Chapter Sixteen
Night drapes across the manor like a heavy velvet curtain, swallowing the last traces of daylight as the three of us hover behind the tall window in Rhys’ guest bedroom.
I watch the headlights carve two sharp lines across the driveway, the silhouette of Phillip Waversea’s luxury car shrinking into the dark until the gates swallow him whole.
Only when the taillights disappear completely does Rhys’ rigid spine soften, and Clayton finally exhales behind me as if he’s been holding his breath for hours.
We’ve spent the entire day burrowed beneath blankets and half-hearted excuses, tangled limbs and whispered assurances.
All three of us were content to pretend that staying in bed was some indulgence rather than a mutual attempt to avoid the man who poisons the air here.
But now that the quiet has settled, and the evil has gone, I can’t lie around for a second longer.
My limbs are restless, and my mind is mush from chain-reading fictional classics back to back.
I’ve fallen in love and had my heart broken four times today without even leaving the bed.
I went from stroking Clay’s arm to shifting my knee into Rhys’ balls and blaming it as an accident.
It wasn’t. I just needed an outlet for another third-act breakup.
Rocking on my heels, curling my toes into the plush carpet, I wait for the silence to be broken through my receivers.
Rhys’ hand lingers at my hip like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go, while Clayton watches over the curve of my shoulder with that measured calm he always keeps on reserve.
No one wants to make the first move, to say what they’re thinking.
I’m thinking I could really do with some food.
Rhys is no doubt imagining which rooms he wants to fuck me in, and Clayton likely wants to do a perimeter check.
“Okay, out,” I turn and shoo them back a few steps.
“Everybody out. I’m over this whole being caged in a room thing.
” I don’t miss the matching winces they give, but thankfully, no questions are asked.
Opening the door, I come to a halt at the pile of folded clothes by the threshold.
My clothes, the ones that were in my duffle bag, are now freshly laundered.
On top, my phone proudly shows a full battery. A smile grows across my face.
“Thank you, Fiona,” I whisper to myself, collecting the bundle into my arms. Quickly shooting a text to my aunt that I’m alive, safe, and I’ll call her soon, I toss the device onto the bed.
There have been pros to being without my phone, and not seeing my life splashed across the student news feed has one of them.
“Change of plans. I’m going to shower the bed-sweat off and change into something I actually own.
” I really shouldn’t feel so giddy about that, but I’ve been borrowing oversized clothes for a while now.
Having to roll over waistbands and shove elongated sleeves up my arms is cute to a point, but there’s nothing quite like wearing clothes that actually fit my body size and type.
Rhys catches up to me in the hallway, his hand delicate on my shoulder.
“Want help washing off?”
“I can shampoo your hair,” Clayton pitches in from a few paces back. The looks they give me are almost exactly the same, big puppy dog eyes filled with hope. I take great pleasure in the smirk that crosses my face.
“No thanks,” I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Entertain yourselves. I’ll come find you.” I leave them watching over me, not a single word reaching my receivers. Slipping into the bathroom, I tug them free and toss them onto the counter.
On another occasion, if I were feeling particularly vulnerable, I would have jumped at their offer to join me.
This evening, however, I’m curious to see what they do when left to their own devices without the threat of my safety being dangled overhead.
I can’t always be a barrier between the two, so yes, this is a test.
Following a glorious shower which went on for far longer than intended, I emerge awake and alive in an otherwise sleeping manor.
Steam clings to my skin as I pad barefoot down the hallway, the air prickling my arms a few degrees cooler than my body temperature.
My hair drips down the back of my neck in lazy rivulets, damp strands curling at the ends from the hot spray of water.
For the first time in days, I feel human again.
I tug at the soft cotton of my T-shirt, pulling it over my hips and marvelling at the simple pleasure of fabric that actually fits me instead of swallowing me whole.
My leggings hug my thighs in a familiar fashion, comfort wrapping around me all the way down to my fluffy socks.
