Chapter 19 Gardens and Ghosts
GARDENS AND GHOSTS
Kai’s words are a broken record in my thoughts as I slam the door behind me.
I should have gone upstairs, but Scarlet’s enjoying her final days of sleeping in before returning to Thornhurst, and I’ll be damned if I burden her with this after everything else.
The air is shockingly cold this afternoon, but pride won’t let me go back inside. Instead, I head in the opposite direction of the pool.
A maze of trimmed shrubs and dormant grasses covered in snow leads me along the back of the estate. The lake is close enough that the waves lapping at the shore play like a soundtrack.
Scarlet has borrowed a kayak and gone out twice in the six days that we’ve been here, doing exactly as we planned: making the best of the situation.
I want to say that I’ve done the same, but frustration is a low and constant thrum in my veins as I remain unable to call on my elements or shield half as quickly or effectively as they expect.
I’ve accomplished little more than surviving Griffin’s grueling workouts.
The foreign sound of someone giggling distracts me from my pity party and immediately has me on guard.
Numerous people work on or around Mysthaven—far more than just Edmond, who has been helping the Vestra look into the bond, Lief, Chandler, and Gwen—but they are the only ones who consistently interact with me.
The others quietly, discreetly maintain Mysthaven’s pristine condition.
I don’t know their names. I barely even see them.
Whether they’ve been instructed not to talk to me or choose not to, I can’t say.
Regardless, they’re like fleeting shadows, something I’ve been fine with until now, as I catch myself looking over my shoulder with the mocking whisper of hope that one of the guys will mysteriously appear to ensure my safety.
It feels like a crutch. A crutch I don’t recognize or want.
Before it can gain permanence, I snap it in half and stride around the edge of the giant house and stop short at the impossible sight—a garden in full bloom.
It stretches on for what must be acres. Row after row of greenery, dotted with colorful blooms, fruits, and vegetables that shouldn’t exist in winter.
My heart warms. Growing up, our neighbor, Letty, had a small vegetable garden that the deer often raided before they were ripe.
Some of my favorite afternoons were spent helping her tend to it.
“Stop eating the berries,” a voice scolds, followed by another giggle.
Against all reason, I move closer, peering around the row of vines, so thick and lush that they serve as walls.
Chandler stands at the mouth of the row, dust coating his pants up to his knees.
I’ve only seen him a couple of times since we were introduced.
Buckets filled with plump purple berries and round green fruits surround him, but I barely notice them because my attention is locked on the young girl beside him.
She has orange-tinted skin that is textured with a bumpy pattern across her arms and cheeks.
“I’m serious, Oriya,” Chandler says, snatching a berry from her hand.
The girl spins—about to argue—but stops cold when she sees me.
Chandler moves unnaturally fast, appearing in front of her in the blink of an eye. “Miss Breslin.” His voice is a strained whisper. “Are you lost? Do you need something?”
Under other circumstances, I might joke about needing answers and an escape route, but the desperation in his eyes and the way his fist clenches has me shaking my head as I take a step back. “No. I was just taking a walk.”
“You should stick closer to the house,” he says. Inside one of my designated areas is what he means. After all, I’ve yet to see most of the house and even less of the grounds.
I nod once and take another step. Then another, unsure if it’s safe to turn my back as his fist clenches again. I don’t turn until the vines block him from view—then I sprint half the distance to the house before forcing myself to slow to a brisk walk.
I’m almost there when the back door swings open with enough force to stop me. Daire steps out, his gaze sweeping left and then right before landing on me. His amber eyes give me a quick perusal. “Are you all right?”
I nod as the echo of him saying how he could sense me sends chills down my spine. Had he felt my distress?
“You’re pale,” he says, voice low but edged. “What happened?”
“It’s cold out.”
His gaze shifts behind me again. “We should head inside.”
With no excuse at my disposal and my nerves fractured, I follow him back into the confines of Mysthaven.
A residual soreness echoes through my body as I peel myself from bed. The aches in my muscles haven’t faded despite the copious amounts of tea Gwen and Lief insist I drink. Still, I’m beginning to feel grateful for the pain, because it’s the only thing that feels normal. Familiar.
I smooth the blankets and straighten the dozen pillows, erasing every trace of myself from the room, just like I do each morning.
