Chapter 7
Seven
Blair
I’m dreaming of my favorite flavor of macaron, from my favorite patisserie in Paris, when the noise begins.
I try to ignore it and hold on to this wonderful taste of paradise, but it never lets up.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Sitting up, I stare blearily around my darkened bedroom. A slit of bluish light is poking through the gap in the curtains, and my confusion turns to anger.
Who—what?
Disoriented, I stumble out of bed and across the room to the door, which seems to be the source of the commotion. Tearing it open, the first thing I see is chest. Broad, well-muscled chest that is shown off by a black compression shirt stretched over it.
Blinking rapidly, I drag my reluctant eyeballs up to look at the head attached to the chest.
Him.
Our regrettably attractive new head of security is standing in the darkened hallway outside my bedroom, a travel mug of coffee in one hand while the other is raised, obviously preparing to continue his assault on my poor door.
The ends of his hair are damp, like he’s already had a shower, and, considering the last time I was up at this hour was when I was a bit late going to sleep, the glint in his eye seems inhuman.
“Are you on drugs?” I snarl, shoving my tangled hair out of my face, to better facilitate glowering up at him.
The man actually has the audacity to look amused. “Get dressed,” he tells me, maddeningly calm. “I have an appointment coming at nine, and I’d like to fit in a run beforehand.”
What the actual fucking fuck does that have to do with me?
“So go run!” I jab my finger toward the long stretch of hall beyond his impressive shoulder breadth.
Mallory lifts his coffee to his lips and takes a long drink, the column of his throat working to swallow before he lowers it again and stares at me with a look of pitying exasperation. “We talked about this. Remember?”
Though I’d obviously heard it before, Mallory reciting my father’s improvement plan last night when I brought him my peace offering was like a sharp jab to a still-tender bruise.
I had no preconceived notions about this guy when he walked into the house with Freddy yesterday–God, I’d actually thought he was cute–but he must have decided I’m a waste of space before ever laying eyes on me.
My tongue feels heavy and dry as I force myself to speak. “I don’t run,” I spit, curling my arms around my torso.
Mallory actually laughs, taking a step back. “Well, how’s this? If you’re not on the front steps in five minutes, I’m turning off the internet for the next week. If that doesn’t work, I’ll call Daddy to tell him you’re committed to remaining a useless embarrassment.”
“I’m not doing it!” I squeak, conscious of the way my heart is beating faster and my palms have grown damp with sweat as panic clogs my throat. “It’s the buttcrack of dawn, you ass! I thought you were kidding!”
In response, Mallory merely lifts his travel mug in a silent toast, and though he doesn’t say a word, his meaning is perfectly clear: On your own head be it.
With that, he turns, strolling off toward the main staircase.
Dizzy with shock, I slam the door hard enough to upset the picture beside it and storm into my walk-in closet.
Row after row of designer labels hang, carefully ordered, and practically recoiling in horror as I move past them, going straight to the drawer containing my limited selection of athletic wear. Apart from a yoga class every month or two, working out has never been high on my priority list.
Objectively, I know it’s healthy or whatever.
Realistically, I have better shit to do than jog in a circle for however long people do that garbage.
I breathe through my nose, trying to wrestle my temper into check as I shove my legs into a pair of leggings and my feet into the only pair of running shoes I own (purchased for their fluorescent pink qualities, rather than because I foresaw any practical application for them).
Beyond that, there isn’t time to do more than scrape my hair into a ponytail and brush my teeth before Mallory’s deadline can’t be put off another second.
God, I was asleep ten minutes ago and now… oh, fuck. This is going to suck so bad.
Even knowing I’m pushing it doesn’t stop me from dragging my feet a little on the way downstairs, still reeling at the traumatic turn my morning has taken. However, the moment I step outside, my self-pitying spiral is briefly interrupted by two things: the freezing morning air, and Mallory’s butt.
It, like the rest of him, is regrettably well-formed and accentuated by the bent-over, stretching position he’s in.
He straightens up at the sound of the door closing, turning to look at me with a cool smirk.
“Good. You’re not as stupid as I was led to believe.
” He bends one leg up at the knee and reaches down to catch the back of his foot. “Stretch.”
