Chapter 19 Keira
NINETEEN
KEIRA
Idon't remember walking downstairs.
One moment I'm sitting on the floor in the hallway where I cried myself empty, and the next I'm standing outside the dining room doors. My face is clean. My dress is smooth. My hair is pulled back.
Apparently there were some hours in between then and now, but I don't seem to remember.
It used to scare me when I would lose chunks of time, but now…it's sort of nice to check out.
The guards stationed in the foyer have changed again. Most of them I recognize—blank faces, rigid postures, men who've learned not to see me even when I'm standing right in front of them.
One of them piques my interest, though.
He's taller than the rest. Broader through the shoulders.
A balaclava covers most of his face, and a ball cap is pulled low over his eyes, casting shadows where features should be.
He's standing near the dining room doors, arms crossed, watching the hallway like he's expecting a threat to materialize at any second.
There is something about him.
I don't know what. I can't even see his face. But my skin prickles and my breath catches, like my body is trying to warn me to pay closer attention.
He doesn't look at me as I approach. Just reaches for the door handle and pulls it open without a word. No acknowledgment. No eye contact. Nothing.
I'm a ghost to all of them.
As I walk past him, his scent hits me. It's like I've encountered it in a dream…or maybe a different life. My heart kicks up for reasons I can't explain.
You're officially going crazy. Congrats.
Ewan sits at the head of the table, all the way on the other side of the room. He gestures to the chair beside him as I approach. Not across from him, where I normally sit, but beside him.
I don't even care at this point. I feel completely numb. He's done the worst—what else could he possibly do to make today any worse?
"You look tired," he says pleasantly. "Did the afternoon rest not help?"
"I'm fine."
"Should we adjust the schedule? Do you need more time to yourself?"
"No. I'm fine."
He reaches for the wine bottle and pours into my glass. "How was your day?"
As if he doesn't already know.
But this is my opening.
"Not great."
His brow arches, fake curiosity in his dead eyes. "How come?"
"I was surprised you decided to move Hale and hire a nanny without telling me."
"You were gone for the day," he replies mildly. "So I made the decision as his father."
What the fuck is he talking about? I may have a death wish after all and decide to kill him in his sleep tonight.
"Surely you knew before I left." I feel myself getting angrier by the second.
His eyes remain lowered as he begins eating. "I had the loft finished."
Completely ignoring me.
I shouldn't be surprised.
"An extension on the second floor. Completely renovated and ready to be enjoyed."
I think I know where this is going.
"That's great, but I don't understand what this has to do with Hale."
He sets his cutlery down, wiping his clean mouth with a cloth before turning to me.
"We're married. There's no reason for us to sleep in separate rooms. Now that the loft is finished, we have a grand master suite. I thought you would be more appreciative of the upgrade."
I laugh without meaning to. "That's news to me."
"We'll be sharing a room from now on."
No question. No discussion. Not even an attempt to let me argue my case.
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"I'd prefer to stay where I am," I say, internally shaking.
He grins like a fucking psychopath. "That wasn't a request, Keira."
"Ewan—"
"Your things have already been moved."
Heat surges through me as I drop my utensils, making a loud clatter."You had no right."
One of the kitchen staff quickly leaves the room.
"I have every right." His voice stays calm despite my rising temper. "I'm your husband. Hale is my son. This is my house. And you will do as I say."
"He's not your fucking—" I grit out between my teeth, not thinking before I speak.
Ewan's eyes turn cold and deadly. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing. I didn't—"
"No." He leans forward, voice dropping. "Finish your sentence."
I refuse.
"Answer me, Keira."
"I didn't mean—"
"You did." His hand slams down on the table so hard the crystal shakes.
"I saved you," he hisses. "I gave you a life. A home. Protection. And you have the audacity to question me? To undermine me in my own house?"
"I'm sor—"
"Shut the fuck up."
Every instinct screams at me to stop. To back down. To swallow whatever defiance just slipped out and return to the safety of silence.
But it's already too late.
Ewan rises and crosses over to the cabinet without looking at me. He pulls out a large Waterford crystal vase.
He walks back toward me, holding it up to the candlelight.
Turns it slowly.
Watching the way flames catch in the cut glass, throwing fractured rainbows across the walls. A beautiful thing, made ugly by the hands holding it.
I stop breathing.
His eyes find mine and he smiles down at me. That terrible, patient smile that always precedes the worst of him.
Then he opens his fingers.
Crystal detonates against marble, shards exploding outward in a glittering shrapnel of ruin. Pieces skitter across the floor, spinning, catching light, settling into stillness like the aftermath of a bomb.
"On your knees, Keira."
My mouth turns to sand. "What?"
"Pick up every single piece. With your hands."
I could refuse. Could stand up and walk out. Force him to drag me back or let me go. But Hale is upstairs. And whatever punishment Ewan gives me for defiance won't stop with me.
