Chapter 13
13
Cecely
A week crawls by. Seven days of staring at the same four walls, pacing the same polished floors, and memorizing every inch of the gilded prison Claudius calls a room.
I could tell you how many tiles there are in the bathroom.
Eighty-four.
I could tell you that the chandelier flickers slightly when the wind outside picks up, casting dancing shadows along the ceiling.
I could tell you that the closet smells faintly of lavender and cedar, that the silk sheets are cool to the touch at night but suffocating when the nightmares set in.
That the ocean view from my window is both a blessing and a curse because it’s a reminder that there’s a whole world out there, just beyond my reach.
I could tell you all of that because there is nothing else to do. No books. No TV. No phone. Just the sound of my own thoughts, the occasional knock when someone brings my food, and the steady, infuriating absence of Claudius.
The man who put me here.
The man who hasn’t spoken to me since.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if I hate it more when it’s quiet. Or when I hear footsteps in the hall. Because every time I do? I wonder if it’s him.
But, as far as prisons go, this one isn’t bad. I stretch out across the plush bed, sinking into the obscenely soft bedding. It’s got to be at least a thousand thread count. The kind of sheets people with stupid amounts of money sleep on, but I never would because I had other things to do with my money.
A girl could get used to this. Or at least, she could if she wasn’t a damn hostage.
Just as I’m starting to relax, the door swings open without warning. Claudius strides in like he has every right to be here, like this is just another part of his domain. A panicked noise leaves my lips as I scramble to cover myself, yanking the sheets up.
“Have you heard of knocking?” I snap, my pulse spiking.
He doesn’t even pause.
“You’re in my house.” His voice is cool, unaffected. “Why in the fuck would I knock?”
I glare, gripping the sheets tighter. “Because this is my room. I could be masturbating for all you know.”
His gaze drags down my body, slow and deliberate.
Too deliberate.
His lips curl slightly. “If you’re worried about me seeing something, then perhaps you shouldn’t sleep in the nude.”
My pulse jolts, but I refuse to let him have the upper hand. I sit up, tossing the bedding aside in defiance.
“And maybe you should learn to knock, because I like sleeping nude.”
His jaw tics.
I grin.
Good. Let him look.
“What?” I toss my hair over my shoulder, eyes locked onto his. “Forget why you came in here? Or was this just an excuse to perv out over me?”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his gaze—something sharp, something unreadable.
I smirk. “I get it. I’m hot.”
That pulls him from whatever stupor he was in.
With a flick of his wrist, he tosses something onto the bed. My phone. I reach for it, fingers brushing against the screen. Then I stop.
Wait.
I lift my gaze slowly, narrowing my eyes. “What did you do to it?”
He tilts his head, his lips twitching, half-amused and half-challenging. “What makes you think I did anything?”
“Because you wouldn’t give it back unless you had.”
His lips curve, just slightly, like he’s trying not to smile.
“Guess you’ll just have to find out.”
Jerk.
I unlock it immediately, scanning the screen. My photo gallery is empty.
My cheeks heat.
“Did you jerk off to my nudes before you deleted them?” I fire back.
His gaze darkens, but I barely register it because something else catches my attention.
All my social media apps? Gone. My text message threads? Wiped clean. Except for one. A single message thread from a number I don’t recognize. My fingers hover over it, stomach twisting.
Slowly, I glance back up at Claudius. He’s watching me. Still. Silent. Waiting.
“Who is this?”
Claudius doesn’t hesitate. “The man pretending to be my brother.”
My pulse spikes. “He reached out? How did he get my number?”
“Several times. And I assumed you gave him the number.” His gaze stays on me, unreadable. “I want you to play along. See if you can get him to give you some valuable information.”
I eye him carefully. Does he really think I’d be good at that? Or is this just another way to manipulate me?
After a beat, I shake my head. “It’s really creepy, you know?”
His brow lifts. “What is?”
“How much you sound like Gabriel.” I wave my hand, gesturing to all of him. “But you’re completely different from him.”
“Well, now you have me intrigued.” His voice is smooth, calculated. “How am I different from him?”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“You’re cold. He’s not.”
Claudius tilts his head slightly, considering.
“He’s full of fire where you’re ice.”
Something flickers across his face. It’s brief, but there.
