Chapter Ten Saylor
Chapter Ten
Saylor
Wren appears again, beginning to clear the plates. The meal has ended, and I still have so many questions. And Blue isn’t
going to agree to what I want . . . at least not now.
“This place,” I say, gesturing around the dining room and needing a change of conversation. I don’t want to end the meal with
“oh hey, will you teach me how to kill people” and then turn in for the night. “This isn’t exactly a normal house. And Grimlock—where
exactly are we?”
“About twenty minutes from Grimlock,” Blue says. “Maison Rouge is . . . private. Isolated.” He pauses, considering his words.
“But Grimlock itself—Grimlock is where people go when the regular world has no place for them. It’s a sanctuary for the beautifully
broken, the elegantly damned. A place where the villains of everyone else’s stories come to write their own.”
“Sounds charming.”
“Oh, it is. Old money built on blood, older secrets buried in silk-lined coffins, and an atmosphere that welcomes anyone too
dark, too twisted, or too hungry for revenge to fit anywhere else.” His eyes meet mine. “It’s a town full of misunderstood
outcasts who refuse to apologize for who they are. You’ll love it.”
There’s pride when he says it, genuine affection for this place and its people.
“Tomorrow, if you’d like, I can show you around. Let you get a feel for the place.”
“You’d let me leave the estate?”
“With proper supervision, yes.”
I stand on my own, but his offered arm from moments before still hangs in the air between us. “Proper supervision meaning
you.”
“Meaning me.”
The gesture—formal, old-fashioned, gentlemanly—waits for my decision. Every rational part of my brain screams that I shouldn’t trust this man, shouldn’t let him touch me, shouldn’t ask for his help—and yet I did. But he was Dad’s friend. Dad trusted him enough to ask him to protect me.
That has to count for something.
I take his arm, trying to ignore the way my skin burns where our bodies connect through the fabric of his suit jacket. The
contact is electric—the second my fingers curl around his bicep, I’m transported back to that dressing room. His hands on
my skin, the way he made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams, the way he tasted like whiskey when he kissed me.
He feels it too. I can tell by the way his muscles tense under my touch, the slight hitch in his breathing.
But instead of pulling away, I let my fingers tighten around his arm. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the solid warmth
of him beneath his suit jacket. Just enough to remember what those hands felt like when they weren’t being so careful, so
controlled.
“I can walk back to my room on my own,” I say, but I don’t let go. My voice comes out breathier than I intended, and I curse
myself for how easily he affects me.
Blue’s smile is knowing, dangerous. “Of course you can.” His voice drops lower, intimate. “But do you want to?”
I should say yes. I should drop his arm and pretend that night in the dressing room never happened. I should act like we’re
having a polite conversation about supervision instead of dancing around the fact that he had his mouth on me and we’ve barely
acknowledged it.
Instead, I find myself stepping closer.
“Maybe not,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
We walk through the house in silence, our footsteps ricocheting off the floors. But it’s a different kind of silence now.
I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies almost touch, the way he adjusts his pace to match mine. The portraits watch us
pass, their painted eyes following our progress through halls that seem to stretch forever. I try not to look at them, but
it’s impossible.
We climb the stairs in silence, the candelabras casting our shadows long and strange against the walls. Our shadows move together on the wall like dancers, intertwining and separating with each step. When we reach the door to my room, I stop.
“People will notice I’m gone.”
“What people?” Blue asks gently. “Your employer at the jazz club who pays you in tips? The landlord who’ll evict you for missing
rent? The credit card companies who’ve already maxed out your accounts? The Crow cleaned out your apartment to make it look
like you skipped town.”
Each word is like a small slap, a reminder of how precarious my existence really was. “I had people . . .”
“Did you?” He leans against the doorframe, studying me.
I say nothing.
“You agreed to stay one night,” Blue says when I don’t answer. “Honor that agreement. Tomorrow we’ll talk about what comes
next.” He pauses. “And we’ll discuss your proposal.”
I push open the door to my room, and whatever argument I was maybe planning dies in my throat.
The space has been transformed. Where before it was beautiful but impersonal, now it feels . . . lived in. My clothes from
New York are hanging in the armoire—everything from my closet. My books are arranged on the nightstand. My jewelry box sits
on the vanity, and when I open it, my mother’s necklace is nestled safely inside.
“How did you—”
“Hans found the compound where the Crow had your stuff,” Blue says from the doorway. “I thought you might want familiar things
around you.”
I pick up one of my books—a battered paperback copy of Jane Eyre that I’ve read probably twenty times.
“You brought everything.”
“Everything that I believe mattered, but we put the bigger pieces of furniture in storage. If I missed something, let me know
and I’ll have Wren find it.”
I set the book down and turn to face him. “I hate them. The Crow.” I pound my chest. “The kind of hate that burns inside.”
“I know.” He reaches for my hand and I let him take it, his fingers warm and sure as they close around mine. His eyes are
soft, understanding. “And we’ll have that conversation tomorrow.”
Before he can leave, I step closer. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his stare, close enough that if I wanted to, I could reach up and touch that perfectly trimmed beard, trace the strong line of his jaw.
“Blue,” I say.
He goes very still. “Saylor.”
For a moment, his careful control slips. I see the hunger, the way his gaze drops to my lips before snapping back up. The
way his breathing changes.
Then he steps back, breaking the spell.
“Get some sleep,” he says, but isn’t quite steady.
The door closes behind him with a soft click, but I can hear him pause on the other side. Can picture him standing there,
fighting the same battle I am. And I’m alone, surrounded by luxuries I never knew existed. The bed is enormous, piled high
with pillows and covered in linens that probably have thread counts in the thousands. There’s a fireplace with logs already
laid, waiting to be lit. Fresh flowers in crystal vases. An attached bathroom with marble surfaces and gold fixtures.
I should hate this. I should be furious at the presumption, the way he’s trying to buy my compliance with comfort and luxury.
I should be planning my escape, figuring out how to get past Wren and her keys, over that wall with its cruel spikes.
But I’m not planning to escape anymore. I just asked a man to teach me how to kill. The words are still hanging in the air
between us, impossible to take back. I told him I want to hunt down every single person who murdered my father. I laid out
my plan for revenge like I was discussing the weather.
What kind of person does that make me?
I find myself sinking onto the bed, my body melting into a mattress that’s like sleeping on a cloud. And all I can think about
is the way Blue looked at me just now—like he wanted to consume me and protect me at the same time.
When was the last time I slept somewhere without worrying about the couple fighting next door? When was the last time I ate
a meal that didn’t come from a can or a takeout container?
When was the last time a man looked at me like that—like I matter?
The girl who worried about rent money never would have asked someone to teach her how to murder people. But maybe the person lying in this bed is someone else—someone who wants blood and doesn’t feel guilty about it.
As I sink deeper into Egyptian cotton sheets and pull a luxurious down comforter around my shoulders, I can’t help thinking
about Cinderella. About what it might feel like to live in a world where money isn’t a constant source of anxiety, where someone
else worries about keeping you safe and fed and comfortable.
But I’m not Cinderella. And Blue isn’t Prince Charming. He’s something much more complicated, much more dangerous. And God
help me, that only makes me want him more.
But maybe just for one night, I can pretend this is real. Maybe just for one night, I can let myself imagine what it would
be like to not be alone.
The thought of letting down my guard should terrify me.
Instead, it follows me toward sleep, even as a warning bell keeps chiming in the back of my mind—persistent and urgent, telling
me I’m in danger and the only way I can protect myself is by learning how to become the danger.