Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Martine Lilian Huntington-Russell
I wake with a start, my breath catching in my throat.
I don’t know if it’s morning yet. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep.
The room is dark, the air thick, pressing down on me like a weight I can’t shake.
My skin still burns where he touched me, the ghost of his grip lingering.
My chin tingles where his fingers had pressed, a silent reminder of his control.
I sit up slowly, my fingers pressing into the soft sheets, the infuriatingly comfortable bed a cruel contrast to the unease twisting in my stomach.
Turning my head, I glance toward the window, my pulse uneven. The curtains are drawn, but a sliver of light seeps through the gap between them. I push back the blankets and stand, my legs weak beneath me as I cross the room, hands trembling as I pull the curtain aside.
The moon hangs low in the sky, its silver glow spilling over the vast estate grounds. The trees shift in the wind, casting long, spindly shadows against the manicured grass. It isn’t morning yet.
I exhale shakily, pressing my forehead to the cool glass.
A sudden, desperate thought takes hold. I reach for the window latch, fingers fumbling, but when I try to push it open, it doesn’t budge.
I press harder, jiggling it, then digging my nails into the edges, trying to pry it loose.
Nothing. The frame is sealed shut. Panic flutters in my chest, sharp and insistent.
I push again, using my full weight, but it doesn’t so much as creak.
Its sound mocks me, as if to claim there’s no way out. No escape.
Every second that passes feels like I’m sinking deeper into quicksand I can’t escape.
Then, I hear what woke me up. The low and urgent voices coming from downstairs.
My pulse kicks up. Hayden hadn’t locked the door, but that doesn’t mean I’m free. I know better than to assume that. If I get caught sneaking around…
I push the thought away. My feet are already moving, silent against the floor, my body moving on instinct, drawn to eavesdrop as if some unseen force is pulling me forward.
An incorrigible snoop since childhood, I could always be found trailing a few steps after my brothers, listening in on their devilish plans.
I slip from the window, my bare feet ghosting over the cold floor as I move to the door. I press my ear against it and listen.
Nothing.
My dress from dinner still clings to my skin, wrinkled and slightly damp with sweat. How long have I been lying in that bed? Hours? Minutes? The passage of time is a blur, unmarked by anything but the pounding of my heart.
And now, who else is in the house?
Slowly and carefully, I crack it open, peering into the dim hallway. The house is massive, but my room sits at the end of the main hall, not far from the grand staircase. If I’m careful, I can move unnoticed, get close enough to hear.
My body moves before my mind can stop it, dragging my feet silently against the plush antique green carpet of the wood-walled hallway. I move too quickly to remember my slippers. I just dash out on instinct, driven by a wild fear and a desire for leverage to escape.
With every step toward the stairs, the voices sharpen.
I recognize Hayden’s voice immediately, calm, laced with that ever-present authority. The other voice is unfamiliar. It’s older and sharper in a way that puts a bitter taste in my mouth.
I press myself against the wall at the top of the staircase, my breath shallow as I listen.
“She shouldn’t still be breathing,” the man says, his voice edged with impatience.
My stomach drops.
But instead of a fight from Hayden, all that happens is a long, heavy pause.
Then Hayden, smooth as ever. “Creekmore, I wasn’t aware the Brotherhood did drop-ins.”
The man, Creekmore, I think, scoffs. “Enough with the ego. Don’t tell me things are getting out of control, Herron.”
Another beat of silence. Hayden takes a few long seconds to respond.
“Everything is contained. I have it taken care of.”
“If you don’t go through with it, and I mean all the way, this will be a huge issue.”
My fingers curl against the banister. The words hit like ice water. Go through with what?
Another long silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken tension. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Then, Hayden speaks. Slower this time. Measured. “I told you. I’ll take care of it.”
A sharp exhale. Then the clink of ice in a glass.
“You should’ve done it already.”
There’s movement, footsteps, the slow pour of liquid into crystal.
“This isn’t a game, Hayden. If she’s still breathing by the next gathering, I won’t just question your loyalty. I’ll force your hand.”