“Two sides of the same coin,” he murmurs.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
Liar. I move toward him, forgetting entirely that I’m still nude. His gaze flickers downward, then snaps back up, but I don’t stop.
“He said something like that to me.” My voice comes out quieter, my thoughts flashing back.
Right before he chased me through the woods. Right before he fucked me until I thought I was going to die. I swallow hard, pushing away the memory.
“Why does he want to kill me?”
Claudius doesn’t answer right away. For a second, I think he’s going to shut me out completely. Which is really going to piss me off.
But then he exhales slowly and says, “Put on some clothes and meet me in the living room.”
I blink.
“Why?”
“I’ll give you as much insight as I have.” His gaze locks onto mine, unreadable. “In return, I hope you will help me.”
I freeze. It’s the first time he’s admitted that he needs me. Not just as bait. Not just as leverage. But as an ally. And he said that can leave the room.
Leave. The. Room.
I nod once, slowly. “Okay.”
He gives me one last look before turning and leaving, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet click. The room feels different the second he’s gone. It’s too quiet. Too still.
My fingers tighten around my phone. Slowly, I lower myself onto the edge of the bed, my heart still pounding from the conversation. I exhale and glance down at the screen.
The unknown number.
The only message left on my phone.
I reread it.
Once.
Twice.
My pulse thuds in my ears, a sick feeling twisting in my gut. Because no matter how many times I stare at the words… I can’t shake the feeling that I’m already in too deep.
Unknown
I can’t get you out of my mind.
The way you ran from me. Fought me. Gave in to me.
My finger hovers over the keyboard. The messages were sent yesterday. Does that mean he knows I’m with Claudius? Is that why he reached out?
How did you get my number?
What are you doing up so late, mama?
Crap. I do the math. In Dallas it’s only three in the morning.
Stripper, remember?
And yet when I stopped by the club they said you no longer worked there.
My pulse thrums in my neck.
Obsessed much?
You have no idea. And I believe I told you I was obsessed that night in the woods.
Then why wait five months to reach out?
I had things to take care of.
Such as?
Trying to kill your father.
My breath hitches, and my fingers spasm, the phone slipping from my grasp as if it burned me. It buzzes once on the bed beside me. I don’t look at it. I can’t.
Because the words are seared into my brain. Undeniable and irreversible. He just admitted to trying to kill my father. A wave of cold dread rolls through me, leaving my skin clammy and my pulse erratic. I need to move. Now. To let Claudius know what this monster just admitted to trying to kill my sperm donor, which means I am in danger.
I hurry to the closet, yanking open the doors and grabbing the first clothes I see. A pair of jeans, undergarments, and a t-shirt. As I turn, my gaze snags on the mirror. I pause. For just a moment. Because for the first time, I really see it.
The bump.
It’s still small, still easy to overlook, but it’s there. And soon? It won’t be easy to overlook. My breath hitches again, but for an entirely different reason. I press a hand over my stomach, as if that could make it disappear. As if that could buy me more time.
I won’t be able to hide this baby forever. But today? Today, I still can.
I throw on the clothes quickly, yanking the t-shirt down over my stomach, ignoring the way my fingers tremble slightly.
This isn’t the time to think.
It’s the time to move.
I pull my hair back, securing it with a tie before making my way to the door. I hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, with a steadying breath, I open it. And holy shit. Opening the door feels like a religious experience. I inhale deeply, taking in all of it. The air, the freedom, all the space outside this goddamn room.
I step out, my body tense, half-expecting a sharp voice, a scolding, something to yank me back inside. I halfway expect Agnes to be right there, arms crossed, face twisted in that permanent expression of disapproval, ready to tear into me for daring to leave. But she’s not. Thankfully. Because right now? I don’t think I can handle her or her bad attitude.
I exhale slowly, grounding myself. One step at a time. And the first? Showing Claudius the text messages.
Then it hits me. I have no idea where the hell I’m supposed to go. Claudius never gave me directions. A frustrated sigh escapes my lips as I glance down the dimly lit hallway, trying to make sense of the twists and turns I vaguely remember from my arrival. Nothing looks familiar. Great.
With a defeated groan, I turn back toward my room, ready to admit temporary defeat, only to come face-to-face with Millie.
“Oh my god!” I jump back, hand flying to my chest as my heart nearly explodes.
