Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
WILLOW
T he next day, Willow stood on the walk on the wall that surrounded the fortress, her gaze fixed on the waves crashing against the beach. The rhythmic sound should have been soothing, a natural symphony of nature, but it wasn’t. The sun was warm on her skin, the breeze gentle, but inside, she felt anything but relaxed. Her mind churned with worry and doubt, the tension inside her growing with every passing minute since they’d flown her to this place where no one spoke to her. No one except Weston, who seemed to only speak if he absolutely had to.
Willow knew she should be soaking up the rays in perfect harmony and relishing the beauty of the secluded location. Instead, she felt an ever-present unease, a constant reminder of the danger she was in. She didn’t feel safe and she was starting to wonder if she ever would again.
The soft sound of footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to see Weston approaching, his expression as calm and composed as always. He stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head slightly.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Carlyle,” he said politely. “Cook said you passed on breakfast again. I really must insist that you not do that. Would you like me to get you some lunch?”
Willow blinked, momentarily surprised by the offer. She hadn’t realized she was hungry until he mentioned it. She wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or annoyed. She was beginning to understand she really was just a job to these people. Last night when he’d fixed them something to eat, she thought he might talk to her like a human being. Instead, he’d made her a sandwich and then escorted her to her room as if he couldn’t get rid of her fast enough.
“I thought you were supposed to be pretending to be the butler. I didn’t know you were going to be my personal chef, as well,” she replied, hating how bitchy she sounded.
The butler’s lips flattened, which was a rare expression on the man’s usually stoic face. “I’m not, but you’ve taken to refusing anything the cook offers, so it falls to me,” he admitted. “Is there anything special you’d like?”
Willow thought for a moment, then said, “A grilled chicken salad with blue cheese and balsamic vinegar dressing would be nice.”
The butler nodded. “Very well. I’ll have it prepared for you shortly.” With that, he turned and disappeared back into the house, leaving Willow alone with her thoughts once more.
She sighed, turning her attention back to the ocean. The waves continued their relentless dance, crashing against the shore with a rhythmic persistence. She wished she could find some comfort in their constancy, but the fear and uncertainty gnawed at her. Would she ever feel safe again? Would this constant state of vigilance ever ease?
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The butler’s brief intrusion into the monotony in the midst of her turmoil had been a welcome change. If they thought nothing of trying to help her alleviate her boredom and terror, perhaps she’d think of something herself.
With Frank she had gone shopping, often never wearing what she’d purchased. But it wasn’t shopping she thought of as she considered Weston’s magnetic pull. She didn’t understand it, but part of the time she felt overwhelmed and nauseous in his presence, and other times arousal surged through her system, and she wanted to be underneath him, feeling him fuck into her hard and long, making her scream his name as she raked his back with her nails. She clung to the idea of that fleeting moment of almost palpable pleasure, hoping it could help anchor her in the storm of her thoughts.
Minutes later, Weston returned with a tray. He set it down on the patio table and revealed a beautifully arranged grilled chicken salad with blue cheese crumbles, pecans, and the balsamic vinegar glistening in the sunlight.
“Thank you,” Willow said softly, genuinely grateful.
Weston nodded. “If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
As he walked away, Willow took a seat and picked up her fork. The first bite of the salad was delicious, the flavors fresh and vibrant. For a moment, she allowed herself to focus on the simple pleasure of the meal, trying to push away the fears that lurked at the edges of her mind.
As she ate, she glanced around the patio and the surrounding area, taking in every detail. The lush greenery, the pristine beach, the clear blue sky. It was a beautiful prison, but a prison, nonetheless. She knew she had to stay vigilant, to be ready for whatever came next. But for now, she tried to find a small measure of peace in the simple act of enjoying her lunch one bite at a time.
Weston withdrew to a discreet distance. She wondered if he realized that he was rarely where she couldn’t see him. Maybe he didn’t think she did, and maybe he just didn’t care. The man was quiet, observant, and as handsome as sin. Willow couldn't help but notice that even though he was never far away, he was never intrusive. He moved with a grace and precision that made her think he could be a secret agent or, more disturbingly, an assassin of some kind. She didn’t think he’d been sent to harm her, but who could tell?
Willow wasn’t sure, but that element of danger was doing something strange to her. She found herself fantasizing about Weston, her thoughts wandering into places they had no business going. At night when she closed her eyes, it was him she imagined sneaking into her room, covering her mouth with his hands as he peeled back the covers, smiling when he discovered she slept in the nude. In her dreams, he was already naked, his cock hard and long, pulsing with life as she gazed at him.
