Chapter 5 Keira
FIVE
KEIRA
The house is too quiet when it sleeps.
That's when it stands out to me. What it actually is: a mausoleum built for the living.
I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the silence breathe through the walls.
Down the hall, the old clock ticks like it's mocking me.
Every single thing in this place has a threat buried under it.
The pipes sigh, the vents hum, the floors creak when someone's weight shifts.
The staff pretend they're not here, moving through the house like trained spirits.
I used to hate the quiet. Now I'm grateful for it.
It means he isn't home yet.
I don't let myself say his name aloud. Even in my head, it feels like calling something up from hell.
And I'm his wife, technically.
The word doesn't mean much here. It's just a role I play. A title for someone who smiles at dinners, looks polished in photographs, and doesn't speak unless spoken to.
I should go eat something before he gets back. Then I can hide in my room for the rest of the night.
Moving through the motions, I make my way to the kitchen, pausing for a second by Hale's bedroom door so I can hear the soft rhythm of his breathing.
That's the only sound I care about in this house. The only thing that reminds me why I'm still here.
My only reason.
If it were just me, I'd be gone. A plane, a new name, a life small enough to fit inside a fake passport. I've run before. I could do it again. But this time I'd never get far enough—not with the kind of power he has.
He's not the kind of man you escape from.
He's the kind you try to survive.
I pause in the hallway, pulling the window curtain aside to peer down at the courtyard. A pair of guards smoke by the gate, their laughter low and careless. They think this house belongs to the most powerful man in their world.
They're not wrong.
I used to believe I could play this game and win. That if I was smart enough, careful enough, I could use the same tricks men like him use.
But you can only outsmart monsters until they decide they like the taste of you.
I stare down at my hands. Beautifully manicured and utterly useless. They don't look like the hands of someone who's killed before—or the hands of someone who once carried terrible secrets through customs without blinking.
The old clock ticks again.
Midnight.
My stomach grumbles.
I'm halfway down the stairs when I hear the familiar chime followed by the front door opening.
He wasn't supposed to be back yet.
Footsteps echo, steady and unhurried.
I begin to creep backward, pretending I don't hear the sound of his shoes clicking on the hard floor, counting them the same way a condemned person counts seconds. My heart climbs into my throat, and no matter what I tell myself, I can't stop the fear from seeping into my veins.
A single floorboard creaks beneath me, and the footsteps stop.
I hold my breath, praying he'll keep walking and go to his office.
But I'm not so lucky. He saves the gentle nights for when he's done being vicious elsewhere, and I hate that I can tell the difference.
My chest tightens, but I push the discomfort down before it becomes visible. Fear gets noticed within these walls.
The last time one of the housekeepers forgot to bring in a letter, she was gone by morning. No one ever said her name again.
That's how he runs his kingdom.
No yelling. No chaos. Just silence and absence.
He erases people as if they never existed in the first place.
I used to daydream about fighting back—taking him out with all the training I'd learned over the years.
Those days are gone.
Now I dream about disappearing. Vanishing with Hale and never looking back.
In the good dreams, we escape and start over. Just a woman and her boy disappearing into the kind of peace you only find after you've crawled out of hell.
In the bad ones, I'm cornered, sitting across from him and knowing exactly what comes next.
When I'm sure he's not coming upstairs tonight, I move back to my room and shut the door quietly. The lock doesn't matter—it's symbolic at best—but I turn it anyway. My body slides down the panel until I'm sitting on the cold floor, my spine pressed against the wood.
I stare into the void until it starts to stare back.
In this house, I'm less than nothing. A possession dressed up to look like devotion. I can't save anyone here, including myself, but I have to try because Hale deserves a world that isn't built on violence and silence.
Every time I look at him, I see his real father.
And every time that face flashes in my mind, my heart aches traitorously, like it still believes in possibilities and a future that doesn't exist.
I'll never have the life I once dared to dream of.
No Sunday mornings tangled in warmth and laughter.
No quick footsteps racing down the hall, shrieking with glee. Hale jumping on the bed to come cuddle with us.
No quiet gestures that make my world feel safe again.
Just a past that won't die and a future that doesn't want me.
So why do I still close my eyes at night and imagine what it would feel like?
Why do I keep torturing myself with something I can't have?
I allow a single tear to fall before I stand and make my way to my bed.
Tristan doesn't know.
And he never can.
It would destroy him.