Chapter 13
Zora
Dinner stretches well into the evening, and by the time the last of the guests begin drifting away from the table, the atmosphere inside the manor has changed.
The formal scrutiny of introductions and first impressions has eased into something more relaxed.
Conversations break into smaller groups.
Glasses of whiskey replace wine. Laughter occasionally echoes through the corridors.
I take advantage of the shift immediately.
Roisin excuses herself from a conversation near the fireplace, and I fall into step beside her as she leaves the dining room. Neither of us is in any hurry. We walk slowly through one of the manor's quieter corridors, our footsteps muted against the polished floors.
The walls are lined with portraits that seem to watch us pass. Generations of Keegans stare down from gilded frames, their expressions varying from stern to unreadable. The entire manor feels steeped in history, and not all of it feels pleasant.
My gaze drifts toward one of the portraits lining the corridor. "What was it like growing up here?"
Roisin follows my gaze and smiles faintly. "Complicated."
I laugh softly. "That bad?"
"Not always." Her eyes linger on one of the older paintings. "Some of my best memories are here. Some of my worst are too."
For a few moments, we walk in comfortable silence.
The longer I spend around Roisin, the more I like her. Unlike most of the people gathered inside the manor, she doesn't seem interested in power games or subtle intimidation. There is an honesty to her that feels almost out of place here.
Eventually, I decide to steer the conversation somewhere useful. "I actually wanted to ask you something."
She looks at me curiously. "What is it?"
"I have a habit of jogging before bed." I shrug slightly. "Usually with music. It helps me clear my head."
Understanding immediately crosses her face. "And your electronics got confiscated."
"Unfortunately."
She laughs. "Darragh would confiscate oxygen if he thought people could smuggle information through it."
That earns a genuine laugh from me. "I am starting to realize that."
"Wait here."
Before I can ask what she means, she disappears down another hallway.
Several minutes pass before she returns carrying an older iPod and a single earpiece.
She holds them out toward me. "This is probably the safest contraband item currently inside the estate."
I take them from her carefully. "You are a lifesaver."
The amusement in her voice fades slightly. "He takes security seriously."
The brief change in her expression doesn't escape me. Not fear exactly. But caution. The kind that develops after years of living beside dangerous people.
"I'll be careful."
"I know you will." Her smile returns. "Besides, if anyone asks, I have no idea where you got them."
We continue talking as we make our way upstairs.
The conversation drifts naturally between harmless topics and small pieces of personal history. Unlike the people downstairs, Roisin doesn't seem interested in measuring every word before she speaks.
By the time we reach my room, Roisin stops outside the door. "Get changed. I'll wait."
I slip inside and change quickly. A short while later, I step back into the hallway wearing black leggings and a fitted athletic top. The clothes feel liberating after hours spent maintaining the polished appearance expected at dinner.
We begin heading toward the rear gardens.
Moonlight spills across the estate grounds, silvering the stone pathways and casting long shadows across the grass. The lake glimmers in the distance, reflecting fragments of light from the manor windows.
The entire estate looks deceptively peaceful. Beautiful enough to belong in a postcard. Dangerous enough to make me wonder how many people have disappeared beneath that calm surface.
"How long have you known Lucien?" I ask as we walk.
Roisin considers the question. "A few years."
There is affection in her voice when she talks about him.
"He comes and goes. Sometimes we'll see him three times in a month. Other times he'll disappear for six months and suddenly reappear as if he never left."
"That sounds frustrating."
"It is." She laughs softly. "But eventually you stop asking questions. Lucien only answers the ones he wants to answer anyway."
"What about you?" She asks. "How did the two of you meet?"
The question arrives exactly as expected. I answer without hesitation. "At a charity gala in Monaco."
Her attention sharpens immediately. "Very glamorous."
"It was mostly boring speeches and wealthy people pretending to care about philanthropy."
Roisin laughs. "Now that definitely sounds like something Lucien would enjoy."
"Mocking everyone?"
"Exactly."
The conversation continues as we follow the path toward the lake. She shares stories about his previous visits. Not dramatic stories. Small ones.
The stories aren't particularly important. Yet each one adds another layer to a version of him I have never seen before.
The man I know is sharp-edged and impossible to read. The man they know seems somehow more human.
That realization stays with me as we continue walking beneath the Irish night, talking about everything and nothing while the manor watches from a distance behind us.
