Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter One

Chapter One

“You’ve arrived at your destination,” the GPS announces.

“That’s the one, on the left,” Aaron says, looking up from the map on his phone to the large brick mansion on the hill.

“That?” I reply in shock.

“Barclay Manor. That’s it,” he says, staring out the window. Rain pelts against the windows of the car.

“Aaron, you said your family had a house in Scotland. That is a castle.”

“Technically, it’s a manor.”

“Semantics,” I reply, gaping through the windshield at the massive gray stone building. It looms over us like a bad omen. Aaron pulls off on the side of the road, and I turn toward him in confusion. “What are you doing? Drive up there.”

“I can’t,” he argues. “That sign says Private Property. ”

My jaw drops. “So what? It’s not like people actually live here.”

“That’s exactly what private residence means, Sylvie.”

“We came all this way.”

“So? What would I tell them? They’re not going to let me in just because my great-great-grandfather once visited here in the summer and wrote his book on the typewriter.”

“That is exactly what you tell them. Based on these photos, we have proof that the typewriter is in there. We came all the way to fucking Scotland to see it. Now you’re telling me you’re going to just drive away because of a tiny little sign?”

He turns toward me and gives me a condescending glare. “Don’t talk to me like that, Sylvie. I’m not afraid.”

I roll my eyes. “So at least drive up there.”

He lets out a huff. “Fine. You want to go to jail in a foreign country, let’s drive up there.”

He’s so dramatic. I don’t say a word as he pulls the car up the long gravel drive, through an open gate framed by two tall brick structures on either side. The one on the right displays the words BARCLAY MANOR 1837, and the one on the left has the PRIVATE PROPERTY sign.

The driveway is long but secluded. There are dense trees on either side, and judging by the map on Aaron’s phone, there’s a body of water not far on the other side of the manor. As we travel up the hill toward the manor, the rain continues to pour. It’s rained every damn day since we got here last week. New York isn’t sunny, but at least it’s better than this.

“See, there is no one up here,” I say when we get closer to the house. Aaron slows the car, clearly nervous. “Go around back.”

His head snaps in my direction. “What? Why?”

“Because it’s probably easier to get in back there.”

“Get in? No, no, no,” he barks, quickly turning the car around like he’s about to flip a bitch on this narrow drive.

“Aaron, will you just relax? No one lives here. There’s not a car in sight. My friends and I used to sneak into our school all the time as kids, and that had much better security than this place has.”

“You’re going to just walk into this nearly two-hundred-year-old manor like you own the place? Are you out of your fucking mind, Sylvie?”

“If someone sees us, we pretend we don’t speak English and act like tourists.”

When it’s clear he can’t turn his car around on this road, he pulls up farther to where the road winds around the building. He goes to the back first, his knuckles white around the steering wheel.

“Look!” I say, pointing from the passenger side. “There’s a door on the side.”

“Yeah, and it’s probably locked,” he replies, coasting the car to a stop.

Just then, the door pops open. Aaron and I both gasp and duck at the same time as we watch a woman emerge. She’s wearing a black miniskirt and a white shimmery blouse missing a few buttons in the front.

One step out the door, she suddenly realizes it’s raining. Instead of pulling an umbrella out, she covers her head with a black jacket and gazes around the yard as if looking for something.

Then, she’s jogging in the mud and rain with her shoes hanging from her fingers instead of on her feet. And she’s running straight toward us .

“What the…?” Aaron murmurs.

She stops by his driver’s window and waits as he slowly rolls it down a few inches.

“Are you my lift?” she asks with her thick Scottish accent. There is black makeup streaking down her face and her lipstick is smeared around her mouth.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume this woman is doing the quote-unquote walk of shame .

“Uh…no,” Aaron stammers.

Her head pops up as she stares down the drive we just came from. “Och!” she chirps, then takes off in a jog through the mud toward another car slowly crawling up toward the house.

Aaron rolls the window back up and turns toward me in astonishment.

“Can we get out of here now?”

“What?” I reply. “No. The door is totally unlocked!”

