Keira
My father sits behind his antique desk with the curtains drawn, the desk lamp angled toward me instead of him as he reaches for the cigar box. He’s arranged the room so I’m the only thing under scrutiny.
Fionn stands at the drinks cabinet, close enough to hear every answer and far enough away to pretend this isn’t an interrogation.
“Start again,” my father says.
I keep my hands folded in my lap because the wooden chair gives me nothing else to do with them. My nails press into my palms beneath the desk, where neither of them can see.
“I’ve already told you.”
“You told me they kept you in a cabin.”
“Yeah, they did.”
“And you said men came and went in the yard all the time.”
“They did.”
My father opens the cigar box and takes one out, expecting me to fill the silence while he examines it. He’s always been good at this. Other men shout when they lose ground. Alasdair Harrington lowers his voice and makes you lean closer to hear the threat.
“Who came and went, Keira? I need names.”
“I didn’t see any faces.”
“You have eyes.”
“And the cabin had walls. I was locked up, not seated at their dinner table.”
Fionn approaches the desk, pinches the knees of his dress pants, and lowers himself into the wingback chair to my left. He hasn’t asked how I am, yet he’s made himself comfortable while our father picks apart my time with the Tallons as though he’d sent me there to gather intelligence.
My father doesn’t acknowledge Fionn’s movements. “Did you speak with Saint Tallon?”
“Sometimes.”
“And? Is he in charge of everything, or does their mother still pull the strings?”
I glance at Fionn as he sips whiskey from a cut-crystal tumbler, his gaze fixed on me. He knows I’m lying. If he wanted our father to know, he would have corrected me already. The fact that he hasn’t means he’s trying to work out why.
“They listen to him,” I say.
“And what did he speak to you about?”
“He said he took me to force your hand.”
My father taps one finger against the desk, a single hard note in the room. “Is that it?”
Everything else Saint said belongs to the hours when neither of us remembered which family we came from. My father would turn every word into a weapon and aim it straight back at him.
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No.”
“Keira,” Fionn says from across the room. “He must have said more than a few words when you were with him—”
I glare at my brother. “How many words did you say to Sera Tallon before you beat the shit out of her?”
Fionn lifts the tumbler to his mouth again, but the silence he leaves behind answers for him.
My father leans forward. “Why are you choosing to be difficult?”
My gaze darts from my father to Fionn. Neither of them has asked what happened when the cabin door closed. They only care about what I heard through it.
“You’re pushing me for information I don’t have.” I pull my hands apart, exposing the crescents carved into my palms. “I guess learning about the Tallons is more important than asking if I’m okay.”
Neither of them speaks.
“You want a map of the Tallon family setup, and I don’t have one. You want names, visitors, chains of command, whispers through walls and some neat report you can discuss over drinks with your people.” I steel my spine against the wooden chair. “I was a prisoner, not an undercover spy.”
“Prisoner?” Fionn chuckles.
While my father clips the end of his cigar with the small silver cutter beside his glass, I discreetly stick my middle finger up at Fionn.
“Very well,” my father says as he strikes a match, lets the flame catch, then brings it to the cigar. “Get dressed for dinner.”
I stare at him. “That’s it?”
“For now. And wear something nice,” he adds.
Then he lifts two fingers toward the door, dismissing me.
I leave my father’s study with the usual stench of cigar smoke caught at the back of my throat.
He’s sent me exactly where he wants me: toward a designer dress, toward the mirror where I am supposed to paint on the version of myself he requires.
Since I came home, the staff have arranged every room for an audience, flowers replaced before they wilt, silver set out at breakfast, the way it always was.
Everything is polished and ready for guests. There’s nothing here that isn’t staged.
And now it feels fake.
Two of his men stand near the stairs. Neither of them looks at me as I pass.
I’ve spent years in this house surrounded by staff, guards, family, drivers, maids, men with guns under tailored jackets, and all of it arranged for wealth and protection.
Years of living in this house have created the illusion of a life I should want. Now loneliness creeps over me, and all I want to do is leave again.
My hand hovers above the banister as I climb. The chandelier sparkles light over the treads, and by the time I reach the upper landing, my mind has dragged me back to the cabin with Saint.
His voice in the shadows.
The smile he’d let break when he tried hard not to let it show.
That careful space he tried to put between us when we both wanted to crash into it.
I press a hand to my stomach and force myself to keep walking as the memories make my heart pump faster.
Whatever this ache is, it’s chosen somewhere deep to live.
My room is at the far end of the corridor, on the east side of my family home. I hurry inside, kick the door shut, lock it, then stand in the middle of a room I’ve already outgrown.
A dark green dress hangs from the wardrobe door, chosen by a maid who knows the color suits me and has worked here long enough not to ask whether I want to wear it.
Thin straps. Gold zip. Expensive material designed to tell our dinner guests that money is no object.
I strip off my clothes, pull on a silk robe, and cinch the waist tight.
At the dressing table, I open my make-up bag and line the products along the edge of the wood. Concealer. Powder. Mascara. Lipstick. All the small weapons the world hands women when it wants them presentable.
