Chapter 11 #2
My legs wobble like jelly as I clutch his arm and swing my leg up and gracelessly hop off the bike. Declan steadies me with a hand at my waist. His touch does nothing to settle the riot of sensations still flooding my body from the ride.
No, not just the ride. From him. An insatiable urge to mount him seizes me.
As if he feels it too, his nostrils flare and his eyes widen.
His fingers grip the handlebars and for a second I’m scared he’ll ride off and leave me stranded at this castle in the middle of nowhere.
I back up, giving him room to dismount. He swings his leg off the bike and towers over me. “How was your first ride?”
“That wasn’t…” Heat blasts over my cheeks. “Oh, you mean the motorcycle? Terrifying.”
He frowns and reaches for the chin strap, neatly unfastening my helmet. “What’d you think I meant?”
I shift, rubbing my thighs together and avert my eyes. “Nothing.” Needing to quickly move away from my horny little blunder, I wave a hand at the house. “How come you never told me you own a home big enough to star in its own ghost story?”
“Didn’t know I needed to.” He sets the helmet on the seat of the bike and pivots toward the stairs. “I don’t ‘own’ it. It’s in a family trust.”
“Your family lives here?”
He winces, then shakes his head. “They rarely visit the Hollow.”
Obviously, this is a sore topic. “Oh.”
“Let’s get inside.” He jogs up the stairs and pulls a ring of keys from his pocket.
The iron ivy is actually a gate in front of the massive doors.
They groan as he unlocks them and pulls one side open.
Another key opens the wood door. He presses a hand to my lower back and nudges me inside ahead of him.
Inside is a cavern of shadows, dark gleaming wood, stone, heavy furniture, thick rugs. Musty air tickles my nose.
The iron gate clangs shut behind me and I jump. Declan secures the gate, then pushes the front door closed, throwing several locks. He steps to the side and flips a switch.
I gasp and blink at the sudden light shining from a giant crystal and iron chandelier above.
One corner of Declan’s mouth curls up. “What? Thought we’d have to use candles?”
Eager to explore, my gaze ping-pongs around the entryway. “Kind of.”
The chandelier’s glow doesn’t banish the shadows. If anything, it adds to them. Old maps in ornate frames line the walls, interspersed with portraits of people I assume are related to Declan.
Declan’s hand presses firm at the small of my back, steering me deeper inside. His touch shouldn’t feel this electrifying.
“He can’t cross the threshold.”
He. The Rider? My stomach lurches. I want to ask a hundred questions, but the weight of this house—of him—silences all but one. “How do you know that?”
He points to the door. “The iron barrier. Iron built into every corner of the house.”
Again with the iron. I glance at my wrist. Nothing about the glowing green ring is normal. Maybe Declan knows what he’s talking about and it’s time for me to set my skepticism aside.
Another thought hits me. He didn’t bring me just anywhere. He brought me to his family’s home. The place where he thinks I’ll be safest.
Declan steps past me, shedding his leather jacket. The dark ink crawling up his arms shifts with the movement. He drops the jacket on a hook and the simple domesticity of it feels oddly intimate.
“Did you grow up here?” I ask.
He grunts in agreement, the sound barely more than a vibration in his chest.
I turn in a slow circle, taking in the cavernous entry hall.
Old maps line the walls, dotted with tiny names of places I’ve never heard of.
A portrait of a severe-looking man glowers down at me, his lips pursed so tight I almost expect him to leap out of the frame and scold me for not being worthy of visiting this place.
“Who are they?” I gesture toward the portraits, then squint at Declan. “Not seeing any resemblance yet.”
He snorts. “That’s my great-great-grandfather.” He nods to the one next to it. “His father was one of the founders of the town.”
“Let me guess, Baxters and Applewoods have also been here since the beginning?”
A grin spreads over his face. “You’re pretty and clever. Two for one.”
He thinks I’m pretty.
I fight the urge to squeal like a seventh grader and continue studying the line of portraits. A woman in a blue velvet gown with a soft expression catches my attention. Something about her eyes feels familiar. “And her?”