His eyes widen further. “It’s someone’s house, Sylvie! Did you not just see the woman walk out of there?”

“Even better,” I reply as I unclip my seat belt. “I can claim I’m her friend if someone sees me. I came all this way, Aaron. I’m getting in that fucking house.”

“You’re unhinged,” he mutters as he faces forward and stares in shock. “People tried to warn me that you’re a loose cannon, but I figured that would mean you’re fun and unpredictable. I didn’t think they meant it in a criminal way.”

“Wait, who said I was a loose cannon? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

It really doesn’t matter. I can think of a handful of people off the bat who I know would say that to my boyfriend. People in our social circle define fun and entertainment as tearing down other people and talking shit as if they’re so much better than anyone.

The only way I’ve figured out how to avoid that is to beat them at their own game.

They want to call me irrational, then I’ll show them irrational.

With that, I smile at Aaron and snatch my phone off the center console, shoving it into my pocket before throwing the hood of my rain jacket over my head.

“Be right back,” I say as I open the car door and jump into the downpour.

“Sylvie!” Aaron calls from the car, but I cut him off by slamming the door shut and sprinting toward the place we just watched the girl emerge from.

There’s a moment somewhere between the car and the door when I realize that this is, in fact, a bad idea. I’m walking into someone else’s home uninvited. I could just knock and ask nicely to see the library, but where’s the fun in that?

This is the moment when the adrenaline kicks in. It’s invigorating. Fear, anticipation, and excitement all blend into one as I reach for the door handle without a clue as to what’s on the other side.

It’s an antique brass doorknob on an old wooden door. The forest-green paint is chipping away at the edges, and the knob squeaks as I turn it. As expected, it opens without an issue.

Once inside, I pull the door to just an inch from latching closed. It’s my idea of a quick escape plan just in case these particular Scottish homeowners are the kind that like to pull an axe on their intruders or have large wolfhounds to protect the residence.

Shit, dogs. I didn’t think about that.

The house is seemingly quiet from here. I’m standing in a large entryway, although, to be technical, this is the back of the house. So maybe it’s called an exit way?

The floor is all hardwood, and the walls are painted. It looks as if it was recently renovated instead of featuring the stale, dated decor I was expecting. It smells nice, as if there’s incense burning somewhere or men’s cologne sprayed nearby.

In front of me is a long hallway, and I take each step slowly, listening for people or voices in the house. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and pull up the camera app to have it ready. When I get a picture of that typewriter, Aaron is going to eat his words. This will be nothing more than a funny story someday.

There are closed doors on either side of the long hallway, but none of them look like the kinds of doors that would lead to a large library like the one we saw in that photo of the typewriter. So, I keep walking slowly while listening.

At the end of the hall, I step into a giant entranceway with a grand staircase that leads to the second and third floors. The height of the ceiling in this part is massive, and I’m struck silent as I stare upward at it. This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen.

And if it wasn’t for the warm smell of spice and musk, I wouldn’t believe this is a residence.

My phone buzzes in my hand, drawing my attention from the ceiling and grand staircase.

I glance down to see a text from Aaron.

Get the fuck out of there. Now, Sylvie.

I roll my eyes and swipe the message closed. He’s always so paranoid. Such a rule follower. He used to be fun, but the last year with him has been painfully boring. Every day is so predictable it makes me sick. I’m going to prove to him right now how fun and spontaneous I can be. I’ll snap a picture of that old typewriter that his great-great-whatever wrote some dumb old classic novel on, and that’ll show him.

When I glance up again, I spot an open door on the second floor. In the room, I spot a shelf of old books. A library.

Pocketing my phone, I carefully tiptoe up the stairs. I don’t hear a single sound in the rest of the house. If anyone is here, they’re probably sleeping or in the shower or something. They’ll never know I was even here.

There is a single stair that creaks as I settle my weight on it. With a wince, I freeze and wait for the sound of footsteps, but there’s nothing. Quickly, I finish my climb, reaching the top and slowly creeping into the large room. The ceilings in this room are far taller than I expected. Each wall has a tall ladder attached to a slider. For a moment, I can do nothing but stare at the massive space.

