On Edge (Villainous Delights #2)

Chapter 1

SAGE

The boat engine’s sleek hum vibrates through my bones.

Any other time, it might lull me to sleep—it is the middle of the night, or some would say morning, after all.

But my grip on the worn-out bench, nails digging into cracked leather, keeps me stiff and upright.

Random sprays of water keep hitting me in the face.

The smell of death, ingrained in the teak beneath my suede boots, clings to the air, thick and suffocating.

Sleep is impossible.

At least the canopy of the boat is keeping me dry from the rain.

And I’m alone, apart from the driver. I thought I would have to endure the ride here with Severin’s men, but apparently, his thugs have better things to do than babysit me.

I’m free to sit and stare at the endless stretch of black water and think about jumping.

Jump then, my dead sister mocks inside my head.

She does that sometimes, spits out snide comments just as she did when she was alive.

It’s not real. It’s my mind throwing intrusive thoughts back at me with a bit of flair.

It doesn’t bother me. Most of the time, it feels like she’s here, watching over me, looking out for me in a way I never could for her.

Other times, it feels like she’s haunting me...

Especially in places like this where death feels so close. The cold air, thick with damp moss and rotting wood, curls around me like a noose while my fingers, locked on the seat, feel frozen, cut off. It feels as though I’m holding hands with a corpse.

I glance down to make sure that I’m not, that her ghostly fingers aren’t entwined around mine.

But I see nothing but my own pale, shaking ones.

My dead sister isn’t here, sitting beside me, silently cheering me on as I make my way to meet her ex-fiancé, the predator in a tailored suit who will soon become my husband.

But I wish she were.

The longing for her to take control is like a punch to the stomach. She was the strong one, the brave one who made rebellion as a teen seem so easy. She gave me strength when I had none. And now she’s missing, presumed dead.

I miss her terribly.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for the lump in my throat to pass, the pain in my heart to subside. It comes in waves. But that could be the speedboat that’s now bouncing over a choppy lake. The wind has picked up, and it’s making me feel sick enough to throw myself overboard and swim to shore.

I wish. Escape is not an option. Even if all I want to do is run away, I can’t. In a few hours, I’ll be locked away in a rotting mansion until the godforsaken wedding. In a month, I’m to be married to the man who took my sister’s life. After that, I might be dead too.

You need to kill him before he kills you, too, Nell’s voice reminds me, in that sweet way of hers.

Oh sure, let me just check my murder manual.

My sister snorts a laugh. The sound bubbles inside my chest, pressing against my ribs before slipping past my lips. Just a tiny, sharp laugh, but the boatman hears it. He shifts, shooting me a strange look over his shoulder.

I bite my lip and drop my gaze, pretending not to notice as I mentally berate myself for arguing with my dead sister.

I’m tired. The aftershock of being escorted onto this boat without a choice is getting to me.

That and my mother’s parting words keep mocking me like a bad song on repeat.

“Keep him interested, darling. If he wants you, that’s protection.

If he doesn’t… they’ll all assume it was your fault. ”

As if it were Nell’s fault for what happened to her.

It wasn’t. I know deep down it wasn’t an accident.

But the crux of the matter is...I don’t actually know if he’s the one responsible, not for sure.

The stats keep floating around in my head (62% of women killed in England are murdered by a current or former partner), as does the disturbing fact that he is a reclusive billionaire with a dangerous reputation, who lives alone in a creepy house in the middle of a lake.

Perhaps he enjoys the isolation and the silence.

Whatever it is, the odds aren’t exactly in his favor. Troy Severin is a monster. Some twisted part of me that I’m ashamed of desperately hopes he is.

Because if Troy Severin hurt Nell...

I will kill him.

Though I have no idea how I’m supposed to off someone. Or if I even have the guts to. I’ll probably be too nervous to hold a knife the right way, let alone a gun. I mean, what the hell am I thinking? I once flinched during an episode of Bake Off, for God’s sake.

But it’s the only thing that’s keeping me going. And if I don’t kill him, I’ll have to marry him. And that can’t happen. My father thinks he’s marrying me into power. My mother thinks Severin is protection. But I know he’s a monster.

“Everything alright?” The driver’s eyes narrow at me in the gloom, snapping me out of my dark thoughts.

