Chapter 25 Keira
TWENTY-FIVE
KEIRA
Istep into the garden just after dawn, trailing my fingers along the lavender stalks as I walk the same path as yesterday and the day before. Supervised walks in the garden have been deemed one of my preferred activities by my dear husband.
He thinks he's being kind, but it's the same as letting a bird flap its wings in a cage.
I scan the perimeter without turning my head. Guards at their posts, predictable as clocks by now. The only thing that's still unusual is my masked shadow—the only guard who seems to be assigned to me.
He doesn't necessarily follow me around, but he's always there. Even now, standing in a spot where he can easily watch me move through the garden paths.
He's still wearing that damn mask, and it's not that abnormal—some of the guards choose to stay anonymous—but most of them eventually give it up for comfort.
Not this one.
He's different from the others. The way he watches without the sliding, oily quality of everyone else.
The way he watches me.
It's like he enjoys it. Or maybe he secretly hates women and wants to build a case for Ewan to finally get rid of me.
Then why does my skin prickle whenever he's near?
I should keep walking. Finish my loop, go back inside, and eat breakfast I won't taste. Smile at staff who won't meet my eyes.
Instead, I turn and walk toward him.
His posture doesn't change as I approach, stopping a few feet away.
"You're in a different spot again today."
"Rotation, madame." His French accent is faint, but unmistakable.
"Funny…you're the only one with a different rotation every day."
He doesn't look at me or offer anything else.
"What's your name?"
"Henri."
Direct. To the point. Expected.
"How are you liking being here?"
His jaw shifts beneath the mask, but he doesn't answer.
Whatever. I've dealt with worse than a man who won't entertain basic small talk.
I turn away, moving deeper into the garden where the path narrows and the hedges grow tall enough to block the wind. My fingers find a sprig of rosemary, crushing it between my thumb and forefinger.
Footsteps follow behind me, and I don't even have to look to know it's him. The other guards stay at their posts when I walk—they don't care where I go. They know there's nowhere for me to go out here.
But this one trails behind me, always ten paces back.
I reach the stone bench tucked against the cliffside wall, overlooking the sea. I sit, smoothing my skirt over my knees, and tip my face toward the weak sun filtering through the mist.
These are the only moments of peace in my day, and I intend to take them.
When I open my eyes, Henri's across from me—leaning against the trellis where the ivy grows thick, arms crossed, staring at me.
Not at my legs. Not at the neckline of my dress.
At my face.
"You're staring."
He doesn't look away. Not immediately. "Apologies, madame."
I let my eyes fall closed, too tired to care about propriety. "It's fine. The others look through me like I'm furniture. At least you're honest about it."
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the crash of waves against the rocks below.
Then, so quiet I almost miss it, "You could never be furniture."
Five simple words. Except his voice catches on something when he says them.
Heat blooms low in my stomach, uninvited and completely inappropriate. It twists through me, tangling with confusion until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
What the hell is this?
I must be so starved for basic human decency that a guard telling me I'm not furniture is enough to make my pulse skip.
Pathetic.
"What am I, then?"
The question slips out before I can stop it. Before I can think about why I'm asking, or what answer I'm hoping for, or why my heart is suddenly beating too fast.
That was incredibly stupid.
I don't know this man. He works for Ewan and could report every word of this conversation. I could wake up tomorrow in a different cage—or not wake up at all.
But then his head turns and his eyes meet mine.
And the look there…
I don't have a name for it. It feels old. Familiar somehow, which is completely insane.
We just stare at each other for a long moment, and I realize he didn't answer me.
I stand too quickly, the world tilting enough that I have to grab the bench to steady myself. "I should get back."
Henri nods but doesn't move from the trellis.
I keep my eyes forward and walk past him.
My shoulder grazes his arm.
Heat detonates through me like I've touched a live wire—nerves firing, skin prickling from shoulder to fingertips. Something clenches low in my core, hot and treacherous, and I force myself to keep moving.
Spine straight. Eyes ahead. Don't look back.
But the ghost of that contact lingers on my skin, a slow burn that refuses to fade no matter how many steps I put between us.
What the hell was that?
I make it to the garden entrance before Ewan appears.
He materializes from the house like smoke given form, wearing a smile meant for the perimeter guards. Picture-perfect. Devoted husband coming to collect his wife.
Then his eyes find me across the lawn.
Whatever warmth he's performing freezes into cold calculation. The smile stays fixed, but the man behind it has already started taking inventory of my sins.
"Enjoying your morning walk?”
"Always." My voice holds steady. "The lavender is blooming beautifully."
"Mmm." He reaches me in three measured strides, fingers wrapping around my arm a fraction too tight. "Time to come inside. We have guests later."
"Of course."
I fall into step beside him. The decoration, returned to its shelf.
As we pass the garden entrance, I don't look at Henri. Don't acknowledge he exists. Don't let my gaze drift even a fraction in his direction.
But I feel him.
His eyes on my back, pressing between my shoulder blades like an itch I can't scratch.
I can't sleep.
Hours pass, and I just stare at the four walls, counting the cracks in the dark, listening to the noises all around me.
Nothing works, and eventually I give up and decide to make my way to Hale's room. If the guards are there tonight, so be it. I'll lean against his door and sleep there. What are they going to do—remove me by force? I'll scream so loud it'll make them never want to come near me again.
Besides, if it's bad enough, Ewan might fire them.
By some miracle, there's no one outside Hale's room, and his door is unlocked.
Now that I'm a wounded animal and being so obedient, Ewan must have loosened up a little with the lockdowns.
That, or he's planning something extra brutal for me.
Hale is asleep when I climb in beside him. Warm and small and mine in a way nothing else in this world is. I brush the hair from his forehead. Count his breaths and match mine to his until the tightness in my chest loosens just enough to let me process everything.
I should be thinking strategically. Mapping exists. Figuring out a way out of here for me and Hale.
Instead, I'm thinking about brown eyes.
My fingers drift to my shoulder without permission, to the spot where his arm brushed mine. It's been hours. The contact lasted half a second, but I swear I can still feel it.
Stop.
He's one of them. Bought and paid for like everything else in this house. His job is to watch me. Report on me. Make sure I stay exactly where I'm kept.
So why did my body react like it recognized him?
Why am I lying here in the middle of the night, heart still racing, thinking about a stranger in a mask I don't even know?
I know exactly what this is.
This is how it starts.
When you've been empty for too long, anything that makes you feel something feels dangerous and necessary at the same time. You don't reach for it because it's safe. You reach for it because you're starving.
Because numbness makes you careless, and part of you would rather fall apart than stay dead inside.
And even when you recognize it for what it is—just another way to lose yourself—you still don't stop.
I pull Hale close against my chest, breathing in the smell of his hair.
This right here is what matters. Not accidental touches or the delusional part of me that wants to believe a guard's silence means something more than surveillance.
I close my eyes and dream of him anyway.
When I wake, pale light leaks through the curtains, and Hale is still curled into me.
I hate myself for dreaming about him.
Not because it's wrong and this is no time for dreams.
But because it felt like coming home, and I don't get to have that anymore.