Chapter Three
Sophie
Icouldn’t sleep. I was used to it. Years had passed since I’d had a decent night’s rest. Before my marriage I’d been a champion sleeper, able to ignore the bright light of morning streaming into my bedroom and sleep until noon, then take a nap a few hours later. I used to love to sleep.
Marriage to Anthony cured me of that indulgent habit. I didn’t usually have trouble falling asleep. It was staying asleep that caused me problems. Like clockwork, I’d jerk awake in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, my mind caught in a nightmare.
I’d sit in bed, gasping for breath, the memory of hard hands on my legs, dragging me from sleep, alive in my mind.
Anthony is gone, I’d remind myself. You’re safe now. Everything is okay.
I knew that was true. I was safe. Anthony was dead. In the six months that I’d been living at Winters House, those words were even more true. The Winters family had a high-tech security system. No one was getting into this house uninvited. I had nothing to fear here.
I knew that. Well, the logical part of my brain knew it. The animal part of me, the part that knew what terror was…that part was afraid to trust in safety.
Once, I’d thought I was safe. I’d thought I was marrying the prince from a fairytale and had ended up in a nightmare. Two years had passed, and I still woke almost every night shaking in remembered terror.
To be honest, I was sick of it. I was ready to move on. I was done with being damaged Sophie. Scared Sophie. Most of all, I was finished with victim Sophie. I’d made a mistake, trusted the wrong man.
How many other women could say the same? A ton. Anthony was dead, and I’d moved on. I had. I just needed my subconscious to move on with me.
For now, I strode down the halls of Winters House, my path lit by the moonlight streaming through the tall windows, considering whether I wanted to try the new tea Amelia had recommended for insomnia.
I adored Amelia, but that tea smelled like something better left in the bottom of the trash can.
Insomnia might be a better option if it tasted anything like it smelled.
Flickering light caught my eye, for a second sending a bolt of fear through my chest. Fire.
Winters House was on fire. Then I realized the smoke alarms would have gone off if it had been a real fire.
At the very least, I would have smelled smoke.
This was nothing more than someone forgetting to turn off the gas fireplace in the library before heading to bed.
I took a detour, intending to turn off the gas and the lights on my way to the kitchen, and stopped short. Gage Winters was stretched out on the leather sofa reading a book, the light of the fire flickering over his cheekbones. My heart kicked into a thumping beat at the sight of him.
Unlike our first meeting, this time he was relaxed, or as relaxed as I imagined Gage Winters ever was. Even at ease, lounging in front of the fire with a book, he gave off the same sense of barely leashed energy he had the night before. This was not a man who knew what it meant to chill out.
His blue eyes pinned me in place, scanning me in a slow pass from the top of my head to my bare feet, heating as they moved. His full lower lip curved into a smile.
“Do you have more paper bugs?” he asked in that deep, smooth voice.
I shook my head, no.
“Another prank Amelia dreamed up? I heard the screams this afternoon. She must have been happy.”
I cleared my throat. “She was. Mrs. W has a very convincing scream. And she pretended to scold Amelia, which I think she secretly enjoyed.”
Gage chuckled, the sound floating across the room, drawing out my own, small laugh.
“If you’re not setting up another of Amelia’s pranks, what are you doing awake in the middle of the night?”
I was suddenly conscious of how I must look, wrapped in my oversized robe, my hair in a loose braid down my back.
I dressed casually at Winters House—the family didn’t want me to wear a uniform—but a robe and bare feet were inappropriate.
It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d run into anyone, despite my encounter with Gage the night before.
Tightening the belt on my robe, I smoothed stray wisps of hair back from my face and said, “I’m sorry to interrupt you, I thought someone left the fireplace on. I was just going to make some tea. I’ll get out of your way.”
Cheeks pink with embarrassment, I was ready to flee to the kitchen when Gage said, “Can’t sleep?”
I turned back, shaking my head. “I wake up in the middle of the night a lot and have trouble falling back to sleep.” My curiosity took hold of my tongue, and I asked, “Is that why you’re awake in the middle of the night again? Trouble sleeping?”
Gage took a second to answer, a second during which I lectured myself on asking him personal questions. I wasn’t his friend. I worked here. And asking a virtual stranger personal questions was rude.
