Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Emilia
I’m not your husband.”
His voice is hoarser than I expected, and so utterly deep that something in my gut flutters at the sound. There’s the faintest twang threaded through it, ever so slightly different from anyone else in my life.
I yank the certificate from my envelope, holding it out for him to see. “Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, I’m afraid you are, according to this.” He doesn’t take it, his jaw ticking. He stares at the paper like it’s a bomb.
“Fuck off,” he mutters.
“Well, aren’t you swell?” I snap.
Stepping into the house fully, I close the door behind me, hauling my rucksack and bag onto the grey sofa under the window. I drop the certificate beside it, scowling at it for a moment before letting the envelope drop on top.
“What was in your envelope?” I ask, turning back to him. He’s silent, glowering at me. “Well?” I press.
He crosses his arms across his chest, muscular chest bulging beneath a long-sleeve black top. “Keys.”
“And?”
“That was all.”
I scoff, my brow furrowing and nose wrinkling. “Liar.”
He clenches his teeth. “The address.”
“Anything else?”
“That certificate means fuck all.”
“Was. There. Anything. Else. In. Your. Envelope?”
His brow lifts, apparently surprised. “I don’t know,” he says, looking entirely uninterested.
“Excellent,” I mutter under my breath before holding my hand out. “Give it here; I’ll look.”
His mouth quirks slightly at the edges, before he presses his lips into a thin line. “I lost it.”
“What? What the hell does that even mean? How? It’s been three hours!”
“I didn’t really even want the keys,” he snaps. “Let alone any other shit they gave me.”
“And you think I do?” I retort. He just glowers, eyes flaring. “Where is it?”
He shrugs. “I dropped it.”
“You… you…” The words tangle in my throat, and my hands drop to my hips. I suck in a deep breath, staring at the dirty marks on the carpet. I close my eyes.
Don’t lose it, Emilia. Don’t lose it.
“There might be something important in there. Something we need!”
“I doubt it,” he snaps, voice rough.
“You need to go back out. Find it,” I grit out.
A crease appears between his brows, and his mouth twists. He laughs, low and dry. “First thing to know about me, blondie. I don’t take orders from anyone.”
“Then you’re a fucking idiot.”
“Am I?” His head tilts, a cruel smirk spreading across his mouth.
“Yes.”
“Good to know.”
Blood pounds in my ears. “The State could kill us.”
He moves faster than I can comprehend, the space between us disappearing until I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Sweetheart,” he says, tone so obviously fake that my lips curl at the endearment. “The State are the least of your worries.”
I can’t help it; my eyes rake over him. Dark blond hair swept back from his face, a few strands escaping the style, hanging loose over his forehead.
High cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
His eyes—cold and assessing—drag over me in return.
He towers above me despite my taller than average height, his broad shoulders blocking out half the light from the window.
My lips part, and I hate that I can’t tell if it’s from fury or something else entirely. I hate that he’s so fucking attractive.
“They’re top of my worries,” I snap. “You don’t scare me.”
“I’m not trying to scare you,” he fires back. His jaw flexes, and for a moment, he looks like he’s holding something back. “I’m trying to make you see sense.”
“Sense? Sense about what?”
He gestures around us. “This”—the word cuts through the pristine, newly decorated room—“is bullshit.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I hiss.
He just shrugs. “The first thing you did was call me husband and thrust a marriage certificate in my face.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Whatever,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t think for one minute that I want this. I don’t know you, and I don’t plan on getting to know you.”
“Likewise,” I say.
I glower as he makes his way towards me, but still shift closer to the sofa, out of his way. He smirks, eyes trailing over me as he passes.
“Second thing to know about me?” he says, voice almost a growl. I turn as he grabs the door handle. “I’m not one for this commitment crap. Do whatever you want; you aren’t my wife.” His eyes fall to the sofa, and he nods at the certificate. “Burn it for all I care.”
The front door slams behind him, and the sound echoes around the small house.
I let out a long, furious breath and collapse onto the sofa beside the certificate, springs creaking beneath me.
My chest heaves and leftover adrenaline makes my fingers twitch around the key in my hand.
Cursing, I hurl it across the room. It ricochets off the mirror above the fireplace with a sharp ping, and a chip splinters across the glass.
Perfect. Just perfect.
My head falls into my hands. A bitter laugh claws its way through my lips.
Zachary Hastings.
I thought he’d be bad. Cold, maybe. Difficult, definitely. But this… apathy. Disregard and stupidity.
This is worse.
He’s angry and reckless, impossible to reason with.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. I don’t stand a chance of surviving this. Not here. Not with him. Not in this goddamn mess the State’s dumped me into.
The house is tiny.
I squeeze past the brown armchair opposite the sofa and into the galley kitchen.
Most of the space is taken up by a circular, wooden table—the kind that looks like it’s meant for quaint family breakfasts—wedged awkwardly against the wall.
My gaze catches on a blackbird flitting past the single glazed window over the sink, and my eyes slip to a back door in the corner that leads onto a narrow courtyard that I can’t fully see in the fading light.
My own stomach grumbles despite the nausea swirling, reminding me I’ve not eaten since breakfast. I pull open one of the brown cupboards and a lump grows in my throat. The shelves are fully stocked—pasta, rice, a loaf of bread. Jam. Chutney. Biscuits.
There’s a fridge, too. I open it, its faint hum filling the silence. Two chicken breasts. A slab of beef. Cheese. A pint of milk.
I swallow hard and close the door.
I haven’t had to think about feeding myself for years. At Grafton House, girls are served every meal in the cafeteria, made by those assigned to work in the kitchens.