She winces, looking genuinely apologetic. “I’m sorry, Ms. Blight.”
“You’ve got to stop sneaking up on people.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
“Debatable.”
She straightens her posture, as if I’ve offended her, and says, “Mr. Irons thought you might need help to find the living room.”
“I do. Thank you.”
Millie nods and motions for me to follow. As we walk, a thought lingers, heavy in the back of my mind. Did Claudius send her out of convenience? Or because he still wants eyes on me at all times? Did he think I’d try to find my way and stumble upon something I’m not supposed to see? Something I’m not supposed to know? The idea doesn’t sit right.
After a few moments of silence, I glance at Millie and say, “I didn’t mean anything by what I said earlier. I was teasing you. You know, the way friends do.”
I let the word linger.
Friends.
Millie keeps walking, her shoulders stiffening just slightly.
Then she says, “We’re not friends.”
Her tone isn’t rude, but firm. Final.
“We could be.”
“No, we can’t.”
The certainty in her voice gives me pause.
“Because Claudius doesn’t want us to be friends?”
She glances over her shoulder, looking wary.
“I’m sure Mr. Irons doesn’t care what I do.”
Maybe she believes it, maybe she doesn’t. But that glance? The way she checked before answering? That wasn’t about Claudius.
I hum, pretending like I didn’t notice. “Agnes, then.”
She doesn’t reply. But she doesn’t have to. The silence says enough. I just hit the nail on the head.
“Why doesn’t she?—”
Millie cuts me off sharply. “The living room, ma’am.”
She gestures toward the open door, her voice clipped, rushed. Then, before I can say another word, she hurries away. Practically runs. I watch her go, my mind spinning. What the hell is going on here?
“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to come in?”
I step into the living room, my frustration simmering beneath the surface. But then I pause.
Much like the rest of the house, the room is lavish. But where the other spaces feel sleek and modern, this one is something else entirely. It’s Old-World elegance, untouched by time. The walls are deep, moody wood panels, polished to a soft sheen that catches the warm glow of the gold sconces flickering against them. The ceiling? High, vaulted, with intricate crown molding that speaks of a craftsmanship long forgotten.
A massive fireplace dominates one side of the room, its carved stone mantel stretching almost to the ceiling. The fire within it crackles, casting dancing shadows across the space. Above it, an ornate oil painting of a man—one who bears an uncanny resemblance to Claudius—stares down at me, his eyes dark, unreadable.
The furniture is heavy, regal, built to last centuries. Dark leather armchairs, their arms curved with intricate detailing, sit atop a plush Persian rug, the pattern worn but elegant. A mahogany coffee table, massive and carved with scrollwork, rests in the center, topped with crystal decanters of amber-colored liquor and a single silver tray holding a half-smoked cigar.
Rich velvet drapes hang from the floor-to-ceiling windows, deep burgundy, thick enough to shut out the world. Everything about this space whispers of old money, power, and legacy.
And yet it feels heavy. Suffocating. Like stepping into a room that remembers too much. A room that’s seen things it will never tell. My gaze flickers to the portrait above the fireplace, my unease deepening.
“Is that your father?” I ask, tilting my head.
Claudius doesn’t even look at it. “Yes.”
I study the features. Sharp jaw, stony expression, that same intensity lurking behind his eyes.
“You look a lot like him.”
He hums, a low, almost amused sound. “There’s a younger version of me that’s howling in rage at that statement.”
“I take it you weren’t close?”
His entire demeanor shifts. The lightness, if it was ever there, vanishes. His jaw tightens.
“No.” The word is clipped. Final. “We weren’t.”
There’s something buried in those two words, something bitter, something sharp. I should let it go. But I don’t.
Because if Claudius Irons, who is cold, unshakable, always in control, can still bristle at the memory of his father?
Then whoever that man was?
He must’ve been a monster.
I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until Claudius answers.
His voice is quiet, but there’s a weight behind it. A truth too heavy to be ignored.
“He was.”
A chill creeps down my spine.
He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t fill the silence with unnecessary words.
But then, after a beat, he says, “And he taught Gabriel everything he knew.”
My breath catches.
A slow, cold understanding settles into my bones.
I look at the portrait again, at the man who shaped them both—one son dead, one standing in front of me, and a ghost who might still be out there, hunting me.
And suddenly, I’m not sure which of them is more dangerous.