Chapter 19
Nineteen
Blair
“Are you being more sadistic than usual to make me forget about the sex?”
The question is pretty unnecessary. Mallory’s attitude toward me—which wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy to begin with—has gotten about ten times worse since I spent the night at his cottage, and it doesn’t take a detective to work out what he’s trying to accomplish with it.
The King of Evil and Darkness accidentally showed weakness. He forgot he hates me, gave in to the sexual tension, and now he’s doubling down on being a crap nugget in an effort to make both of us forget it ever happened.
If only understanding the sado-masochistic phenomenon would make it more pleasant to be on the receiving end.
I peek over at him, jogging at my side, and see Mallory’s jaw tighten, though his eyes stay glued to the horizon. “Speak when you’re spoken to, Porter. The sound of your voice this early in the day makes me nauseous.”
Porter. That’s new too. Before the sex, I was Blair, or princess if he was feeling particularly condescending. Neither name was ever uttered with any semblance of warmth or familiarity, but it’s pretty depressing for my identity to be reduced to my family name.
Especially given my current feelings toward them.
“The sight of your face makes me nauseous, so I guess we’re even,” I retort, trying not to let my pace slow, even as the burning in my leg muscles increases with every stride.
We’ve been at it for over a month now, running every other day, rain or shine, but it’s hardly less torturous than it was at the start.
I keep expecting it to get easier, to fall into a rhythm with it—that’s what the nice fitness coach lady on YouTube was assuring all 2.
4 million of her viewers—but it just hasn’t happened.
I’ll have to add running to the long list of things I’m terrible at. Or I can save myself the trouble and let Mallory do it for me. He’s even better at pointing out my shortcomings than I am and often manages to draw my attention to ones I hadn’t even considered before.
My self-esteem probably looks like Swiss cheese with all the holes he’s punched in it.
It’s miraculous, really. Every time I think I can’t possibly feel more unimportant, or lonely, or lost, Damien Mallory finds a way to push me down.
“You know, maybe it would be good if we talked about the sex,” I puff as we turn the last corner of the path, crossing over the forest’s edge and onto the frosty back lawn.
Even if I know it will end in him lashing out, I can’t seem to resist poking the bear a little.
“It would be good to clear the air, don’t you think? Healthy?”
Healthy communication clearly isn’t a priority for Mallory.
He lengthens his stride, effectively leaving me in the dust and, instead of depositing me at the back kitchen door as he usually does, veers off toward the cottage and security building.
When it becomes clear he isn’t going to look back, I slow to a walk, clutching the stitch in my side.
It’s pretty pathetic that even missing out on a few minutes of snarling, snapping, hateful company feels like a loss. Lately, it’s felt as though days at Thornhurst have slowed to a crawl, inching through an endless cycle of monotonous, isolated drudgery.
I wake up to Mallory banging on my door.
I run with intermittent reminders of what an entitled, lazy, spoiled brat I am.
I shower and dress.
I spend several hours forcing my uncooperative, malfunctioning brain through coursework.
I eat lunch.
I receive bad marks on my coursework from the previous day.
I stare out a window.
I die a little more.
Maybe it’s a little melodramatic to think that way—that I’m dying—but I’m really starting to wonder. Every time I look in a mirror, it’s like there’s a little less of me than there was when I last looked.
All at once, I’m being forced to confront all the ugly truths about myself and my life that I’ve spent years running from, and even if I do make it through this, I have no idea what I’m going to do.
Could I go back to traveling? Partying? Probably not, when the memories of pulsing music and flashing lights now seem almost as empty as the void of time and space that is my ancestral home.
Miserable, I trudge over the back lawn, staring across its expanse at Thornhurst’s many dark windows.
Today is November first, but the wind off the sea is already so cold that it burns my cheeks and the exposed skin of my hands.
True winter will be here before we know it, and while Satan hasn’t indicated whether we’ll be running through the snow or not, the insulated black jacket he wore today seems like an ominous sign.
Really, I should have known better than to think things couldn’t get worse.
As I approach the back kitchen door, I halt, staring at the unfamiliar car parked in the little area set aside for staff.
