Chapter 10
Ten
Damien
Ibrace my hands on my knees, struggling to steady my breathing as waves crash against the rocks far below the bluffs where I’m standing. It’s early, not even eight, but I’m already exhausted.
Blair Porter has that effect on me.
We’ve been at it for weeks now, but much to my annoyance, this morning she failed to get up on time yet again. Routine and structure are clearly unfamiliar to her, but my patience—which is quickly exhausted by banging on her door until she can’t ignore me any longer—is coming to an end.
I’ve dealt with disrespectful little shits in the Navy, and trained plenty of young, immature royal guards. None of it fazed me. After all, I was the one holding the reins. They could buck against my authority all they liked, but in the end, they either fell in line or met the consequences.
Lord Porter’s bratty daughter should be no different, and yet there seems little point in denying there is something about her that gets under my skin. Every time she mouths off, sneers, or insults my face, I’m tempted to do the same right back, which is the very opposite of how I should respond.
After our run this morning, I left her at Thornhurst’s kitchen door with a reminder to drink some water and stretch—this was met by a thoughtful suggestion on how best to drown myself—before heading off on a second run at a less glacial pace.
I needed to vent some of this frustration, to clear my head, but it’s clear I overdid it.
Straightening up with a groan, I let my head drop back, staring at the sky as ocean wind nips at my face and hands. It’s not often that I feel my age, but the last few months have taken their toll. The stress, the corrosive, bitter guilt, and worst of all, missing the only family I have left.
As if determined to make myself feel worse, I think of the dozen or so calls I’ve received from Leo, and four from Zelda, in the past week alone. Calls I haven’t returned, because I’m too cowardly to face their questions, or to admit I don’t have any of the answers.
The radio silence from Ben is somehow more difficult to stomach.
My brother has come a long way, but old habits die hard, and he’s always put up walls when he’s hurt.
The decision to leave my position in the guard was as sudden to me as it was to him, but at least I knew why.
My brother had no such luxury. From his perspective, he was abandoned by one of the few people in his life whom he had always trusted implicitly.
Objectively, I know what I’m doing—pushing away the people who love me in my guilt—but even recognizing my behavior for what it is isn’t enough to break free from the vicious cycle.
I stare out at the churning sea for a while longer, allowing my breathing to slow, and watch as a fishing boat drifts slowly across the horizon. Finally, when I can’t stand being left alone with my thoughts any longer, I turn back toward the security office.
I don’t make it to the door.
An alert chimes loudly on my phone as I approach the building, and I take it out, frowning down at the notification from the ancient, front gate buzz-in system—another improvement that will be made as soon as possible.
There is no microphone or camera, just an alert that someone requested entry, or that one of the employee codes had been entered.
I suspect Freddy had the habit of letting guests in without bothering to drive down and check, but I divert course without a second thought, heading toward the estate’s truck.
There have been a handful of newcomers since I arrived, mostly contractors, but nobody who stopped by unexpectedly. Considering it’s a Saturday, and I have no work on the schedule until Tuesday, whoever this is wasn’t invited.
As I drive down the long road leading into the estate and finally set eyes on the high black gates which separate Thornhurst from the outside world, I’m glad I did.
An unfamiliar, plain white sedan is parked outside, with a man leaning against the side, arms crossed and staring off into the distance.
He turns at the sound of the truck and watches as I approach.
When I come to a stop, leaving twenty yards between myself and him, the man pushes off the car, smiling politely.
“Can I help you?” I call as I get out, my suspicions heightened now that he’s close enough to see properly.
“Good afternoon,” the stranger replies cheerfully, strolling forward until he comes to a stop just on the other side of the gate.
I don’t move closer, looking him up and down.
Everything about this man’s appearance, from his white running shoes to his zippered windbreaker, is nondescript. Even the car is an ordinary, mass-produced white sedan, the kind you wouldn’t look twice at if it parked on your street.
There is nothing about him which suggests he’s up to anything nefarious, but in my experience, people who go out of their way to fly under the radar are the ones you’ve got to watch the closest. That and the fact that he’s Thornhurst’s first unannounced visitor since I arrived, raises more than a few red flags.