After another lap around the estate grounds, Roisin finally lets out a tired sigh and slows her pace. "I think I am officially done for the night."
The admission makes me smile. A few hours ago, she seemed full of endless energy. Now the long day appears to be catching up with her.
"You're giving up already?"
"Some of us appreciate sleep." She gestures vaguely toward the dark grounds surrounding us. "And some of us apparently enjoy wandering around isolated estates in the middle of the night."
I glance toward the lake, where moonlight ripples across the water. "It helps me think."
"That sounds suspiciously like something Lucien would say."
I laugh softly. "I am not sure if that is a compliment."
"It isn't." The answer comes so quickly that it earns another laugh from me.
Then she steps forward and pulls me into a quick hug. "Goodnight, Vivienne."
"Goodnight, Roisin."
"Try not to get lost."
"I make no promises."
Roisin laughs before turning toward the manor.
I watch her disappear through one of the side entrances before reaching for the earpiece she loaned me. A few seconds later, music fills the silence. The familiar rhythm settles immediately into the background of my thoughts.
Then I start running. The cool air feels refreshing against my skin after hours spent inside crowded rooms and carefully managed conversations. My pace remains steady as I follow the winding paths that weave through the estate grounds.
From a distance, I probably look exactly like what I am pretending to be. A wealthy guest enjoying a late-night run. Nothing suspicious.
Meanwhile, my attention remains fixed on everything around me. The cameras mounted discreetly beneath rooflines. The guards positioned near entrances. The sections of the estate that receive constant surveillance and the areas security seems to consider less important.
Every detail matters. Every detail could become useful later.
The manor gradually shrinks behind me as I continue along the outer paths. The estate is enormous. Much larger than it appeared during the drive from the airfield.
Ancient trees line portions of the property, their branches swaying gently in the night breeze. Beyond them, the lake stretches across the darkness like polished black glass.
For a brief moment, I almost understand why people become attached to places like this. Then I remember who owns it.
The thought fades quickly. My breathing settles into an easy rhythm as I complete nearly a full circuit of the property. That is when the feeling starts. A subtle awareness. The sensation that someone is watching.
At first, I try to ignore it. The estate is filled with guards. Being observed is hardly unusual. Yet something about this feels different.
My pace slows slightly as I glance toward the manor. Nothing. Then my eyes move higher. And find him.
Fergus.
He stands alone on one of the upper balconies overlooking the grounds. The distance between us is considerable, yet I recognize him immediately.
He isn't speaking to anyone. He isn't smoking. He isn't moving. He is simply standing there. And watching.
A chill settles low in my stomach. The expression on his face is impossible to read from this distance. That somehow makes it worse. I cannot tell whether he is curious. Suspicious. Or merely thoughtful.
For several long seconds, neither of us looks away. The moment stretches. Uncomfortable and heavy.
I force myself to break eye contact first. Drawing attention to myself would accomplish nothing. Whatever Fergus is thinking, I have no intention of helping him reach a conclusion.
I continue jogging as though nothing happened.
By the time I finally return inside, the run has done very little to clear my head.
The manor is noticeably quieter now. Most of the guests have disappeared for the evening. The conversations that remain are distant and muted behind closed doors. Staff move silently through the hallways, collecting glasses and extinguishing candles.
I make my way quickly back to the room. The space is empty when I enter, with no sign of Domenico anywhere. He must still be somewhere in the depths of the manor, perhaps deep in conversation with Darragh or advancing some other thread of our dangerous plan.
I decide to take a quick shower before attempting to sleep. The earpiece remains in my ear, music now a low, throbbing pulse that matches my lingering tension.
Without thinking, I push the bathroom door open. Warm steam immediately spills into the bedroom. The scent of soap fills the air.
For a second, my brain struggles to process what I am seeing. Then a figure moves behind the glass.
Domenico. He turns toward the sound of the door opening.
My eyes widen, and all coherent thought abandons me. Instead of looking away like any sensible person would, I continue staring. My gaze slips downward, and when my brain finally catches up, it is far too late.
He is completely naked. And very, very big.
"See something you like, Elf?"
Heat rushes to my face so fast it feels like I've walked into a fire.
I tear my gaze away with all the dignity I can salvage and turn on my heel before he can say another word. I am never going to recover from this.