“I’m fine.” My throat is raw and my voice hoarse as if I’ve been swallowing stomach acid, but I’m fine.

“Could have fooled me. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I give him my best fake smile, pasting it on until my cheeks ache, until it almost feels real. Just keep pretending…for a little while longer.

He says no more and shifts the throttle to guide us closer.

My stomach tightens the nearer we get. I take a minute to compose myself, swallowing down the sour taste coating my tongue, as the island appears out of nowhere.

Beyond it, the estate rises out of the fog like something pulled from another time.

A phantom of stone and shadow, waiting like perverse fate.

Grayfleet Hall.

It looms above the reeds, and my insides coil at the sight of it.

A crumbling castle, rather than a stately home, its silhouette is jagged against the gray morning.

As I expected, there are no lights on the island, no flickering warmth beckoning through the fog.

Grayfleet is a fortress on the water, accessible only by boat, and nothing else.

It should be breathtaking, and it is. I desperately want to see it when the sun shines, the light hitting the spires just right. Houses steeped in history have always fascinated me. But, up close, this place is nothing like I imagined. Finally, seeing it for myself leaves me feeling hollow.

My sister spent her last days here.

This is where she died.

As I stare at the building, feeling numb, I’m not sure what I thought I would feel. The windows reflect nothing. The stone is blacker than the sky behind it. It doesn’t look too insidious from this distance, only watchful…like it’s watching me.

Is Severin observing me right now from one of those dark windows?

I avert my gaze, pretending to crane my neck from under the canopy of the boat to glimpse the parapets and turrets the estate is famous for, instead. One side has them, but the other half appears to be missing...

Like a face with half its features carved away.

I suck in a breath, as if I suddenly can’t breathe. It’s like my ribcage is too tight for my lungs. Numbness aside, I do feel like screaming.

Or jumping into the lake.

I don’t do either.

I sit and grip the boat like my life hangs in the balance, unable to tear my gaze away from the house.

“Grand, isn’t it?” the driver asks, seeing where my eyes are drawn.

“Hmmm.” I don’t want to disagree out loud. “I can’t believe people live here.”

“Not just anyone. Severin.” He grimaces like he’s not happy about it.

I shoot him a look. “You don’t like him?”

He scratches his chin. “He’s not from around here, is he?

Throws his money and weight about. But he’s restoring an eyesore, so I can’t blame him.

This place was falling apart before he bought it from that damned company…

” He stops talking, as if he had another thing to say, but decides against it when he realizes who he is talking to.

He quickly changes track. “Keeps them damn ghosthunters away, I suppose. Come here in droves, they do, all because some locals say it’s cursed. ”

I’m not really listening until the last thing he says pulls me up short. “Cursed?”

“Aye. The place is cursed because of that Swanley kid who vanished.”

My brow furrows. “What Swanley kid?”

His voice lowers. “You know, there was a fire?”

I shake my head. I know what everyone in history class learns around here.

That Grayfleet was built during the 19th-century Gothic revival and was owned by the Swanley family until recently.

That would explain why the locals still hold this monstrosity in high esteem. But I didn’t know about a fire.

“Is that why the stone is black?”

“Probably. I remember it. It raged for days. Took a storm to contain it in the end. It was the Swanley boy who started it. Set fire to his parents’ bedroom while they slept. He survived, the little bastard, and so did his sister, but then she disappeared not long after he was arrested.”

My ice-cold fingers grip the edge of the boat tightly. “She was the one who vanished?”

“Aye. Gone just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Only her blood was found on the walls.”

Something twists in my gut. I don’t know if it’s fear or just the creeps, but it settles in, tight over my bones, and refuses to leave.

The boat driver laughs, as though he’s told a funny joke.

“Now you really have seen a ghost,” he cackles, shifting his eyes forward.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

He gives me a look as though he doesn’t quite believe me. Then he shifts the throttle, guiding the boat into a slow arc as he turns it the right way around.

Finally, the boat slows, the engine whines, and then stops.

The fog blankets around us like wispy clouds, making the dock barely visible.

Only the sound of the wind shushing the trees and the occasional caw of a crow can be heard.

One settles on the dock ahead like a bad omen.