“Can I help you?” I repeat, suspicion prickling at the back of my neck.
The man doesn’t appear to be put off by my lack of manners. “I’m here to meet with Blair Porter,” he tells me, pushing his hands into his pockets.
Ice spreads through my chest. “Blair Porter?” I repeat, raising my eyebrows skeptically. “Lord Porter’s youngest?”
“That’s the one.” His eyes search my face, waiting for me to give some indication that whatever hunch brought him back here is correct.
He’ll be waiting a long time. “You’re going to have to look elsewhere, then.”
This doesn’t faze him in the slightest, which only heightens my suspicions.
When ordinary people, ones who aren’t sniffing around for something, are met with a brick wall, their first reaction is to check themselves.
Maybe he would pull out his phone to verify the address he was given is correct, or ask me if there were any other properties nearby.
This man—a reporter, if I had to guess—does none of that. If anything, he looks pleased. “So, you’re telling me she isn’t here?” he asks, tilting his head quizzically.
“I’m telling you this is private property, and you’re trespassing. I can call the police, or, if you’d like, I can take your contact details and do what I can to get you in touch with Miss Porter.”
He only smiles. “That won’t be necessary.
Though I wonder if you might be able to help me.
” Pausing, he seems to consider the best approach to ask for whatever it is he wants, before deciding to throw caution to the wind.
My stomach hardens as the man reaches into his pocket to produce a white identification card, hanging at the end of a blue lanyard. Press credentials. He’s a reporter.
My lip curls. “Fuck off.”
“We can speak off the record,” he assures me, grinning now. “Nothing needs to get back to your boss. Come on, working for a man like Porter has to be frustrating. I bet you’ve got some real dirt on that asshole. The better the information, the better we pay for it.”
I let out an incredulous bark of laughter and lean closer, trying to make out the logo on the lanyard as he tucks it away. The bold red font is, unfortunately, too familiar to mistake. “Jesus, man. Get the hell out of here.”
This fuck isn’t even a real reporter; he’s a gossip-mongering paparazzi.
He isn’t trying to uncover political corruption or serious news, he wants a quick, dirty story, and is sniffing around in the hopes of finding Blair.
I’m betting the prospective PM’s young, beautiful daughter, partying topless on the front page of his magazine, was very good for sales.
No doubt he’s trying to publish a follow-up and keep the money rolling in. Typical.
“Alright, I’m going.” The man chuckles, obviously used to being shut down, and backs toward his car. “You might want to tell Porter’s little wild card that if she wants to keep a low profile, she might want to avoid tagging her location in her selfies.”
My blood runs cold.
Is she insane?
Numb with furious disbelief, it takes all the willpower I possess to keep myself from reacting to this as I stand my ground, making sure the fuck actually leaves.
This is exactly the sort of thing I was worried about when Porter mandated that Blair should be kept in the dark about the threats against her.
If you don’t give a careless, entitled person a good fucking reason to be cautious, they won’t be.
Seething, I watch as he pulls out onto the street and drives out of sight. Finally, after a few minutes have passed and I’m reasonably confident he won’t be making a second attempt, I rip open the door of the truck, all but throwing myself into the driver’s seat.
Even when the vehicle rumbles back to life, however, I don’t drive off.
My chest burns as I take out my phone, and it’s the work of about thirty seconds to find Blair’s social media profiles.
I’d checked them when I took the job, and her accounts are just as I remember: riddled with images of her in sparse, metallic clothing, usually with a drink in her hand and an effortless smile on her face, accompanied by a rotating cast of well-dressed socialites.
According to the date on her latest post, she hasn’t put up anything new since she arrived back in Stelland.
The only indication she’s been active on the account is a status update at the top of the account, which is simply a cookie emoji.
When I press it, a picture comes up of Blair—standing in what I recognize as Thornhurst’s sprawling kitchen—biting playfully into a cookie.
My stomach hardens as I see the text at the top corner, which dates the image to last night and has an actual geotag for nearly right where I’m currently standing. Providing her exact location to her twenty-five thousand followers, and anyone with a search engine.