Checking the bedroom first, I find it empty, the bedsheets still crumpled and the scent of testosterone lingering.
“Okay, where did you two run off to?” I murmur under my breath, continuing my exploration.
The manor is different at night. It breathes differently, feels older.
Shadows stretch into long fingers on the marble floors, slipping beneath doorways I’ve yet to see the inside of.
Lamps cast pools of gentle glows, too small to fight off the darkness of the hall, but just enough to create pockets of light. I drift through one at a time.
Even with my receivers clamped into place, it’s quiet.
Too quiet. The staff must have retired to their quarters, if they even stay on site.
It occurs to me that I haven’t had an official tour yet, or any proper introductions other than the one I sought out for myself.
Who knows how many people reside here, if they’re listening behind closed doors or watching through cracks in the walls.
I run a hand along a carved panelling against the walls just to feel something solid, grounding myself in a world that isn’t tainted by the imagination that tends to run wild when silence surrounds me.
Heading downstairs, I expect to find the boys in the kitchen, using food as an excuse not to converse, but the open space is empty.
No whispered footsteps, no flicker of silhouettes, no Clayton leaning against the counter practicing signs into himself, no Rhys hovering like he’s about to pounce on me as soon as I enter.
About to turn away, I notice a piece of paper on the island that I almost glanced right over.
For whatever reason, switching on the light doesn’t seem like an option.
As if flooding the room with light will reveal a jump scare I wasn’t prepared for, so instead I take the page and circle back to a standing lamp near the central lobby.
The writing is revealed in Rhys’ neat script, his years of private tutoring showing through.
We’ll be outside, sharing a vintage bottle of bourbon to give you a chance to hide.
At exactly eleven pm, the hunt begins. Whoever finds you first claims your cunt in any way they see fit, with the other watching.
If you manage to remain hidden until midnight, you get to choose our punishment.
The only rule is that you must stay inside.
Best of luck Babygirl. I know every hiding place in this manor, and I don’t play fair. –R.
Steadily, the thumping of my heart picks up its tempo, my eyes sliding to an oversized clock above the main set of double doors.
The longer hand ticks toward ten minutes until eleven, each tiny click punching straight through my chest as though it’s reaching in and squeezing around my lungs.
Time is slipping by like sand running through my fingers.
I curse myself for taking such a long shower, for indulging in the heat and the momentary cocoon of safety it gave me, because now I’m behind before the game has even started.
Through the frosted glass in those double doors, I spot movement, the blurred outline of a man lifting a cylindrical bottle, the way his head falls back telling me the whiskey is almost all gone. Well, damn. I told them to entertain themselves, and it seems that they’ve actually listened, for once.
My body vibrates with nervous energy as I drop the note to the floor and promptly drag my hair over my shoulder to wring any lingering water from the strands.
I don’t need a trail leading them straight to me.
Turning towards the hallway on the left, I slip away silently, my legs threatening to give out with indecision but moving through pure stubbornness.
I use my socks against the marble to my advantage, practically skating through the manor rather than picking up my feet.
I reach the first living room tucked just off the main hall, push the heavy door open, and wince when the hinge gives a soft groan that echoes far louder than it should against my receivers.
The room inside is sprawling and elegant, velvet drapes pulled shut over towering windows and antique lamps glowing faintly in corners like little islands of amber light.
A massive sofa sits centered on a plush pale rug, flanked by bookshelves full of leather-bound novels that smell faintly of dust.
For a second, I consider hiding behind the drapery, maybe slipping under the window seat or curling behind the armchair, but the moment I imagine Rhys or Clayton walking in here, their eyes adjusting to the dim room, I know I’d be caught almost instantly.
It’s too open, too exposed and far too obvious.
My pride refuses to let me make this easy on them, even if the ‘punishment’ sounds more like a prize.
They can draw endless orgasms from my quaking body once I’ve made them work for it.