There’s something in its beak, but I can’t make it out.

It looks like a worm.

Or a dead rat’s tail.

Nausea rises in my gut, my barren stomach threatening to empty itself further. I almost let it. What a lovely sight that would be for my fiancé if he were watching me, me retching green bile over the side of his boat.

The driver gives a low hiss and makes a sign to ward off the bad luck. Then he makes a shooing motion. “Go on, get out of it.” Thankfully, the crow flies off, though the bad feeling lingers, refusing to disappear along with it.

When we were wealthy, my family scoffed at curses and local superstitions.

But after everything that happened, Mother spent weeks wringing her hands over unfinished vows and the misfortune they might invite.

Only in Wychshire would Don’t waste a wedding dress pass for wisdom, and not just another excuse to pinch pennies.

Though she never once shed a tear over Nell.

And Father seemed to care only about losing his deal, not his daughter.

Local superstition now makes my skin crawl.

It reminds me too much of Mother’s frantic prayers, especially when I fell ill, so much that I can’t stop shivering when we pull up alongside the riverbank.

No one is waiting on the wooden planks ahead.

I stare at the island like it might rear up and bite me, unsure what to do.

Getting out means no turning back, and I’m not entirely convinced I’m ready for that just yet.

The dock is dark and slick with rain; its wood is warped and worn with age.

The state of it is a prelude to just how abandoned this place is.

And the story of the Swanley kids has me thoroughly spooked.

I want to go home.

But it’s too late. The shadows stretching long across the water remind me how far I’ve come. I’m cold and damp, and another boat ride back through the water park is not what I need right now.

Drawing my cardigan around me to block the chill, slowly, I struggle to my feet.

The boatman steadies the vessel while I attempt to climb out of it, screaming inside when the boat rocks.

Actually, I’m ready to get off this horrid boat.

Dry land never looked so good…until I’m standing there, getting soaked through.

The whole island is wrapped in a mist-like rain. Its icy, wraith-like fingers brush my face, or at least, that’s what it feels like. And then the wind picks up, billowing the ends of my silk scarf over my face, howling through the trees beyond the estate wall like something starved.

I drag my scarf down and glance back at the driver, feeling like a drowned rat. There’s a slight smirk on his lips if I ever did see one. “Are you sure you’re okay, love?”

“Yes,” I say brightly, blinking at him through the drizzle. Maybe too bright.

“I was only joking about the ghosts.”

“I know.” I sound strained.

I feel strained.

His lips thin into a meek smile, and he gestures to my luggage, a small suitcase and a vanity, still in his boat. “Do you need help with those?”

I force a weak smile back. “Yes, please, thank you.”

The driver heaves them onto the dock. When he’s got them safely on the island, I pick up my vanity, trying to shelter it from getting too wet, pull out the slick handle of my case, and take a few hesitant steps toward the house.

I’m slightly unsteady on my feet after being cramped all this time, but I don’t fall over, so that’s a win.

Behind me, the boat revs.

I peer back just in time to catch the driver’s last look, unreadable in the dark. Then, he drives off into the night, disappearing into the gloom of the Wychshire Glades, leaving me all alone.

Be strong, like Nell.

I don’t have time to try, because the wind rears again, spitting rain in my face and whipping my scarf into a frenzy. I scowl and tear it down, knotting it tightly around my neck. Then I grab the handle of my case and start forward once more.

Somewhere overhead, an owl hoots.

Cold fog bites at my calves. Gravel shifts beneath my heels, sinking and dragging me down with it. Letting out a shaky, icy breath, I continue along the narrow, winding path toward the estate, ignoring the way the wind burrows through the weave of my clothes, freezing me to the bone.

But I swear I can feel my sister here. Not in a comforting way, but in a way that makes the rain feel like tears…as if her grief belongs to the island.

“Welcome to hell, Sage,” Nell whispers at me, as though she is.

Sometimes, it’s easy to convince myself that the voice in my head, which always seems to be right, doesn’t exist. Other times, it’s not.

I don’t believe in ghosts, or superstition, or local lore.

Bad things don’t belong in a head like mine.

But the rash of goosebumps on my arms and the taste of ash in my mouth can be hard to ignore.

Something bad is waiting to happen.

I just know it.