Chapter 8 Coco #2
I stand and stretch before walking to the window. I watch the light shift outside as clouds pass slowly enough to count.
I’m staring into the whiteness when the door swings open without warning.
He steps in, and the air in the room changes immediately. His expression is controlled, but something about his eyes is sharper than before. Whatever it is, he locks it down fast.
“We’re leaving,” he says.
The words land with a finality. My body stills as my mind scrambles to catch up.
He watches me closely, measuring my reaction. After a moment, he adds, “I need to cuff you, and your face will be covered. Just for the drive, until we’re back in the city.”
My instincts flare, sharp and immediate, but I force them down. Fighting won’t help me here. I nod once. “Fine.”
His brow lifts slightly, like he expected more resistance.
“I’ll make sure you’re comfortable at the next stop,” he says.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the cuffs. There’s a brief pause before he steps closer. When his fingers close around my wrist, his touch is careful and deliberate, not hurried.
He hesitates, then adjusts the cuff so it doesn’t bite quite so hard. The gesture doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
He pulls a dark cloth from his pocket and holds it up. “This is only until we get there.”
I nod again. When he slips it over my head, his fingers brush my cheek. The contact is brief, controlled, and more careful than necessary.
“You ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
His hand settles on my shoulder as he guides me forward. The pressure is light, directional. Not a shove. Not a grip.
Under the hood, the world reduces to motion and sound. The pressure of his hand shifts to steer me where he wants me.
The air shifts as we move outside. Cool at first, then warmer as the car door opens and shuts. The engine turns over. Tires crunch against gravel, then smooth out.
Time stretches and compresses in uneven bursts. Without sight, motion loses its order.
I count turns by the sway of my body, the rise and fall of speed. The road hums beneath us, steady and familiar in a way I don’t want to think too hard about.
I can sense it before I see it. The rhythm changes, and there’s more noise, more movement. The city closes in around us.
He reaches over and pulls the cloth free.
I blink, lowering my gaze while my eyes adjust to the light. Neon bleeds into view. Traffic. Brick and iron and motion.
New Orleans.
We pass through the Garden District, past towering homes and curling iron balconies, before turning onto a quieter street lined with gnarled oaks.
Then I see a mansion rise behind iron gates, dark and imposing, unmistakable even at a distance.
I recognize it immediately. The Creston House.
I look at him. “You’re keeping me here?”
He glances over, expression unreadable. “One of our holdings.”
“Your family owns this place?” I glance back at the house as we slow near the gate. “You’re telling me you own one of the most infamous properties in the city.”
“It’s useful,” he says. “You can conduct a lot of business in plain sight when no one thinks to look twice.”
I let out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. “So it’s a haunted house and a convenient cover.”
“Something like that.”
The gates slide open, and he pulls around to a shadowed side entrance.
“People expect secrets to be buried far from the city,” he adds. “This is the last place anyone thinks to look.”
I don’t miss what he means.
The house looms as we pull closer, all dark windows and ironwork, unmistakable even behind the gate.
I know this place.
“I did a paper on this house once,” I say slowly. “Local history elective. Nineteenth century. Supposedly cursed.”
He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t believe in ghosts. At least the kind people talk about.”
“Well, I do. My professor called it one of the city’s most persistent myths,” I say. “Disappearances. Sightings. Enough stories to keep people distracted.”
“That’s the point.”
The car slows near a side entrance, tucked out of view.
“My father bought it in the early two-thousands,” he adds. “It was falling apart. No one wanted it.”
Savage.
The name clicks into place before I can stop it. “Robert Stone,” I say quietly. “You’re his son.”
He glances at me then, sharp and assessing. “See, I told you that you were smarter than most. You catch on fast.”
My stomach tightens. Of course. The Stones don’t hide in the shadows. They hide in plain sight.
Ridge raises a brow. “What gave it away? How did you figure out I was a Stone?”
“When you said your father bought the mansion, I remembered my father talking about the sale and restoration. I was young, maybe four or five, but I remember hearing something about the Stones buying up this ghost house.”
I glance at him, piecing together fragments from a distant memory. “He talked about it like it was a statement. Buying something everyone else avoided and turning it into something untouchable.”
A faint smile crosses his face. “Close enough.”
I gesture toward the mansion as it looms closer behind the iron gates. Dark windows. Perfect sightlines. A place everyone knows, and no one really looks at.
“So which one are you?” I ask.
He studies me for a moment, long enough that I start to wonder if answering is a mistake. Then he says, “Ridge.”
The name lands hard, like a weight dropping straight into my chest.
Ridge Stone.
This isn’t a man who makes threats. This is the kind of man people plan around. The kind of name that gets spoken carefully, if at all. A cold thought slides into place, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.
If the Stones decide I’m inconvenient, the system won’t notice when I stop being a priority.
“Nice to finally have one,” I say, because silence feels more dangerous than sarcasm.
His mouth quirks, barely. “The cabin was compromised. This place isn’t. You’ll stay here until we’re finished.”
Until we’re finished. There’s no question in it or room for negotiation.
I look up at the house again, at the ironwork and the shadows waiting inside. A Stone property disguised by its own reputation.
“Guess I should be honored,” I say. “Not everyone gets confined in a city landmark.”
He opens the door and steps out, the night air rushing in.
“Let’s get you inside,” Ridge says, leading the way.
As I follow him toward the entrance, a chill creeps up my spine, and for the first time since he took me, I understand exactly how small my margin for error really is.