Chapter 9
Nine
Blair
In the weeks since he arrived at Thornhurst, Damien Mallory has become my very least favorite person to ever step foot under its roof.
Which is saying quite a lot, considering the company my parents keep, and the endless parade of smug turds my sister dated before settling down and getting engaged to the biggest and turdiest of them all.
Those guests, however unpleasant, didn’t often direct their unpleasantness toward me personally, and usually left after dinner.
They certainly weren’t granted authority over me in any way, or made it their personal mission to remind me what a loser I am at what is already the low point of my entire life.
No, the deep, undying type of hate I feel for the estate’s new head of security is brand new and unprecedented.
I hate the way he has never once stumbled over a root or branch on our morning runs.
I hate how he is always wearing that stupid fitness watch on his wrist and checks it like he’s genuinely concerned about his freaking daily step count.
I hate his cold eyes and his patronizing smiles.
There are endless things I could add to my running list of reasons I hate Damien Mallory, but the biggest one, the one that takes my dislike of him to a whole new level, is that my dumb vagina hasn’t gotten the memo.
It’s actually becoming a problem. The man isn’t that attractive—I’ve committed myself to repeating this lie until I believe it—so either the social isolation and its corresponding lack of potential sexual partners is driving me mad, or my self-esteem is worse than I thought.
Regardless, the man has made his dislike for me abundantly clear, and there is no universe where I fuck someone who goes out of his way to treat me like the village idiot.
Unfortunately, there is a lot of room for error here, because the quiet of Thornhurst is starting to get to me a little.
I haven’t left the property in weeks now and keep having dreams of wandering aimlessly through the hallways like a ghost, as though my brain is incapable of imagining itself anywhere beyond these walls.
So, to keep myself in check and ensure I don’t do something horrific, like throw myself at my jailer, I’ve decided to refer to him only as Satan (or names with similarly demonic associations) in conversation.
As an added precautionary measure, whenever I catch myself fantasizing about him pinning me against a tree and fucking me senseless during one of our runs—which has happened way more than is healthy—I force myself to go down the list of times he called me an idiot, or useless, or lazy.
A list which, most helpfully, grows longer by the day.
Mallory’s attitude is the part I recount to my sister, leaving out how hot his arms are.
“Well, I hardly know what you expected.” Alba purses her lips as she takes another garment bag from her closet and lays it over the end of her old bed.
I hadn’t known she was coming. She arrived half an hour ago, shortly after I finished my morning exercise/torture session with His Royal Evilness, brushing past me with an airy explanation of needing some things from her closet.
I followed, peppering her with complaints about our parents and the demonic turd they selected to mind me.
Predictably, she isn’t sympathetic.
I curl my legs up beside me on the armchair in the corner of her room, my heart in my stomach.
“I wouldn’t have minded if he were an actual trainer or professional or whatever, but he is such a jerk.
It’s like they went out of their way to pick the meanest ass kisser Dad has on staff.
” This is a lie. I would have minded having my free will stripped away by pretty much anyone, but coming from Damien Mallory, it’s especially terrible.
Alba gives me a look which plainly says she knows I’m full of shit.
“I don’t feel sorry for you. They’ve been telling you to get it together for years.
” Unzipping the topmost garment bag on the stack she’s laid over her bed, my sister frowns critically at the contents.
“Damn, I thought this was more polished than it is. What do you think?” She holds it up so I can see the dress inside, which is pretty enough, but at least three years out of fashion.
My judgement must not be entirely worthless, because my thumbs down earns the dress a one-way trip to the crumpled pile of discarded garments on the other end of the bed.
“What’s this for, anyway?” I ask as she moves on to the next option.
A line appears between Alba’s meticulously plucked brows as this one is promptly discarded as well. “James has business in New York. They’re a newer client, and the company is very trendy. I thought something vintage would be appropriate.”
My chest aches. “I haven’t been to New York in ages,” I murmur, dragging my thumbnail over a seam on the chair’s upholstered arm. “Can I come with you? We can go shopping when he’s doing his boring business things. I know this great place that sells curated vintage in the East Village.”
