12. Vivienne
Vivienne
It’s weird being here alone. Not only is it unsettling to be the only one in a house with over fifty rooms—like being in a museum after hours—but it’s now nighttime.
While I don’t have the same fear of the dark my sister does, the number of shadows cast by the furniture has me a little on edge.
It should also be noted that great uncle Albert’s portrait looks ten times creepier right now than it does in the daylight.
I tiptoe downstairs, which is unnecessary since I’m the only one here, but it seems appropriate for some reason.
Outside, the wind howls and whips around the corners of the manor, bringing a chill with it.
The kitchen is inky black like the rest of the house.
Fortunately, I’ve spent enough summer nights sneaking down here to steal cookies and milk with Bash and Cass to know my way around.
My hand searches for the switch for the chandeliers hanging overhead, but I’ve never had to turn them on before and don’t know where it’s at. I do know where the candles are, however. We used to take them into the forest and pretend to be spies.
I strike a match and hold the flame to the wick of one, which flares to life, casting a warm glow over the entire room.
When my mother got her hands on this kitchen after marrying my father, she turned it into something from a Gothic fairy tale that would make both a housewife and a chef swoon with envy, despite the fact that Mum has never cooked so much as an egg in her life.
The ceiling arches twenty feet above me, painted the same moody black as the walls.
Ornately arched windows line the north wall, revealing a night as dark as the house.
In the center of the room is a huge island that must be at least thirty feet long.
Its marble top gleams in the faint light, thanks to the housekeeping staff that comes regularly, even when no one is staying here.
My intention is to fix a cup of tea, but when my eyes alight on the door to the butler’s pantry, I get a sudden urge for something stronger.
Using the candle to light the way, I move to the wine refrigerator and grab a bottle of rosé.
Instead of taking it back to my room, I straddle one of the barstools.
It only takes two sips for Cass to fill my thoughts, and the only reason I wasn’t thinking of him before was because I was making a concentrated effort to keep him as far from my mind as possible.
The alcohol lowers my inhibitions and invites those plaguing memories to waltz in as if they belong there.
I wonder what he’s doing tonight. Maybe playing checkers with his dad? He prefers them to chess, even though he has always agreed to play with me every time I’ve asked him. Bash was the one who told me Cass doesn’t care for chess.
I swirl the wine in my glass, which casts a long shadow across the countertop. As I’m lifting it to my lips, I hear something behind me. My blood ices over, and I carefully set the goblet down. It sounds again, and this time I recognize it: someone unlocking the back door.
Before I can scream—not that anyone could hear or help me if I did—the door swings open, letting in a gust of air that swirls in and snuffs out the meager flame of my candle. The kitchen is plunged into darkness, leaving me alone with the shadowy figure in the doorway.
I’m not sure my heart has ever beaten this loudly before. Did they see me, or can I escape without detection? But try as I might to move, my limbs seem frozen to the chair, determined to subject me to whatever horrors await me if I stay. Why did I think coming to Belgrave alone was a good idea?
The intruder shuts the door and moves further into the room, as quiet as you’d expect from someone who’s breaking in. I slap my hand over my mouth, but not in time to keep a tiny whimper from escaping. The dark shape stops in the middle of the kitchen, looking around for the source of the sound.
I try to shrink, but I feel as obvious as a neon sign. I’ve always wondered what happens right before you die. Anytime now, I’m going to find out.
“Viv?”
I nearly fall off the barstool in relief. “Cassian?”
His steps sound louder now, more confident as he walks toward me. I long to collapse into his arms, to let him hold me until all thoughts of dying by knife or rope are washed away. But this is Cass. He’s not going to hold me, nor would I let him. My heart will simply need to recover on its own.
He turns on his phone torch, illuminating the herringbone-tiled floor. It casts an eerie glow on his face. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“I find it better for plotting murders,” I say, urging my heart rate to return to normal.
“Ah,” he says, stopping next to my chair. The scent of him hits me in my core, all leather and musk. “Who are we killing tonight?”
“You.” I take another sip of wine as my eyes slowly grow accustomed to the dark, but I keep them focused in front of me, rather than on him.
“What did I do this time?” He pulls an old Zippo from his pocket and reaches for the candle. The movement causes his arm to brush against mine, and a jolt of electricity travels through me.
“You mean besides scaring me half to death?” My voice comes out more breathlessly than it should—either the aftereffect of my nightmarish fantasies or because he’s only inches from me. Maybe both.
He flicks the lighter, then lowers it to the wick, which once again bursts into flame, creating a halo of light around us. “Remember dripping wax onto letters with these?” His voice is a low rumble, soft and intimate.
Shifting in my seat, I chuckle. “We thought we were so cool.”
He straightens. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep mine on the candle, despite how badly I want to drink him in. “We were the epitome of cool,” he says, faking offense.
This time I can’t help but shoot him a look. “Your nickname was Captain Hook.”
Cass laughs, something he doesn't do often enough. “You’re right. It was a stupid nickname.” He leans a hip against the counter. “Not quite as bad as Princess Polly, though.”
