Chapter 21 DANCE WITH PHANTOMS
The Shadow King is in a good mood these days. I wonder if Thanksgiving two weeks ago had thawed something between us. But the man has made no mention of it, nor has he tried to touch me ever since.
It’s enough to make me question my sanity—if those heated caresses and rough words were figments of my imagination.
But I know they aren’t.
I’ve spent too many sleepless nights tossing and turning in my bed, thinking of how good it felt to be held by him.
How easy it was to burn out of control.
Physical reactions, that’s all they are. I have one goal—to get out of this alive. Screw the man.
Now, Elias doesn’t even blink when I stroll past him in his office as I head up to the third floor. A devious streak inside me wants to drive him crazy.
I taunt him with a sway of my hips, “Come catch me,” or thunder up the stairs in my stilettos just to drive him nuts with the noise, but he ignores me. If it weren’t for the twitch of his jaw and the clicking of his lighter, I’d think I wasn’t getting to him.
Then there’s the silent bodyguard who still follows me everywhere when I’m outside the mansion. But when I’m inside, he gives me privacy. Ren and I have reached an understanding: I won’t test him and he’ll leave me alone.
Frankly, I’m not dumb. If I run, we’re back to square one. Those cold-blooded murderers in The Association will hunt me down or go after my family, which is precisely why I’m in this predicament in the first place.
Frustrated, I climb the stairs again.
The third floor is “forbidden,” which only means I now come here daily. So far, Elias’s threats don’t have bite. If it’s truly forbidden, he wouldn’t have removed the barricade, right?
The first time I came up here, all six doors were locked.
Oddly, five of them are on one side of the hallway.
Then, over the next few weeks, suspiciously, five doors would click open, one by one, right as I passed them.
I’d look up at the camera in the corner, seeing the red light blink, just as it does now.
He’s watching me. I know he is.
I give the camera the middle finger, and it blinks again.
I can almost hear his dark chuckles.
Elias is taunting me back. I know you’re snooping. I control the flow of information, not you.
Over time, I’ve explored the open rooms—a small study, three guest bedrooms, and the last one, the room Ren mentioned before, is my favorite place in this cold, dark house.
An enormous library.
It’s like the ones in Europe—ornate, gold leaf decorating the ceilings, antique sconces on the walls, filled to the brim with books, completely out of place in this modern home.
The mobster definitely loves reading.
Cece pads at my side, tail brushing my calf. I’ve asked the devil why he has the cat and if she’s from the Albanian café, but no surprise, he doesn’t answer my questions. Either way, I’m grateful for her. It’s like she understands me; she knows I have nobody here.
I don’t contact home other than occasional messages to tell them I’m okay. I cut the brief calls short because I don’t want them to worry. If my brothers sense an ounce of sadness or desperation, they’ll come get me, safety be damned.
So I tell them Elias and I have a comfortable relationship, that we’re roommates who barely see each other.
I tell my friends we’re in the thick of our honeymoon phase and he’s whisking me around the world.
And with time zone differences, I can’t call often.
I send staged photos: stock images of a couple holding hands, chocolates that mysteriously end up in my bedroom every morning, and lots of photos of the calico cat.
It’s quiet this morning. Hannah fussed over my breakfast like the mother I’d never had. Moments like these make my heart clench. I wish I remembered my mother. I wish I could taste her food, which Rex always said was delicious.
I’m eating again. Hannah’s food is divine, so why keep punishing myself if the Shadow King doesn’t care if I starve to death?
A few guards patrol the perimeter and, of course, Ren lurks about, his movements precise and purposeful, which tells me he’s just like Elias: lethal, violent, if not more dangerous.
I stop in front of the mysterious locked door on the third floor, the only door on the right side of the hallway.
Two locks. The first looks simple. I kneel and tug a bobby pin from my hair, trying to remember the steps for picking a lock from the videos I’ve watched.
My answers must be inside, right?
If this works, then I’ll work on the keypad, which looks like a cipher. I see faint wear on the number two. My blood thrums at the idea of a puzzle. No new puzzle boxes have shown up from my mysterious admirer. Perhaps they didn’t realize I got married and moved away.
I insert my bobby pin into the key slot and press my ear against the wood.
Wiggle it right. Then left. A lift. Another click.
I twist the knob. It doesn’t budge.
Releasing a sigh, I try again. Left. Then right. I add a second bobby pin the way I’ve seen the experts do it.
Still nothing.
Cece meows, clearly annoyed on my behalf.
