Chapter 9 Eliza #3
“Being broken creates character and strength,” I said slowly, my voice quiet, still trying to remain small, though I wasn’t sure if the words were meant for him or for me.
“In places and in people, I hope.” The instant I said the words, I regretted it.
They were laced with a vulnerability I wished weren’t so audible, one I prayed he didn’t detect.
He stepped closer, his boots scuffing softly against the stone floor. It felt like he was closing in on me, and for a moment, I wished I could retreat, put distance between us. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. This odd kinetic energy between us wouldn’t let me.
“Most broken things can’t be salvaged,” he said, his voice edged with something like frustration—or maybe something else. Something more meaningful. “Sometimes places and people aren’t worth the effort.”
I inhaled sharply, a flicker of something—hurt, maybe—sparking in my chest, but I wouldn’t let it catch.
Not now, not in front of him. I didn’t know why it was so hard to remain invisible around him—it was normally so easy.
“Just because something requires effort, that doesn’t mean it isn’t deserved,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
I finally looked up at him, meeting his gaze for the first time.
His eyes were darker than I remembered; they looked like the black of a storm right before the downpour.
There had been a flash of something like surprise, but it disappeared quickly, replaced by that familiar coldness—the wall he was so careful to keep up.
I couldn’t blame him; I had my own set of walls.
I could only imagine the skeletons in the hollows of his mental structure.
I didn’t know why I was so irked. I didn’t know why his words bothered me so much.
Everything about him—this situation—was so wildly confusing.
I wished he would leave, so I could maintain the awful image of him and continue despising him.
I also wished I could find out what had happened to his mother and father.
I’d already heard all of the rumors. I wanted to know the truth.
Unwilling to let my broken metaphor go, he continued.
“You know nothing about this garden or the things it’s seen,” he said, the words sharper now but still quiet.
“You can’t restore this place in three months, and you and I both know it.
So why do you insist on putting yourself through this day after day when you know you won’t make it?
It’s been a little over a week, just quit now.
I see you wince on your knees already. What could you possibly get from this?
A raise? I doubt that. I’ve seen their figures.
My donation will only be enough to secure another year, and you won’t get another of that sum.
Quit and find a new place to work. You were practically offering the sale of your soul to get this job.
Why, Eliza? Why are you so determined to fix this place? ”
I realized it was the first time I’d heard him say my name.
It made me feel the same way I imagined a lock felt as a properly fitted key was inserted with a soft and satisfying click after sitting untouched for a time.
The charged air between us snapped like a taut rubber band, so tight it threatened to break.
I felt the anger rise in me again, hot and uncomfortable.
But underneath it, there was a flicker of vulnerability.
A crack in the wall between us—something raw and fragile that we both shared, but neither of us was willing to acknowledge.
I took a deep breath and looked away, feverishly pushing the trowel deeper into the soil at the pond’s edge.
“Because if I can’t do it alone,” I muttered, though the words felt hollow as soon as they left my mouth, “then I fail, and nothing changes. I can’t do anything without her.
” I felt the fear sliding through my chest and arms, amping up the more openly I spoke with him.
“If you fail…” He was so close now that I could feel the heat of his body, the side of his hand brushing against mine, and my breath caught in my throat.
His breath was warm against my cheek, and it sent a shiver down my spine.
Somehow, he understood what I was saying.
I could feel it. And I hated it. I wished the pond in front of me were full so I could drown myself—or him.
The rigid, prickling fear in my body swirled suddenly with something more evocative.
“I can’t fail,” I replied, my voice quieter this time.
We stood there for a moment, the silence thick, both of us unwilling to break it.
I stared out across the conservatory, feeling him watching me, the intensity of his gaze too much to ignore, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. If I did, I was afraid I’d see something innocent I wasn’t prepared for—something I wasn’t sure I wanted to see.