Crawling into bed, he would cover her with his body, making a place for himself between her thighs, replacing his hand with his mouth before reaching under her to hold her steady before he thrust up into her. Willow moaned. She’d taken more than one cold shower to try and shake off his presence.
To distract herself, Willow finished her meal and then got up to wander through the main keep. It was decorated beautifully, with expensive furniture, antiques, and knick-knacks that belonged in a museum. She was used to wealth and the trappings that came with it, but this place was more than a display of wealth. It was a display of generational wealth and power. That was something her husband, Frank, had never had—the class that came with that level of wealth. It was something he aspired to but would never have, and he knew it.
Every room she entered seemed to tell a story, each piece of furniture and art a chapter in a long history of affluence and sophistication. She ran her fingers lightly over the back of a velvet armchair, admiring the intricate woodwork. The curtains were heavy, the kind that muffled sound and provided absolute privacy. The air was filled with a faint, pleasant scent, a mix of polished wood and aged paper.
She had just reached a large room filled with ancient-looking books when Weston reappeared, carrying a plate on a tray. He set it down on the table with a practiced ease, every movement precise and deliberate.
“Cook thought you might enjoy a little something more so he sent you grapes, cheeses, and some biscuits—some savory, some sweet.”
“Biscuits? So, you’re British. In the States we call them cookies.” She expected him to either confirm or deny his nationality, but he said nothing. “Well, thank you," Willow said, her voice a little steadier than she felt. "Would you sit with me for a bit? I have some questions."
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "If you wish." He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, his posture as impeccable as ever.
“What if my wishes have nothing to do with this castle or why I’m here? What if they have more to do with seeing you with your clothes off?” Nothing. He said absolutely nothing, and his face betrayed even less. Taking one of the grapes, she sucked it into her mouth provocatively. Nothing. “All right then, tell me about the staff here. Who feeds them? Where do they sleep? How many are there? How do you get supplies?"
Weston regarded her coolly. “I don’t know that you need to concern yourself with any of that.”
“Indulge me. After all, haven’t I supplied the Resistance and Interpol with enough information to put Frank and his allies away for a very long time? Don’t you think I deserve something more than a grape to suck on?”
Ignoring her provocative chatter, Weston answered her questions about the staff with a bored but patient air, as if he were indulging a spoiled child. Willow wondered what he’d do if she straddled his lap, pulled off her silk-knit sweater and bra, and offered him her stiff and swollen nipples to feast on. Better yet, if she stripped herself naked and kneeled between his legs, releasing what looked to be a highly aroused cock from his black trousers before going to town on that thing?
Nothing.
"The staff are well cared for. We have our own quarters in a separate wing of the keep. There are about twenty of us, including security. In order to avoid detection, some of our people go over to an open market on the mainland by boat twice a week to discreetly buy what we need and don’t grow ourselves. No one comes or goes from this island without our knowledge."
His voice was smooth and steady, and Willow found herself entranced by the sound. Sometimes she thought she detected the trace of an American accent—perhaps from the northeast? And sometimes he sounded like the very model of a perfect English butler or perhaps a modern major general.
Willow was beginning not to trust him—how could she? But if she was going to survive on this island, she had to pretend to. Besides, she loved listening to him. His voice fueled her fantasies at night. Too bad he might be a killer.
"Do you enjoy working here?" she asked, genuinely curious.
The butler's lips twitched slightly, almost a smile. "I don’t normally work here at the castle, but I do find my work fulfilling. It can be lonely and demanding, but it's also rewarding in its own way."
Willow nodded, sucking another grape into her mouth. "And what about you? Is Weston your real name?"
He paused, considering her question. "It doesn’t really matter, but yes, Weston is my real name."
"Weston," she repeated, rolling the name over her tongue. It suited him, she thought. Elegant, refined, with an undercurrent of strength.
"Do you have any other questions, Ms. Carlyle?" Weston asked, his eyes meeting hers.
She held his gaze for a moment, feeling a strange connection. "Not right now. But thank you for answering."
Weston inclined his head. "My pleasure. If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to ask." He stood and retreated to the doorway, standing just inside the closed doors, and leaving Willow to her thoughts.
As she watched him, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Weston than met the eye. The idea that he might be an assassin sent by Frank was both terrifying and oddly thrilling. She had to be careful, had to stay on guard, but for now, she would enjoy the small comfort his presence brought. Even if he might be a killer, there was something about him that made her feel a little less alone in this beautiful prison.