My phone buzzes.
Shadow King
If you’re done playing spy woman, I have a job for you. Come to the office.
Anger constricts my chest. What the hell is this?
He’s been sending me more press releases to proofread, market research, and crap for the Berishas I can do in my sleep.
I was the Chief of PR at Fleur, and he’s making me do grunt work I typically assign to interns.
I alternate between being insulted and being bored out of my mind.
The damn bastard. I agreed to marry him to protect my family, not to work for him. Especially if he won’t even let me leave the house.
Gritting my teeth, I stand and kick the door for good measure.
“Ow!” Genius move, Lana. I grab my foot and hobble down the stairs.
Elias arches a brow when he sees me limping into his office. “What did you do? Try to kick in the door?”
His lip twitches. The bastard is trying not to laugh.
I stomp forward, biting back a wince with each step. He leans back in his chair and swivels toward me, an air of nonchalance in his frame. He looks too damn good in his crisp white shirt, unbuttoned to the chest, revealing his deliciously cut muscles. Then he taps his lighter against the armrest.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The movements quicken the closer I get, drawing my attention to his corded forearms, the perfect veins and tatted vines running up his skin like a map I want to memorize.
Suddenly, I forget why I’m here. My fingers itch to turn his arm over, to examine his tattoos up close. A perverse need surges through me—to lick the vines, to taste his skin.
A dark chuckle. Then body heat and vetiver as he hauls me onto his lap, and dangles his arm in front of me like a treat.
“Bite it.”
My gaze snaps up, finding his eyes—the greens darkening like a forest at night—snared on mine.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say.
“And yet, you’re considering it.”
I swallow.
“Go on, princess. Take a bite,” he rasps. His eyes dip to my parted lips. “Don’t be a pussy like last time.”
The bastard is referring to our moment in the foyer when I wanted to slice his throat.
My core clenches. I try to remind myself why I hate him.
He’s overbearing and a criminal. He shot my brother and chained me in marriage.
I repeat the thoughts. Yes, that’s it. Sparks shoot up my spine.
I shove him away.
He doesn’t let go.
“What on earth is wrong with you? Can’t get women so you have to manhandle one?”
“That mouth of yours. I should punish you.”
He spans his large hands around my waist and grips it tighter, pinning me down on his lap.
Right on top of something hard, thick, and undeniable.
He’s turned on.
A startled sound slips out of me—half whimper, half moan.
“You sadistic piece of shit,” I rasp as I wiggle on his lap.
“You’re welcome.” He pins my hands behind me. “Stop fighting me.”
“Make me, Elias. I fucking dare you.”
“You like it though. I can see it.” Elias dips his lips to my ear. “You’re turned on. Just like Thanksgiving.”
I shiver. “You’re delusional.”
“Am I? Or are you lying to yourself?”
He kneads my waist, his fingers dipping under my oversized sweater, grazing my skin.
Tiny flames lick outward. My breathing stutters.
“You hate me. I loathe you,” he says, his voice rough. “I stole you from your family, took away your freedom. I shot Maxwell. Take your revenge. Be vicious.”
Is this how Persephone felt when Hades pulled her into the depths of hell?
My eyes flicker up to his again, seeing the taunt and challenge in them.
He thinks I won’t hurt him? He wants viciousness?
My jaw tightens. I sock him across the face like my self-defense instructor taught me.
Elias wipes his mouth, his hand coming away with blood.
“Again,” he growls.
“You want me to hurt you?” I gape and climb off him.
“I want you to mean it. You can do better, Lana.”
This time, he doesn’t make it easy. He pounces on me and locks my hands behind my back. His eyes darken with unholy fire.
I yell and knee him where it hurts.
“Fuck!” He drops me, staggers back, and groans from obvious pain.
“Good. Stay down.”
A high like no other burns through my veins.
“Is this vicious enough for you?” I ready myself to deliver another right hook across the bastard’s face.
He blocks me with his arm. A deranged smile splits his lips.
“Not even close, princess.”
Fury surges up my spine, and I jam my elbow into his chest.
“Harder.” He blocks my next kicks and hits.
“You’re nuts.”
“And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
I throw out a left hook. It lands on his cheek with a satisfying smack.
Admiration reflects in those green eyes, and I ignore the excited flutters in my stomach.
“Tell me to stop,” I grit out.
“No.”
Spinning around, I follow with a right jab. But this time, he catches it, uses my wrist as leverage, and turns me so my back plasters against his front.