It’s Saturday, which usually means the housekeeper will be in.
We have a whole routine going now; I wish her a good morning, and she frowns at me disapprovingly, saying something in Polish that I can’t understand but sounds judgmental.
Following this, we continue to coexist with the help of nods and awkward smiles until she leaves for the day.
That isn’t Yolanda’s car, however, and when I enter the kitchen, it certainly isn’t an old Polish woman I find polishing the refrigerator.
I have never seen her before, but the stranger is closer to my age, possibly a few years younger.
She’s dressed in the same blue uniform of trousers and a polo shirt as Yolanda, with the logo for the housekeeping service embroidered on the breast pocket.
Her dark blonde hair is long and wavy, but tied back in a high, neat ponytail.
She starts when she catches sight of me hovering in the doorway, and drops the paper towel she was holding, a flush rising on the apples of her cheeks. “Oh! Good morning, Miss Porter.”
If the accent is anything to go by, I’d guess she’s American. Interesting.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” I move further into the room, shouldering off my fleece, and offer her a tentative smile as she bends to pick up the fallen rag.
“You’re not our usual housekeeper, are you?
” I ask unnecessarily, hovering at the end of the long marble worktable as the unknown woman straightens up, wiping her hands on the pants of her uniform.
“Ah, no,” she admits, not quite meeting my eye. “To be honest, I can’t remember the name of your usual lady, but she’s moved to be closer to her daughter, and the agency sent me.”
After having no company for weeks apart from Satan, it’s embarrassing how eager I am to have someone new to talk to. “And you’re American, if I’m not very mistaken?” I surmise, leaning against the table. “What brought you to Stelland?”
She seems a little disoriented by my interest, but nods. “Yes, I’m from Pennsylvania. Here for university.”
Port Briar, which is home to Stelland’s oldest and best-known university, Orwick, is actually the closest city to the estate.
My parents undoubtedly pay better than the restaurants or bars closer to her school, but even so.
It’s a forty-five-minute drive between here and there, and with the terrible weather approaching, I wonder if this poor girl has any clue what she’s in for.
“Will you be here every day?”
“Two afternoons a week, then for the day on Saturday.” She steps back to retrieve her cleaning bucket, apparently deciding I don’t mean any harm. “I have a night job at a bar, too, and I teach some community art classes during term breaks.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. My exposure to people my age who weren’t born with a whole mouthful of silver spoons is pretty limited.
None of my friends ever had jobs, or if they did, they were more of the “Daddy made me a vice president of his company” variety and came with a corporate car, travel card, and unlimited vacation time.
Certainly, no one I ever knew had to work two jobs while going to school.
My stomach sinks as I wonder what she must think of me, so clearly bored out of my mind and so desperate for company that I’m keeping her from her work.
My eyes fall on a spray bottle and rag sitting on the kitchen countertop. “Do you need any help?” I ask impulsively, gesturing to the bottle.
The girl—whose name I still haven’t learned—looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
She doesn’t respond, simply stares at me, apparently trying to decide if she’s being led into some kind of trap.
Deciding to save her the stress, I march forward to seize the bottle.
“Just show me what needs to be done.” I smile, trying my best to seem friendly and not like the psychotic rich girl Mallory loves to assure me I am.
It must work a little, because, shyly, the girl smiles back. “I was about to start on the downstairs bathrooms.”
Encouraged, I step back to allow her to pass. “Lead the way!”
So, she does. I trail after her down the hall and into one of Thornhurst’s many bathrooms. The space is furnished in lots of glowing white marble and glass, with the faint scent of eucalyptus hanging in the air.
It’s the sort of room that’s generally used by guests, and I’ve never really taken notice of it.
Summer Johnson—because she finally tells me her name when I ask—sets her bucket down beside the toilet with a thud.
When I start poking at the front dial on the bottle, however, Summer winces.
“Okay.” She bites her lip, obviously apprehensive. “Please don’t be offended, but... Have you ever cleaned a bathroom before?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Lying seems a fool’s errand in this instance. “I have… been in a bathroom before. Many bathrooms, in fact.”