputtered. It tasted like burning leather and regret. She set the glass down with a grimace, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.
Her gaze drifted upward, catching on the brass bear mounted to the wall.
He’d touched it. Why?
Daisy stepped closer, her head tilting as she studied the fixture. Just a bear. Brass and without purpose. Just a decoration. Unless it wasn’t just a bear.
She turned, standing directly below it, and scanned the room with new eyes. She could see every corner and every doorway. She looked back at the bear, waving her hand in front of its eyes. When she turned again, she sucked in a breath and then rushed to the table where his phone sat abandoned.
She hurried across the room and snatched it up, her heart hammering against her ribs. The screen blazed to life at her touch, demanding a passcode she didn’t have.
“Damn it.” She tried his initials. R.A. again. Random numbers. The phone locked her out after three attempts, its screen going dark with engineered indifference.
She tossed it aside, frustration burning in her chest.
Then her gaze fell on the leather box.
It sat on the side table where he’d left it, the lid sealed snugly on top.
Daisy rummaged through the contents, searching for file 1922. When she found it, she yanked it free from the box and opened it on the table.
She recognized some pages from what she read at the doctor’s house. Cringed at his clinical notes in cramped handwriting, taking offense again to the terms she’d read before. Submissive tendencies. Virgin Level II. Low risk.
It felt like a lifetime ago, but it had only been yesterday. She flipped to the back of the file and found her essays.
Jack… J.T. Was he the one behind all of this?
Flipping another page, she stilled. Her government ID stared up at her with her full address. But that wasn’t all. Her mother’s death certificate. Details about family members she’d never mentioned, never shared, never offered to anyone.
How did they know? How could they possibly—
The next photograph stopped her heart.
Large and unflinchingly naked, her body filled the page.
Arms at her sides, chin lifted, face captured in frozen mortification.
The clinical lighting of the examination room rendered every flaw, every rib, every shadow in merciless detail.
Daisy touched the locket hanging from her neck in the picture, her mind flooding with heartfelt apologies no one would ever hear.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but deep down she hoped if spirits did exist, her mother sat this night out. “I’ll figure out a way to get it back.”