He drops his gaze. “My mother.”
“I knew it. You have her eyes.”
He nods without looking up.
His parents are dead, Emery! “Sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay.” He moves past me into a wide corridor, flicking on more lights. I’ll ask about the other portraits later.
Shadows retreat as I follow him, but the house still feels heavy and full of watchful eyes.
My boots squeak and click faintly against the polished wood floors. “So…iron. That’s what keeps us safe?”
“Yes.” His tone is clipped, but he stops walking and turns to face me.
“What about this?” I lift my wrist, the faint green circle glowing just enough to send awe and disbelief swirling in my stomach.
His gaze cuts to it like a knife, tattoos twitching against his skin. “You shouldn’t have touched me.”
“What’re you talking about? Touching you did this?” An awful thought occurs to me. “Oh my God. I touched you the whole way here. Do I have these marks all over my body now?” I wiggle out of my jacket and tug my sweater up, desperately searching my bared skin for signs of more green brands.
Low rumbling laughter stops me before I strip off my sweater.
I stop and glare at him. “Why are you laughing?”
“Emery.” He steps forward and takes my hand, lifting it until the green ring’s glowing between us. “You felt this when it branded your skin. You can still feel it, right?”
I nod quickly. “It burns.”
“Well, do you feel burning anywhere else on your body?”
My nipples could slice diamonds and the throb between my legs has only intensified since I got off the bike. I’m burning all over with the need to be skin on skin with him. But the searing on my wrist…I don’t feel that kind of burn anywhere else.
“No, but how do you know for sure?”
“Don’t take my word for it.” He raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms over his chest, and takes a step back. He runs his heated gaze over every inch of me. “By all means, keep stripping off clothes.”
Heat blasts my skin. I swallow hard and lift my chin. “You first.”
“I’m not the one worried about brandings.” He holds out his arms. “I know exactly where all of mine are.”
Someone branded him? They’re not tattoos. “Is that why they seem to move and shift?”
“You really can see that?” he asks.
I nod quickly.
His hands fist at his sides. For a moment I think he’s done, but then he exhales, rough and uneven. “The Rider knows you now. That’s all you need to understand tonight.” He turns and continues walking. “Are you hungry?”
“Not for food,” I grumble, hurrying to catch up to him. “Is there anything to eat?” I ask loud enough for him to actually hear me.
“Not a lot but I keep some basics here.”
By “basics” he means a few boxes of cereal and not much else.
Like the rest of the house, the kitchen is massive.
Dated, though. I sit at a round table to stay out of Declan’s way.
He sets a family-sized box of cornflakes on the table.
“It might be a little stale.” He hands me a bowl and spoon. “But the milk’s unopened and in date.”
“Thanks for checking.” I pour a generous helping of cereal into my bowl and give the milk a sniff before pouring it over my cornflakes.
Declan joins me a few seconds later and we crunch on our cereal together in easy silence. Still, I can’t help the thrill of being alone with him swirling in my chest.
“So, you never bring people here?” I ask when I’m finished.
He lifts his gaze. “Not since my mother died.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my lap. “I’m sorry. I…I lost my mom too a few years back.”
He scowls at his cereal bowl. “I know.”
“What? How?”
“Nosy reporter asking me questions? I looked you up.”
I swallow hard. “And you found out about my mom…how?”
“Obituary mentioned you.”
Wow. Okay. Why am I surprised? It’s not like I’m the only one who knows how to use Google.
“What else did you learn?”
“You’re a good writer.” He sets his spoon down and folds his arms over his chest. “You seem like a smart woman. Why’d you move from serious news to podcasting ghost tales.”
“I don’t have a podcast,” I grumble, swirling my spoon in my leftover milk which I am absolutely not going to slurp out of the bowl in front of Declan. “I have a YouTube channel. They’re very different things.”
“Are they though?” he says with a head tilt and an edge of sarcasm.
“Are you going to tell me why you dragged me here?” I hold up my wrist again. “And what the hell this is?”
He stares me straight in the eyes. “Let’s see if we make it through the night first.”