Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
CARA
W hen I was told the Knox brothers would show me to my room, I hadn’t expected two towering, identical men in brown fur-felt hats and matching leather boots.
Their short jet-black hair is mostly hidden beneath the brims, their broad torsos clad in blue scrub shirts—the standard issue with the Blackwood Asylum branding; it’s the only real hint that they are patients, not staff.
I follow behind the handsome cowboys silently as they show me to the southside of the building, cataloguing all the details to share with Suzy later; fucked-in-the-head hotties are kind of her go-to man candy.
I notice a number of rooms with doors ajar, any furniture that remains inside them covered with dust-coated painter sheets.
“Are there other staff on my floor?” I ask meekly, shuffling along under the weight of my suitcase and the stack of books tucked under my arm as the din of the main hall fades off into the distance.
“Not currently. But there always seems to be a rotation with the workers here at Blackwood.”
“I’m surprised they put you all the way over here on your lonesome. Lenora usually likes to keep her staff close,” the other guy adds, sharing a conspiratorial smile with his twin.
I try not to read too much into it; the fluttering nervous energy in my belly is more than enough to keep me occupied until I can get to my room and start making the space my own. I don’t need to add the intricacies of my awkward social interactions into the mix.
“Caleb,” twin one states with a thumb pressed into his chest. “The less dashing one is Cooper,” he chuckles, shoulder-checking his brother playfully.
The intricate black and grey skull and flame tattoos creeping up their necks contort as they twist their heads to face me.
Their dark emerald eyes ringed with amber sparkling as they assess me.
“Ca-ra,” I stumble with my name as though it’s new to me, my voice small as my gaze bounces between the two men.
“Ca-ra,” Cooper repeats, toying with the drawn-out sounds as though he’s tasting each syllable on his tongue. With a heated grin they turn and continue to walk briskly down the hallway.
I keep hot on their heels, but they tower over me, and one of their strides equates to two of mine.
We approach a flight of stairs, and they abruptly stop and turn.
As though it’s a synchronized dance they’ve perfected, Cooper reaches for the stack of books, and Caleb takes my suitcase, neither one saying a word as they turn to ascend the stairs.
“I have every hope that your stay here will be an interesting one. Ezra doesn’t speak to just anyone,” Cooper notes as he glances back at me with a mischievous, off-kilter grin.
“You must be special,” Caleb adds cryptically, his carbon copy smile just as attractive as his brother’s.
Their back and forth should unsettle me; I’m not clueless enough to not realise that the importance of their exchange is in what they aren’t saying.
It’s the side glances, the clearing of their throats, and the subtle shakes of their heads.
If I were to be faced with these men in a dark alley, I’d likely be running in the opposite direction; their trickster energy is bold, and coupled with the darkness that lingers beneath their surfaces, I find it hilarious that I am following them without question, to a room so far away from my getaway vehicle.
Flattening my hands down my dress, I consider their earlier assumption that something about me sparked the attention of Ezra Wolfe and say with conviction, “Nothing special about me.”
They chuckle in response, likely assuming I’m being modest, but they couldn’t be further from the truth.
Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, with shapely hips, an athletic build, and a generous handful of boobage, I should have confidence enough to hold my head high.
Sadly, that was beaten out of me years ago, my sense of self crushed beneath the feet of all the men who paid Doc for a turn with my body.
The only reason I even bother looking at my reflection anymore is because when faced with my almond, sea water blue eyes, I truly feel connected to my mother.
I could get lost in them, contemplating what an existence might have looked like if I’d have had a different start in life.
I note Ezra doesn’t seem to see the trauma I carry around on my shoulders. I allow myself a moment to consider that maybe the guys are right and that our exchange outside in the courtyard was him showing his interest in me.
I’d love to see myself through his eyes.
“Still with us, sweetcheeks?”
With a squeak of surprise, I stumble into Cooper, shaken from my thoughts as they stand outside room 127.
My home away from home for the foreseeable future.
Caleb, the more guarded of the two, glares at his brother, another subtle head shake thrown his way.