I exhale and retrace my steps through the living room.
My boots crunch over a few shards of glass from Zachary’s bottle-throwing tantrum, but I don’t stop to pick them up.
Instead, I curl a hand around the white banister and start up the stairs, ignoring the scent of whiskey that greets me as I pass the still dripping wall.
The hallway at the top is narrow and boxed in, with no window.
Peering inside the door on my right, my eyes widen at the sight of the iron railings of a tarnished cot. There’s a yellow bedspread within, and the sight makes something twist in my gut.
Directly opposite, a bathroom practically glows with pink tiles. Everything looks neat. Polished.
My fingers hesitate for a single second before I push the final door in the hallway wide open.
The room is painted a deep green—so vivid that it reminds me of running through Sherwood Forest fifteen years ago with my brother—and wardrobes line the far wall, the glossy wood polished.
A double bed takes pride of place in the centre; two light green pillows plumped at the head.
I just stare.
It’s almost unbelievable—the simplicity of it, the luxury of coloured walls. Decorative pillows. Matching furniture. A double bed.
A home, or the State’s best imitation of one.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe out. My knees slacken, and my spine slides down the wall until I hit the floor. Air rushes from my lungs as the dark grey carpet catches me, thick and soft.
I press a hand into it, fingers curling in disbelief.
It’s too much. Too clean. Too nice.
I can’t tell whether I want to laugh or scream.
I settle on cursing to the goddamn heavens instead.
It’s pitch-black outside when the front door opens.
The sound slices through the quiet, and I jump, dish slipping from my hands and clattering to the base of the sink. In the window above, my reflection stares back wide-eyed, hair piled messily on top of my head.
I don’t turn.
But he doesn’t head for the kitchen. And he doesn’t bother saying a single word. Instead, the stairs creak.
My lips purse.
Zachary’s slinking straight upstairs, but I’m not about to let him get what he wants. I place the dish on the draining board harder than I mean to.
There’s a creak above me. And then a muttered, “What the fuck?” filters through the floorboards.
A smirk pulls across my lips. I dry my hands on the black towel, toss it onto the counter, and stride through the living room, over the wet patch on the carpet that I spent an hour scrubbing, stinging cut on my finger to prove it.
The wall looks good as new in the light of the artificial bulb emanating from beside the armchair, but I’m fairly certain it’ll look cream—not white—in the sunlight tomorrow.
Zachary hovers at the top of the stairs, hulking body filling the bedroom doorway, hands resting on the top of the frame.
“Excuse me,” I say, voice clipped.
He jumps slightly, peering over his shoulder with a scowl. But he doesn’t move.
Of course he doesn’t.
So I duck. The space is narrower than I thought. My chest brushes his side as I shove past, spine scraping the wood. His body is solid—infuriatingly so—and the faint scent of summer and whiskey hits me square in the chest.
My pulse stutters and my breath snags.
For half a heartbeat, I’m pressed against him, caught between his warmth and the rough wood. My body slackens, betraying me. I shove harder, needing space. Didn’t think that one through.
I tumble headfirst into the room, nearly falling to my knees.
The air is instantly colder without him pressed against me, but I ignore it, heading straight for the bed and throwing myself onto the bouncy mattress.
I snatch my book from the crumpled sheets, rip out the bookmark, and fling it onto the bed beside me before hooking one foot around the other, and kicking them into the air.
I’m not reading. Not really.
I can feel him. Still in the doorway. Watching.
I don’t need to check to know what he’s looking at.
My boots are dumped beside the bed, bras hang off the wardrobe handles, and my makeup is scattered on the bedside table. My hairbrush and some tampons litter the floor and three battered books—my pride and joys—rest on the duvet. Every single item of clothing I own covers one side of the bed.
My side of the bed.
And the part I’m on is also my side.
Because the entire thing is mine. The entire room is mine.
Finally, brow cocked, I glance over my shoulder. He’s frozen, eyes dark, lips parted, brow furrowed. As my eyes meet his, his mouth closes and his jaw tightens.
“Can I help you?” I ask sweetly. Nothing. I shrug and say, “I don’t know where you’re planning to sleep.”
Zachary’s arms drop from the doorframe.
“But if you value your dick,” I add lightly, “you’ll stay the hell out of my room.” Something flickers across his face—amusement, or maybe disbelief—and his mouth twitches.
“Yours?” he says.
I sit up a little, glaring at him. “Well, it’s not yours. After all, we aren’t married, remember? So what’s mine certainly isn’t yours.” I turn back to my book, making a show of turning the page. “And I’ve claimed this room. Enjoy the sofa.”
He won’t fit on it; he’ll barely be able to sit on it.
The thought makes my lips quirk.
I’m surprised that he’s even back here. I wasn’t expecting to see the guy who’s so clearly going to get me killed until at least tomorrow.
He mutters something under his breath, and then the bedroom door slams—hard—the sound vibrating through the mattress.
For a second, I just stare at the page. Then I glance over my shoulder.
I’m alone.
The book closes with a soft thud, and I fall onto the pillows, arms spread wide, chest heaving.
For a moment, I just stare at the hideous Artex ceiling. The adrenaline slowly seeps out of me, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The bedsprings groan beneath me as I shift onto my side.
It’s… nice.
I sink deeper into the mattress, letting my limbs spread, fingers curling into the soft fabric.
Maybe this place isn’t a total nightmare. Maybe this stupid day, this stupid man, and this stupid arrangement have done one decent thing.
The thought makes me laugh, soft and tired.
I think I might sleep better than I have in years.
I just have to keep my fingers crossed that Zachary Hastings doesn’t kill me as I do so.