As my gaze casts downward, it catches on something on the other side of the room. Resting on a large ornate wooden table is a huge vase full of flowers next to a dusty old typewriter.

“Gotcha,” I whisper as I quickly tiptoe through the room. The floor in here has a thick rug that muffles my footsteps.

I slip my phone from my back pocket and open the camera app. Aiming at the typewriter, I take a multitude of shots from various angles.

“Eat your words, Aaron,” I whisper.

Then, while I’m at it, I take a few shots of the library too. It’s so old-fashioned looking, like something out of a fairy tale. I don’t know anyone who owns this many books, and if I did, they wouldn’t store them in a room like this.

There’s a creak in the house, and I quickly spin around, watching the door.

Fuck .

Time to go .

With my phone clutched in my hand, I make my way toward the door I came in through. There’s no sign of anyone on the second floor, so I book it for the stairs. My heart is pounding, and adrenaline is coursing through my veins. The long hallway ahead leads to the exit. Just a few more feet and I’ll be outside, sprinting toward Aaron’s car in the rain, laughing about how wild this was.

Reaching the bottom step, I leap to the right.

An enormous hand wraps around my arm, hauling me to a stop before I can make my escape. I let out a scream, turning around to gape at the impossibly large man scowling down at me with my arm still gripped in his fist.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man bellows in a deep Scottish brogue.

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“What are you doing in my house?” he continues.

“I—I” I stammer.

Get it together, Sylvie. This was your idea. Don’t let this giant oaf intimidate you.

“I was looking for my friend. She was here, but now…she’s not,” I reply, forcing my voice to remain steady. He’s still holding my arm, his fingers pinching it so tightly it’s starting to hurt.

“Your friend?” he asks.

I jerk my arm, trying to pull it free, but he won’t let go.

“Yeah. She told me to pick her up, but I think she already left.” I wave my phone to imply the girl has called or texted me. “So, I’ll just…be on my way.”

His brows pinch inward skeptically.

“So, you just barge into my house uninvited?”

“Yeah, I—”

When his lazy focus turns back to me, I notice a change in his demeanor. His eyes rake up and down my body before landing on my face and leaning in a little closer.

“Go on…” he mutters in a low, teasing manner. Goose bumps develop across my arms and neck. The man looks to be older than me, maybe midthirties. With long brown hair and a thick beard, all I can really see are his bright green eyes.

“I was just looking…”

“For your friend,” he says, finishing my sentence.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t believe you,” he whispers, his face so close I feel his breath on my cheek.

I jerk on my arm, but he still won’t release it. “Then, let me go,” I argue.

A wicked grin tilts the corner of his mouth. “I’m just starting to wonder…” he says with a note of sarcasm in his voice, “if you’re here for the same reason she was. Perhaps you can pick up where she left off.”

My blood runs cold, and I feel the heavy weight of fear settle in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a stone. Is he really implying that I’m here to sleep with him?

“Let me go,” I mutter through my teeth.

With a few steps toward the wall, he slowly corners me against it. “Wh-what are you doing?” I stammer.

“This is why you’re here, isn’t it?” he asks.

“No!” I shout, putting a hand on his chest and trying to shove him away. Like a brick wall, he doesn’t budge. There’s a hint of humor on his face, and I can’t quite tell, but I think he’s teasing me. Saying all of this just to scare me. It’s working.

“Then, why are you in my house?” he replies. His playful smirk fades, and it’s replaced with something more sinister. “Are you spying for my sister?”

I flinch. “What? No.”

When his eyes trail to the phone in my hand, his brow creases. I already know what he’s about to do, so when I struggle to release myself from his grip, it’s futile.

“Give me this,” he growls, snatching the phone from my hand.

“Stop!” I scream.

Then, I watch in horror as he tosses my phone to the floor and stomps the heel of his boot on it so hard it shatters against the hardwood.

Finally, he releases my arm, and I gape at the broken phone on the floor. “You brute!” I scream, taking a swing at him. My hand lands disappointingly against the thick muscles of his arm, clearly causing him no pain at all.