Jasper stepped back, breaking the moment. His presence lingered, but he was no longer so intimately positioned. He turned toward the door, his shoulders tense, and my breath finally began to slow.
“I need to go,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, though I knew it wasn’t meant for me.
I should’ve felt grateful he was leaving, but I didn’t.
I felt something else—something caught between frustration and the unsettling sense that, somehow, I had accidentally bared the tender pieces of myself only to have them repulse him.
Why did this happen to me in his presence? This manor—this man—seemed to crawl into my veins and eject my quiet, intentional disposition, only to bring forth a confrontational, vulnerable woman. Why did I speak so much to him?
I wanted to bang my head against the large display boulder in front of me.
I heard his footsteps, slow and measured, as they echoed too loudly in the stillness of the conservatory.
His boots sounded angry against the uneven floor, but it was the sound of the door closing behind him that cut through the air like a sharp exhale.
This was going to be a long three months.
Silence settled back over the room. My pulse quickened, my hands still gripping the trowel, my fingers white against the worn handle. I tried to shake off the thickness in the air, but it lingered, curling like smoke in my chest.
What had that been? Why was there this…this weirdness between Jasper and me?
I breathed in slowly, trying to steady myself.
The scent of dirt filled my lungs as I inhaled.
There was nothing left to do in the spot I was in.
The weeds were cleared, but I didn’t want to move.
Not yet. Not with this strange, magnetic pull between us still humming in the air.
I was ashamed of the information I had volunteered.
Why would I put myself out there like that to him?
We hardly knew each other, and what I did know of him should have had me running out of here. He was not a good guy.
I needed to do some digging of my own and find out everything I could.
I would get online tonight and find out what I could about Hester Blackwood.
I shook my head. He hated everyone. There was nothing more to him than a spoiled brat turned deranged killer…
whose roof I was now trapped under. And I had an opportunity that no one else had.
I was inside the manor. I could snoop around and find some answers for myself about what had happened.
Jasper Blackwood, with all his brooding silence and cold detachment, was like the storm that had been building on the horizon outside.
I knew it was there. I felt it. But I didn’t know if I was ready to weather it.
Without a doubt, he was the most dangerous part of Blackwood Manor, but just like a raging storm, as much as I knew I needed to stay away, I couldn’t help but want to watch it.
I set the trowel aside, my fingers still tingling from where his hand had brushed against mine earlier.
I couldn’t shake the heat of it. I couldn’t stop the way I reacted to him.
It was maddening. Had he hung around any longer, I probably would’ve had a heart attack.
There was something in the way he had looked at me when he spoke about this house—about the conservatory.
It was like a glimpse into a part of him he never let anyone see—or at least that was what it felt like. Perhaps it held the answers I needed.
I rose from my crouched position, dusting my hands off on the fabric of my tattered baggy jeans.
My legs were stiff from kneeling so long, but I forced myself to move to the back edge of the conservatory, away from where he had been.
I stepped in the bed along the back wall.
My hand brushed against a shard of glass, jagged and sharp, and I gasped as it cut my skin, the thin line of blood quickly welling up.
I pulled my hand away, startled by the sting, but before I could even process the pain, I heard the quick sound of boots returning.
Jasper.
Fuck.
I hesitated; the last thing I wanted was another vulnerable moment with him. I could feel him approaching, and I wanted to hurl myself through the glass wall and over the distant cliff that I was too afraid to look at.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice quiet. There was a dusting of concern. I glanced down at my hand, the thin line of blood trailing from my palm to my wrist. It wasn’t serious, but it stung.
I was about to brush him off, but the words caught in my throat in a mix of fear and intrigue as his hand gently covered mine, guiding me farther away from the broken glass as if I were a lost child.
His touch was unexpected—gentle but firm.
I was still in shock from the contact, the heat of his skin radiating into mine.
My eyes refused to blink. It felt like everything stopped moving, or I had just started.
I couldn’t seem to remember anything—including why I disliked him so much.