I have limited hope of her agreeing, but I’m willing to take the chance of rejection if it gets me out of this stupid house, even if it’s only for a few days.
The company isn’t ideal, but being with Alba and James is pretty much the only arrangement I can imagine our parents agreeing to, securing my release.
Sure enough, Alba scoffs. “We didn’t do that sort of thing when you weren’t on house arrest. I don’t see why we should start now.”
Pulling my legs to my chest, I let my chin rest atop my knees, watching as she disappears into the closet and returns, bearing another prospective dress, before I speak again. “Dad wants me to start taking courses online while I’m here. Prep courses. For university.”
My sister’s hand stills on a zipper for a fraction of a second before she begins moving again, casting me a wary look. “Oh?”
“Can you talk to him?” I plead, my voice wavering just a little. “Please, Alba. I’ll owe you the favor of all favors if you can get him to drop it. You know I’m too stupid for all that.”
The attempt at humor falls flat, and for a moment, Alba only stares down at the final dress remaining, expressionless.
Finally, she lifts her head to look at me directly, a pinch of regret in her beautiful face.
“It may seem cruel, but Dad has your best interests at heart, Blair,” she tells me, her voice determinedly measured.
“I know school has always been a bit of a challenge for you, but honestly, what are you going to do without a degree of some sort? You can’t avoid it forever. It’s time to grow up.”
I can’t decide if her words make me want to scream or cry. A bit of a challenge? A bit of a challenge? Running is a bit of a challenge. Being here all by myself is a bit of a challenge. Knowing every single person in my family is annoyed by my existence is a bit of a challenge.
School… School is torture compared to all that.
Alba casts one last lingering look at the pile of discarded dresses. “Do you want any of these?” I shake my head miserably, and she nods distractedly, clearly going out of her way to avoid looking at me directly. “Toss them in the donation bin for me, would you? I need to get going.”
As she’s starting toward the door, I unfold my legs to stand, too.
“Just a second, I might have something,” I tell her quietly, brushing past into the hall and down two doors to my own bedroom.
The remainder of my belongings were delivered yesterday from the apartment I’d been renting in London, and I go straight to the corner of the closet where I hung them.
My sister is waiting when I emerge, holding out a dress that makes her eyes go round. “It’s a favorite of mine. Be kind to her,” I explain, offering a weak smile. “Consider it an apology. For the thing with your engagement.”
Alba takes it without hesitation, her lips parted as she examines the deep red velvet skirt, which is draped artfully around the waist of a sheer, corseted bodice. “Oh, wow. Where on Earth did you get this?”
“A little shop that sells curated vintage in the East Village.”
My sister’s eyes zoom to meet mine. “Thank you,” she tells me, her tone cautious, as if waiting for me to ask for something in return. When I don’t, she drapes the dress carefully over her arm. “I’ll have it returned when we’re back next week.”
I smile wryly. “No rush. The only person I’ll be seeing anytime soon is Dad’s meanest lap dog, and I wouldn’t waste it on him.”
To my surprise, Alba purses her lips. “He isn’t.”
“Isn’t?”
“Dad’s lap dog,” she clarifies. “I mean, Dad hired him, but it’s a recent thing. Apparently, he was recommended to them by Princess Araminta. He worked for the Ashwells for years and years.”
That’s… surprising. “The Ashwells?” I clarify, because after weeks of thinking of him as one of Dad’s besuited security personnel—obviously selected for this position by being the least friendly of them all—it’s hard to imagine Satan wearing a uniform for the royal guard and standing at attention for the King of Stelland.
Alba hums in confirmation. “Yes. Apparently he’d taken a leave of absence, and Dad snatched him up. I’m sure he thought it would be prestigious to employ one of the king’s men. Or, at least, it’s very good for their relationship with Araminta. A show of trust, don’t you think?”
Personally, I don’t think Mom being the goddaughter and on good terms with the oldest, most irrelevant, and least popular member of the royal family is going to do anything for Dad’s election campaign, but I have to admire the commitment.