I took a step back toward the door, expecting him to dismiss me. He didn’t need to explain why he was up reading in the middle of the night. It was his house. I was an employee.
When he spoke, Gage’s voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear, the words a vibration in the air I felt more than heard.
“I haven’t been sleeping much lately…” He trailed off.
“Trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?” I asked.
“Both,” he admitted. “I have nightmares.”
My training kicked in, and without thinking I said, “That’s normal, considering what you’ve been through. Did they talk to you before you left the military hospital? Tell you what to expect?”
Gage’s face shut down, his eyes flicking away and his mouth going hard, that lush lower lip compressing into the top in a thin line.
Shit. None of my business. I took another step back and shook my head in apology.
“I’m sorry, sometimes I forget everyone isn’t a patient. I’ll let you get back to your book.”
“Wait,” Gage said, his voice carrying a demand I knew better than to ignore.
Men like Gage Winters were used to being obeyed.
I’d had enough of obeying men to last me a lifetime, but I worked for his family, and I liked my job.
More than that, I realized I wanted to hear what he was going to say next.
I fought the urge to give myself another lecture and stopped, turning back to face him again.
The hard line of his mouth had softened, but those blue eyes were still sharp and on guard. “The tea—does it help?” he asked.
“I don’t really know,” I said. At his raised eyebrow, I explained. “The tea I usually drink when I can’t sleep helps a little. But this is a new one. Amelia ordered it for me off the internet. I have no idea if it’s any good, but I promised her I’d try. Do you want me to make you a cup?”
I expected him to refuse. I have no idea why I even offered.
I was usually good at watching my words but with Gage my tongue out-ran my brain.
Something about him made me speak without thinking.
I tried not to remember that speaking without thinking could be dangerous.
I was safe here. If Gage ended up being a problem, nothing was stopping me from leaving.
“I’d love a cup of tea,” Gage said, something warm drifting through his eyes. “Do you need any help?”
“No,” I said, the sound almost a yelp, before fleeing to the familiar comfort of the kitchen.
They say a watched pot never boils but the electric kettle in Winters House didn’t get that memo, because it was happily boiling away long before I was ready to face Gage again.
I should get an electric kettle for my room, I thought. Then I wouldn’t have to come to the kitchen at night and wouldn’t risk running into Gage in my robe again. I could do that. It would be convenient, but I’d miss my nightly trips through Winters House.
There was something about traversing the sleeping house in the dark, alone, the way the moonlight turned the house into a fairytale, that made me feel as if I’d stumbled into my own happy ending. I loved this house. Loved to be alone in it.
Though, I wasn’t alone now. I poured steaming water over the tea bags in matching mugs, wincing at the odor as the hot water hit the tea. Yuck. I couldn’t imagine something that smelled this bad could possibly help me sleep. The stench alone would keep me awake.
I’d promised Amelia I’d try the tea, so I dutifully carried the two mugs down the hall to the library, thinking wistfully of a nice mug of honeyed chamomile instead.
Gage was sitting up on one side of the sofa when I returned, leaving the other side open for me. I wasn’t sure about sharing the sofa with him, but it was wide enough to give me space, and sitting in one of the arm chairs by the fire would have been weird when he’d moved to leave me a seat.
I felt awkward enough with Gage; I didn’t need to make a point by sitting across the room and make it even worse.
I handed him one of the mugs, warning, “It’s hot.”
Holding my breath, I raised my own mug to my lips, blew across the top, and took a hesitant sip. I have no words to describe the taste that hit my tongue.
Acrid and yet organic. Organic the way a rotten stump is organic. This tea was not about fresh fruit and flowers. It tasted like old gym socks and wet leaves from beneath a dead animal.
Gage took a sip and choked. Wiping my hand across the back of my mouth, I watched as he gritted his teeth and forced himself to swallow.
It was a good thing he hadn’t spit it out.
I wasn’t sure Mrs. W would be able to get the stench out of the carpet.
It would have been a shame to abandon the library because it smelled like this tea.
“What the fuck is in this stuff?” Gage asked, his eyes narrowed on his mug as if he was plotting the best way to destroy it.
“I have no idea, but it’s horrible,” I said. Saliva pooled in my mouth and I swallowed. I needed something to get rid of this taste.
“Are you sure she’s not pranking you?”