Before I pick up the concealer, I stare at my bare face in the mirror.
The whole time I was with Saint, I never covered my skin with foundation or darkened my lashes for his approval.
There was only my face, washed clean, and his gaze flicking away whenever I caught him staring.
As I pick up the concealer, dot it beneath one eye, and blend it in with my finger, the lock turns, and the door swings open.
Fionn steps in, already dressed for dinner in a close-cut black suit, white shirt open at the throat, tie hanging loose from one hand instead of around his neck.
“You picked the lock,” I say, shaking my head.
“I used a key.”
“That’s worse.”
My brother closes the door behind him and pockets the tiny key without apology. “You weren’t answering.”
“That’s because you didn’t knock, dumbass.”
He shrugs. “I knocked.”
“You imagined it and decided that was the same thing.”
Fionn almost smiles, but whatever humor tries to appear gets swallowed before it can soften him.
He crosses the room, his gaze traveling over the dress, the shoes near the wardrobe, the make-up spread before me.
I turn back to my reflection. “Does the green dress get your approval, brother?”
“Your dress choices aren’t mine to make.” He threads the tie between his fingers. “Anyway, I came to see how you are.”
I make a face at him in the mirror. “No, you came because he didn’t get what he wanted, and now it’s your turn.”
Fionn comes up behind me, his face reflected over my shoulder. He checks himself out, runs a hand through his dark hair, and flips up his shirt collar.
He looks too much like our father when he’s concentrating on knotting his tie, but his eyes aren’t cold enough. Not yet.
“You were with them for ages, Keira.”
“I know where I was.”
“With Saint Tallon, to be precise.”
My finger dabs a little harder beneath my eye, leaving a faint smear in the concealer. “What are you getting at?”
“Just stating facts.”
“No. You’re trying to see how I react when you poke me with his name.”
He fixes his tie in place. “Does it poke you?”
I reach for the powder. “This conversation is boring.”
His eyes stay on me in the mirror. “There’s a reason they call it Stockholm syndrome.”
I pause, brush hovering over the compact. “Jesus, Fionn. How educated of you to try to psychoanalyze me before dinner.”
“They trapped you. You depended on him for food and basic needs, like using the toilet, right? Maybe he showed you a little kindness, or what passes for kindness in a Tallon house, and your head started confusing not being hurt with being protected.”
The brush moves over my cheek in a smooth sweep because I make it. “Did you find that information online, jotting down key points? It sounds rehearsed.”
He narrows his eyes and folds his collar back into place. “I sound worried.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You sound sent.”
His jaw tightens, revealing the small fracture beneath the expensive suit. He didn’t come into my room as a devoted brother. Fionn wants the dirt on Saint.
“I need to get ready,” I say. “You should go pour yourself a drink downstairs.”
“I know men like him,” he continues.
“No, you know men who talk about men like him.”
“Saint Tallon has a reputation.”
I toss the powder into the makeup bag and swivel around to face him. “And you don’t? Come on, Fionn. I heard all the rumors at school.”
“He enjoys screwing with women, Keira. He fucks them, gets bored, and cuts them off. That’s not classroom gossip. That’s his pattern.”
I stand before I decide to, lipstick still in my hand, uncapped and red as a warning. “Are you finished?”
“No.”
He checks his gold cufflinks and smooths his tie.
“He knew exactly what he was doing with you. Those brief moments that made you think you could trust him.”
He prods my chest. “That was him getting in here so he could do exactly what our dad is trying to do.”
My heart beats faster, and I hate him for aiming at it.
“He ordered you off his yard,” Fionn reminds me. “Remember that part before you romanticize it.”
I swallow hard and remember Saint’s expression in those final moments. The way he shut me down as if I meant nothing to him. I can’t forget being shoved back over the line I wanted to cross with him.
“He told me to go because the deal had been finalized.”
“No, Keira. He discarded you.”
“Oh yeah? Well, Saint never hurt me like you hurt Sera.”
Fionn straightens, his muscles going rigid, and his jaw locking tight.
The change in him is immediate and ugly, the smooth brother vanishing beneath something harder.
He comes closer, towering over me. “Do you think I did that to her?”
The question zaps the anger out of my mouth. Fionn watches me think about my answer, and whatever he sees there makes his voice drop.
“Or did they want you to believe I did?”
My grip tightens around the lipstick. I think of Sera. Of the story as it reached me. Of every person in his family choosing the story of what happened to Sera that suited them best.
“How about you tell me the truth?” I say. “Did you hurt her?”
Fionn stares right into my eyes.
“Did she tell you that herself?” He frowns. “Did Sera tell you I hit her? Busted her lip. Bruised her face?”
I think about the night she returned and try to piece everything together.
“She told me not to say your name,” I say. “But she didn’t actually accuse you of hurting her.”
His expression changes, the tightness lifting a little as he slots a hand into his trouser pocket.
“Good to hear not all Tallons are liars.” He pats my shoulder. “The best way to get back at them for kidnapping you is to talk to Dad. Saint doesn’t care about you, Keira.”
When he walks to the door, my stomach drops.
Maybe he’s right.