“What did you do that for?” I shout.

He points a finger in my face. “You tell my bitch of a sister that she’s not getting my house, and she can stop sending her little friends to spy on me. Now, get out.”

His lips curl in a sneer as he points to the door. Then, he drops his arm and walks away, leaving me to blink in disbelief.

“Hey!” I call after him. “You need to replace my phone!”

Still walking away from me toward the back of the house, he doesn’t respond to my shouting.

“Asshole!” I yell again. “I’m talking to you.”

He chuckles as he enters a large living room. To the right is a bar with bottles of liquor displayed on glass shelves over a marble counter.

“Bold of you to shout at me in my own home. You’re lucky I haven’t called the police on you yet.”

“I’m serious,” I say, winding a stray curl behind my ear. “You broke my phone for no reason.”

“I broke it for a very good reason,” he replies with a sarcastic laugh. “You probably had pictures on it that could be incriminating, and my sister would just love that.”

“Incriminating?” I reply. “I took pictures of the old typewriter in the library!”

“The typewriter?” He’s uncapping a bottle of something that looks like whisky when he stops and glances up at me, bewildered. “Why the hell would she want pictures of a typewriter?”

I slam my hands down in frustration. “They’re not for your fucking sister. I don’t even know your sister. I snuck in to find this stupid old typewriter that was apparently an heirloom in my boyfriend’s family, you stupid ogre.”

His eyes burn with anger as he sets the bottle down. “Let me get this straight. You walked into a stranger’s home to take pictures of an old typewriter for your boyfriend?”

He glances around behind me as if Aaron is going to appear out of thin air. I roll my eyes. “Yes, and I was on my way out when you attacked me, threatened to defile me, and then broke my phone.”

“Is this how girls behave in America?” he snaps in return. “Just barging into people’s houses to take a picture of something you think belongs to you?”

I scoff. “To be fair, this is hardly a house.”

“It’s my fucking house.”

“It’s practically a castle. Why do you even live out here?” I ask incredulously.

“To avoid having to interact with people like you,” he replies.

“You’re really an asshole.”

He simply chuckles in response. “What is your name?” he asks, taking a step toward me.

I take a step back. “None of your business.”

“Tell me your name, and I’ll replace your phone,” he replies, teasing me.

Chewing on my bottom lip, I stare at him with hesitation.

“Sylvie,” I say, taking another step away from him as he continues to close in on me.

“Sylvie what?”

“Devereaux,” I mumble.

“Sylvie Devereaux,” he says, my name sounding melodic and beautiful on his tongue.

My back hits a wall, but he continues toward me. I stop breathing for a moment as I stare into his haunting green eyes.

As he leans in, I catch the scent of his cologne and feel dwarfed by his intimidating size. He must be six and a half feet tall. As he places a hand on the wall over my head, I realize what an idiot I am.

I had my chance to leave, but now I’ve just gotten myself cornered by someone who’s already proven himself to be volatile and angry.

His fingers delicately touch my chin. As he leans in, I shudder and try to turn my face away.

“Sylvie Devereaux, get the fuck out of my house.”

My chest aches for air, waiting for him to back away enough to let me breathe. When he does, he lets out a menacing laugh.

“You asshole!” I choke out as I gasp for air.

Before he can crowd me again, I turn and run toward the door. I step right over my shattered phone on the floor, turning back to pick up what’s left of it before bolting out the door I came in. The rain is still going strong as I stop and glance around for Aaron’s car. He’s parked just near the road, and I take off in a sprint toward him.

He’s giving me an impatient expression and is clearly stressed as I tear open the passenger side door and climb in.

“What the fuck, Sylvie?” he shouts.

“Just drive,” I mutter breathlessly.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“There was no one in there,” I lie. “I just dropped my phone, so I don’t have your pictures.”

“You’re fucking unhinged,” he mumbles under his breath as he drives toward the road.

My heart is still hammering in my chest. As we reach the main road, I glance back at the manor in the distance, watching it grow smaller and smaller in my rearview.

At least I made it out of there unharmed.

And I’m never going back.