Silence again. Then a slow sip, the ice shifting against the glass. Hayden’s voice remains calm.
Almost too calm—sinister in his tone.
“I’m going to complete the task.”
Creekmore snorts. “Then get to it.” A beat. “Or someone else will.”
My breath catches. My entire body goes cold.
I barely remember moving, barely remember slipping back down the hallway, my pulse deafening in my ears. I stumble into my room, closing the door softly behind me. My hands shake against the wood.
If I’m breathing by the next meeting, something is going to happen to me?
What the hell does that mean? Is Hayden protecting me?
The terrifying display of the items available to me in this room is a clear sign that he had been preparing for this.
Everything is as I would like. Had he just been waiting for his chance to steal me away?
This is too much effort for a temporary fixation.
I press my forehead against the door, my breath ragged, my mind spinning with no solution, no escape. No idea what this conversation could have meant, but I have a feeling I’m in more danger than I truly know.
Dragging my feet towards the bed, I fall onto it, and by the time sleep drags me under, my face is damp with silent tears.
I wake up to sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long streaks of gold across the room. For a moment, I forget where I am. Then it all rushes back.
The night. The voices. The sealed window. The suffocating weight of knowing nothing at all.
I force myself out of bed, my body stiff, my limbs heavy.
My dress from last night clings to me, the fabric now wrinkled and stale.
I strip it off quickly, rummaging through the dresser until I find a pair of white cotton panties and a matching bra.
I pull them on, along with some socks and a pair of simple jeans.
Then I grab a heavy vintage knit sweater and a cream-colored pair of Keds from the closet.
The sweater is calming as I slide it on, the thick fabric settling over me like a comforting weight.
Smooth like butter. It seems vintage, as though it belonged to someone.
In the bathroom, I turn on the faucet and brush my teeth with a toothbrush that’s an exact copy of the one I usually use from a french apothecary.
The minty taste is sharp and grounding. Quickly, I splash cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
My eyes are swollen, my lips raw where I must have bitten them in my sleep. I look like a ghost.
I need coffee. More than that, I need to think. To plan.
Coffee first.
And then, I need to find my way back to the life that was stolen from me, back to my dormitory at Eulogia, where his presence doesn't suffocate every thought, where I can finally breathe without fearing what he’s planning next, or what the Brotherhood is planning.
If I can get there, I can call my family’s lawyers. They must have been trying to reach me, unless they think I’m safe—or worse, they’ve been told not to look for me. The thought sends a chill down my spine.
And then there's the horrific need to plan a funeral for those I loved. For my brothers who deserve to rest in a beautiful place with our mother. Even Father, for all his cruelty, has a spot in our family plot. And while I worry it’s too late to honor my family, I remember—I’m the fool who doesn’t even know where their bodies are located.
And if Hayden won’t let me leave, if he refuses to send me back to Eulogia, then I’ll have to find another way—a crack in his control.
At the very least, I need access to a phone.
Somewhere, somehow, there has to be a way to reach the outside world, to plan my next steps.
My only problem is—I’m not quite sure who I’d call.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself. First, coffee. Then, my escape.
But as my eyes skim the contents of the replica of my bedroom, my thoughts take me back to my captor in all his glory.
As much as I hate him, I hate the way he speaks even more.
His tone is blunt, almost rude in its simplicity, as if wasting words is beneath him.
There’s no softness, no unnecessary embellishment, just cold, hard command.
And yet, for all his brutish bluntness, there’s an undeniable air of aristocracy about him. That infuriating arrogance, the effortless way he carries himself, like the world was carved out for him and him alone.
It makes me sick.
It makes me want to give him a punch to his chiseled jaw, to knock that smug expression off his face just to see if he’s capable of anything other than cool indifference. But the worst part? The part that twists deep in my gut and refuses to let go?
I want to listen to him instead. I want to submit to his whims, listening like a well-behaved pet. I want to perform to his will, showing an expertly practiced ability to perform.