I slug him with my elbow. “Remind me of that again, and I really will murder you.”
He doubles over in faux pain, and a backpack slides off his shoulder. He sets it on the floor.
“What are you doing here, Cass?” It’s the second time I’ve asked him that today, and I can’t help but wonder if this is how the rest of our lives will play out: stumbling around on uneven footing, like a choreographed dance we never practiced for.
“My dad saw you on the ridge.” Shadows play across Cass’s familiar features.
Nodding, I say, “So naturally, you’re here. With a backpack.”
His sigh is long and drawn out. He pushes his fingers into his hair, lifting the dark strands off his forehead and revealing eyes that could drown a person. “My dad is the most meddlesome son of a bitch you’ll ever meet.”
“Impossible.” I take a long sip of wine. “Have you met my mother? Tall, perpetual frown, keeps a running list of all the ways her children have let her down?”
Cass snorts. “Your mum’s not human.”
“A logical conclusion.”
He gives his bag a soft kick. “My dad’s worried about you staying here alone. He wanted me to come and keep an eye on you.”
Warmth spreads through my stomach. Is this what it feels like to have someone looking out for you without an ulterior motive?
I push the thought aside and peer at him over the rim of my glass.
“Are you here to scare my ghosts away, Cassian Cordero?” I offer him a smirk, compliments of the rosé I’m inhaling much too quickly.
Setting both elbows on the counter, he leans in close, until his breath tickles my skin. “I am your ghost.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. He can’t possibly know how close he is to the truth, that I was sitting here thinking about him before he walked in. He haunts me without even trying. “I still haven’t forgiven you for earlier.”
“Sorry about that.” He takes a step back, and the space between us suddenly grows cold. “I would say I’ll leave if you’re uncomfortable with me being here, but the truth is, my dad scares me more than you do, so I’d just end up sleeping outside the door.”
“Hmm.” I tap my lip with my index finger. “I have always wanted a dog.”
Cass raises a solitary brow, his scowl deepening.
“If I let you stay, will you take me to visit your dad?” I ask.
“Why the hell would you want to see that annoying bastard?” He swipes the bottle of wine from the island and takes a long drag.
I punch his arm again, his skin hot beneath my knuckles. “He’s your dad. You shouldn’t talk about him like that. Besides, Mateo’s great.”
Cass shakes his head and sets the rosé back down, keeping a hand on it. “He’s great when he’s minding his own business. Which is about 5 percent of the time.”
“He loves you.”
His eyes flick up to meet mine. The candle flame flutters in them, a sensual dance that makes my cheeks grow hotter the longer I stare at him. “Yeah,” he says softly, “I know.”
There are a million other things I want to say.
How can he not see how much he has? I would cut off both arms to have a father like Mateo, to have grown up with that kind of love and acceptance.
He may not like all the stuff Cassian’s gotten into over the years, but that has never impacted how he feels about his son.
Cass’s gaze drops to my lips for a split second, just long enough for my heart to leap into my throat. But then he shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured you’d be drinking tea,” he says, nodding at my glass.
“It’s been a long day.” Once upon a time, I would’ve told him about my mum, the wedding, Landon, but we’re not that kind of friends anymore.
“And that was before I showed up.” He nudges my foot, which is braced against the rung of my stool. “Should I grab the vodka next?”
“That depends on if you’ll be joining me or not.”
He huffs out a soft laugh. “I should be getting to bed. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Reaching down, he hoists the backpack over his shoulder.
“You really don’t need to stay here.” My mind is taking turns begging him to so I’m not alone in this cavernous house and pleading with him to go for the sake of my heart. “I’ll be fine.”
He tucks his thumb under the bag’s strap. “My dad flipped the dead bolt before I even stepped off the porch. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“The Wilsons are known for their charitable works . . .” I drain the rest of my glass before sliding off the chair and blowing out the candle. “I can probably find a small closet for you to sleep in.”
I give him a wide berth as I lead the way out of the kitchen, not because I don’t want to be near him, but because I’m terrified of the feelings that would result if we were to accidentally brush against each other.
The hallways are dark and riddled with shadows as Cass lights the way for us with his torch. On the second floor, I open the door to the Rowan Room, one of over thirty bedrooms in the house. “Will this be okay?”
The suite is dark green, with warm oak wainscoting and a slate-gray ceiling crossed with exposed beams. Plush rugs woven with greens, browns, and reds cover the floor, and a large four-poster bed sits against the far wall. An oil painting of a rowan branch hangs above the stone fireplace.
“It’s fine,” Cass says, and steps inside. “Thanks.”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “I’ll be a few doors down, in the Ivy Room.” It’s been mine since I was a child.
“Yeah, I remember.” He holds the door open as he turns to face me. “I’ll stay out of your way, Viv. You won’t even know I’m here.”
I want to laugh at the absurdity of that statement, because no universe exists where I wouldn’t be aware of Cassian in it.