Cooper rolls his eyes and breaks the intense stare they are sharing by turning to me.
“Your abode awaits.” Cooper holds out his hand, pushing open the door, inviting me to pass him without crossing the threshold.
There is something sexy about a man that assumes you have boundaries and doesn’t encroach on your space.
It helps when that man is all lean muscle, tattoos, and brooding feral energy.
Slap the word dark before the romance because there is a tortured edge to these men, and they could literally encapsulate perfectly every male lead from every steamy cowboy book I’ve ever read.
And thanks to Suzy, I’ve read a fair few.
“Thank you.” I grin. “Both of you,” I correct quickly as they lean in to place my belongings inside the doorway.
“Be seeing you around, Ca-ra.” There he goes again, toying with my name like a cat with a ball of yarn.
I’m aware this guy likely has claws hidden beneath his exuberant, devil-may-care exterior though, and boy drama is the last thing I need right now.
Knowing this, I’m curious to find I’m pouting.
As though I have no control over it, I can feel the shift in my expression as they stare down at me.
“No more sweetcheeks?” I tease.
“My brother had a momentary slip; we like our heads exactly where they are,” Caleb remarks, tipping his cowboy hat that makes him look all rugged and manly, his brother following suit politely and throwing a cheeky wink into the mix before they both head back down the way they came and disappear down the stairs.
I unapologetically marvel at the shape of their arses as they go, thanking the artist that made those jeans that hug so perfectly to their muscled thighs, and then retreat into my room.
Kicking the door shut behind me, I replay Caleb’s words—they like their heads exactly where they are . Whatever that means. I could dwell on it, but unpacking and settling in seems like the less headache-inducing option. Something tells me not much here will make sense anyway.
It’s been an hour, and I’m already wondering why I left Hollow Hills so willingly. Okay, so the seriously hot men softened the blow of upending my life, but that isn’t enough to squash the realisation that I might not be ready to live here alone.
I’ve spent more years than I can count sharing my space—queueing for the bathroom, arguing over shower schedules, dealing with the fallout of finding the snack cupboard empty just when the time-of-the-month-synchronised cravings hit.
I’ve never been alone long enough to know what true loneliness feels like.
I sigh, the sound heavier than expected. When it echoes back at me, the emptiness of the room presses in, cold and unfamiliar. Looking around, the word home feels lacklustre on my lips, like another lie I'm forcing out into the ether, the silence suddenly too loud.
I push open the window as far as the bars will allow and welcome the sound of chirping birds in the trees to fill the room.
The furniture that isn’t covered with sheets are a mismatch of colours and styles.
I suspect they are vintage pieces, the designs too ornate to be mass produced, their wooden features a solid stained oak.
It looks like a pricey thrift store has thrown up in here, but there’s a beauty in the madness that I can appreciate.
Hand-painted pink flowers with thick woven vines creep up from the base board across the wall and over a portion of the ceiling behind the wooden bed with the high steepled corners, the backdrop a deep forest green.
I begin removing the sheets, unmasking the hidden treasures of the room as a murder of crows caws in the trees outside.
The window seat, the trunk at the end of the bed, and the chair slid under the corner desk are a mix of battered gold velvets.
The star of the show though is a fuchsia armchair set against the large mirror on the far wall beside the floor-to-ceiling-archway windows.
I’ll choose to block out the thick black bars.
The chiming voice in my head reminds me that I’m never completely alone.
‘ Forgot where you were for a second there, didn’t-cha?
’ I had done my research, and Blackwood Asylum was most notably known for the prolific criminally insane patients that reside here against their will, their identities—both real and fake—littering every government list worldwide.
I have voluntarily stepped into the belly of the beast; I’d question my sanity right now, but that’s a rabbit hole I don’t know whether I’d be able to climb out of.
Buckle down, Alice, shit just got interesting. Welcome to Wonderland.
Tucking away my reservations, I shake away the thought and take a moment to assess the room with rose-tinted glasses, a trick to turn a bad situation on its head that I have yet to master, but it seems to ignite a semblance of comfort when I need it most.