I’m just as careful with the borrowed clothing.
I pull on a black top that reveals a sliver of my stomach and a matching pair of shorts solely because they’re not skintight like most of the other workout clothes.
Instead, they reveal most of my legs, which triggers my mother’s voice, already cataloging my flaws.
I slip on socks and lace up my shoes before turning off the light to silence her voice.
The hallway is quiet, barely lit by a soft glow near the baseboards, though there’s no visible light source.
Magic.
I’ve seen more than enough evidence over the last week to know it’s real, but it still pushes against everything I understand.
It’s the first time I can recall the house being silent—no echo of footsteps. No voices.
I stare down the long hall and question what would happen if I ran. If I slipped out and didn’t look back. Would they be able to find me? Would someone take me back to Earth?
A door opens behind me, startling me from my thoughts. Holden steps out of a room. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and a tight white tee, dark eyes focused on me.
The idea of him prowling behind me wreaks havoc on my thoughts, so I wait until he’s within arm’s length before continuing toward the stairs.
“You’re not shielding,” he says.
“It drains me,” I admit, glancing anywhere but at the wide expanse of his muscled shoulders.
“It won’t if you practice.”
I don’t share the doubts that have me convinced it’s impossible.
We reach the wall of windows where the sun’s rays are just beginning to rise above the edge of the tree line. The lake is eerily dark, still cloaked in shadows, its surface like onyx glass. I want to stay and watch the sunrise transform it but continue downstairs.
“Good morning,” Lief greets us in the foyer with a warm smile. He’s dressed the same as always—a blazer and dark slacks. “Would you care for some tea?”
“No thanks.”
To my disappointment, Holden murmurs a polite no as well, following escorting me down the hall.
Griffin’s already in the gym. Already shirtless. My gaze traces his imprint.
Twice.
Lochlan stands across from him, also bare-chested, gleaming with sweat. Both are armed with broadswords that look capable of cutting through bone with a single swipe.
Griffin’s eyes flick toward me, traveling the full length of my legs before focusing on his opponent, who ignores me entirely.
Lochlan moves first, and Griffin responds, the two moving like it’s a choreographed dance of precision and utter madness as they slash and block each other, sending crashes of metal to reverberate in my ears and down my spine. It’s violent and stunning. Beautiful and brutal.
I try to look away, but can’t. Every move—every inhale—demands my attention.
I’m as twisted as a pretzel when they finish, their scowls melting into smiles as they clasp hands, easing the tightness in my chest. A part of me is fascinated by watching the guys interact with each other.
Griffin turns to me, that secret smile of his missing like he was all day yesterday. I push away from the wall and head for the red mat in the center of the room, where I begin stretching.
He doesn’t follow me, and I tell myself that’s good.
That I don’t want his kindness or flirting or for him to look at me like he had in the springs, confusing every one of my emotions into believing I don’t care about free will or choice.
That I’m okay with whatever this ridiculous arrangement is where I’m working out and training to prepare for my execution.
I don’t want to care about any of them.
This isn’t a love story. This is survival.
Fear chases anger and resentment through my veins, but I have no idea what my alternative is. I am in so far over my head, and it feels like my only option is to continue this ridiculous charade until an alternative is found.
Finished stretching, Griffin sends me through another ruthless circuit that includes weight training and plyometrics. My body’s not ready. My ego even less so.
“You need to stretch your hamstrings better,” Griffin says as I wobble to the mat. He kneels in front of me, his bare chest glistening from the cardio we just completed.
His imprint stares at me.
Taunts me.
Calls to me.
I’ve spent the last ninety minutes avoiding eye contact and conversation with him, and now, I’m a popsicle—and he is July’s sun.
He places a large hand on my knee. My gaze drops to where he’s touching me, tracing the ridges of tendons and veins, then up the cords of his forearm, and finally to his biceps, which flex with the slightest of movements. He’s a walking thirst trap, and I’m parched.
“I’m okay.” My voice is foreign, thready, and broken.
I expect him to laugh, to turn that smolder on me and flash a cocky grin for how quickly I’m becoming undone with the sight of his hand on me. Instead, his gaze softens for the first time in what feels like years. “It will keep your muscles from cramping later. You did a lot today.”