I shake my head, the whole of my attention on the painful chasm his words opened up in my chest. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He lets the foot drop and moves on to the other one. “Stretch, or you’ll hurt yourself.”
I don’t particularly care right now. The freedom to make any kind of meaningful decisions about my life seems to be in short supply these days, and I seize upon this sliver of control with a twisted, vindictive pleasure.
Ignoring Mallory completely, I take off, sprinting over the pea gravel path which leads toward the nearest edge of the forest.
While it seemed inevitable he would follow, I hoped my pace would at least buy me some distance from him.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t taken the leg length discrepancy into account.
The guy has to be almost a foot taller than me and is obviously well used to this kind of torture, because within sixty seconds, he’s fallen into step beside me.
Determined not to look at him, I glare forward.
My lungs are tight, and my calves are burning before we reach the forest, but I hate the idea of showing any weakness in front of him, so I keep going anyway.
The grounds of the estate are still in the early morning, and cold enough that vapor from my labored breathing curls through the frosty, early autumn air.
Mallory doesn’t say a word as we reach the edge of the polished grounds, plunging into the gloomy woods which surround most of the estate.
There are trails here, albeit seldom used ones, and I keep my eyes on the ground, determined not to trip over a root or fallen branch.
While I haven’t been back here for years, the forest is just as ominous as I remember.
A thick layer of fallen leaves covers the ground, limiting the growth of brush and permitting fog to drift through the trunks of the great, mossy oaks which line the path.
There are so many, growing so close together, that it’s impossible to discern which branches belong to which tree when you look up.
The sensation of my lungs burning, and my present company, are enough to make me hate it here even more than I did as a child.
“Slow to a walk for two minutes.” Mallory breaks the silence, not sounding winded in the slightest.
It’s pretty hard to maintain any level of pride or defiance when your body is protesting every step, so I do as he says and stumble to a walk, sucking big gulps of air into my burning lungs. Meanwhile, Mallory—obnoxiously—jogs in place, inching forward beside me.
Glancing over, I see his eyes are scanning the surrounding forest, and my chest hardens as I return my own gaze to the path. Neither of us speaks. Just when I’m starting to stop wheezing, however, Mallory taps the screen on his watch.
“Run,” he tells me, the word crisp.
Bizarrely, I want to laugh. That’s it? Run? As if I’ve ever done anything resembling a run in my entire life, and he hasn’t just thrown me in the deep end when all I’ve ever done is drink mojitos poolside.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to prevent myself from wasting precious breath snapping at him as I force my weak limbs into motion again.
The eerie, early morning stillness in the forest muffles everything except the pounding of my heart and the wet slap of my soles against the trail.
We’ve barely made it another thirty seconds before each gasping breath is scraping my throat like sandpaper.
“I can’t—” I pant, the edges of my vision blurring.
“You can,” Mallory drawls, sounding bored now. “You just haven’t had to. Stop whining, it’s pathetic.” Lengthening his stride, he gains a few yards on me, forcing me to pick up my pace to avoid being left behind.
I glare ahead because acknowledging this in any way, even with a denial, feels like it would be confirming something.
Last night, before walking through the cold, dark grounds to bring him food, I’d convinced myself to disregard his attitude when we first met.
Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be unprofessional in front of Freddy, or maybe he was just nervous about the new job.
Even if my father had tipped him off about why I was there—which I learned later was most certainly the case—surely I could show him I was a decent person.
There was no reason we couldn’t at least be friendly during our shared time at Thornhurst.
Whatever I thought was dead wrong.
Damien Mallory had clearly made up his mind about me, and from what I’ve seen of his grotesque personality so far, he isn’t big on change. Never in my life have I encountered someone who despised me so deeply, so quickly.
We round a bend in the path, and I glance over at him.
There isn’t so much as a drip of sweat on his perfect, chiseled, possibly dimpled face. For god’s sake, the prick doesn’t even look winded.
Meanwhile, I can barely breathe, and my cotton T-shirt is sticking to my overheated skin from the amount of sweat I’ve already generated. My ponytail is coming undone, too, the loose strands sticking to the back of my neck, each one a humiliating reminder of just how weak I am—and how right he was.