"Now, Keira," he yells, and I lower myself to the floor.
The marble bites through the fabric of my dress, cold seeping into my knees.
I reach for the nearest shard. It slices into my palm before I've even closed my fingers around it.
Blood wells immediately—dark against white stone, sliding between my fingers, dripping onto the floor in a slow, rhythmic splatter. I stare at it for a moment, detached. Wondering if this is really happening. If I'm really here.
Then I pick up another piece.
And another.
The cuts multiply. Palms. Fingertips. The soft webbing at the base of my thumb. Each one burns sharper than the last, layering pain on top of pain until my hands feel like they're on fire.
I lean into it.
Pain is the only thing in this room that still belongs to me.
Above me, Ewan watches with his arms folded across his chest. "Faster."
I reach for another shard, keeping my eyes on the floor. A sliver of glass catches in an open wound, embedding deep in my palm. I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to make a sound.
I won't give him that.
"If anyone attempts to help her," Ewan announces to the guards outside, his voice carrying like a decree, "you'll be terminated. And then you'll take her place. Understood?"
I don't want to see their faces.
"Yes, sir," a few say at the same time.
Ewan begins to walk toward the door. His polished shoes pass through my narrowed field of vision.
"You." Ewan's voice sharpens, aimed at someone beyond the doorway. "Stay here. See to it that she finishes. She doesn't leave until every last piece is off this floor."
A pause.
Then footsteps enter the room before the door closes.
Silence floods the space.
The urge to cry rises like a wave, threatening to pull me under. I shove it down. Bury it. I'm not alone anymore. I can feel the guard's attention pressing against my spine like a physical weight.
I refuse to acknowledge him, reaching for more glass instead.
My hands are slick now, blood making everything slippery, fingers trembling as shards bite deeper into skin that's already shredded.
I'm starting to lose count at this point, but there's still so much shining glass everywhere.
I have no idea how I'm going to get all of it.
Another piece. Alone slice.
I lean into the sting, letting it drown out everything else. Hale's empty room. The silent loft waiting upstairs. Ewan's voice still reverberating through my skull.
The guard moves closer.
Close enough that his boots enter my line of sight.
I don't look up because if I do, I may see pity or disgust or something worse on his face. Maybe even nothing at all. And whatever I see will break me open.
I can't afford that here.
I reach for a sliver so small it's almost invisible.
It drags across my fingertip like a razor.
That's when I finally look up.
His hands are curled into fists at his sides. Knuckles white. Tendons straining beneath skin. The balaclava covers most of his face, but his eyes are visible. A deep shade of brown.
They're locked onto my hands like he physically cannot look away.
I didn't expect to find rage there.
Barely leashed and burning so hot I can feel it radiating off him from three feet away.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't speak.
Just stands there, trembling with the effort of staying still while blood drips from my fingers onto the floor.
I should look away. Should finish this nightmare before Ewan returns and finds a new way to torture me.
But something in his eyes won't let me.
After a few beats I manage to tear my gaze away and reach for more glass. I don't know how much time has passed when I finally grab the last piece and hold it up.
"Done," I whisper, pressing my bleeding hands against my dress as I force myself to my feet.
Everything hurts. My knees almost give out, but I refuse to let myself fall here—in front of this guard or the cameras.
The guard steps aside.
Our eyes meet for half a second and I see that fury again, blazing behind brown eyes I don't recognize.
Then I'm past him. Down the hallway. Moving on autopilot because my brain has stopped processing and my hands are screaming and the only thing left in my head is a single, desperate imperative: get away.
Find somewhere to break.
I make it to a spare bedroom. Into the bathroom. The lock clicks behind me and my legs finally surrender, dropping me to cold tile.
I don't know how long I stay crumpled on that floor.
Long enough for my hands to stop bleeding. Long enough for tears to dry into salt tracks on my cheeks. Long enough for rage to fade back into the numbness I've learned to survive inside.
I'm about to stand when I hear it.
Footsteps coming from just outside the door.
And heavy breathing, ragged like someone is fighting for control.
Ewan.
I freeze, not moving an inch as I listen to the footsteps pace. Three steps one way. Three steps back. Over and over, like whoever's out there can't decide whether to stay or go.
Then, a soft thud. A fist against the wall.
I brace for the door to splinter open. For hands to drag me out and finish what the glass started.
Instead, a whisper. So quiet I almost miss it.
"Je vais le tuer pour ca."
The pacing stops. The breathing steadies. Then there is nothing. Silence stretching so long I wonder if I dreamed the whole thing.
I wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full five minutes of holding my breath before I finally unlock the door.
The hallway is empty.
I must have imagined it. My broken mind conjuring voices in languages I barely remember. Inventing comfort where none exists.
I close the door and press my forehead against the wood, eyes squeezed shut.
But I can still hear it.
Je vais le tuer pour ca.