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There’s nothing for me here. And instead of sweet nostalgia, every memory is bringing nothing but pain.
Feral dogs or not, it’s time to go.
Blinded by tears, I turn back the way I came—and feel a faint sliding touch at the back of my neck. Immediately I shudder and flinch, thinking of those cobwebs, trying to bat away whatever just crawled across my skin.
But it’s only my necklace. The pendant must have gotten turned around. Except…
I can’t twist it back into place. The fine chain is snug around the front of my throat—and snug around the back of my neck—but my fingers can’t locate the diamond pendant at the end of the chain.
Forget the pendant, though. I can’t locate the end of the chain. Instead I turn and stare in stunned incomprehension at the glittering line of gold that trails behind me—starting at my nape and continuing the length of the corridor, where it disappears from sight.
What the…?
Shaking my head in confusion and disbelief, I slide my fingertips over the fine links around my neck, searching for the clasp.
There’s no clasp. Instead the seamless chain circles my throat like a collar, with a golden leash that leads back toward the grand hall.
I follow it, uneasily aware that there’s no slack forming in the chain as I go. It should be trailing behind me in an ever-increasing loop, but instead all of the loose length is simply…disappearing. Or shrinking. It’s not being taken up from the other end, because the chain ahead of me isn’t being pulled in that direction. As if the chain is only as long as it needs to be, and that length is the distance between my neck and wherever the chain ends.
Which isn’t in the great hall. The chain leads across the domed chamber, past the long gallery still decorated with marble statuary and great paintings, and into the corridor connecting to the southeast wing.
The family wing.
Heart thundering, I pass through the main parlor—and here, finally here, there is not just abandonment and neglect. Though the wing clearly has been neglected. But the dust has not lain undisturbed. Instead it’s as if someone has lived here and cleaned the rooms haphazardly, though not with the dedication of a household staff.
Cleaned the rooms…and destroyed some of them. Stuffing spills out of slashed upholstery. Silk wallpaper hangs in ragged strips. Shattered mirrors reflect shards of my face—the broken glass cleaned from the floor but the frames still hanging on the walls.
And there’s blood. None of it fresh, but in faint handprints along the walls, and faded splotches in the rugs. I don’t immediately recognize what those rusted stains are, but as soon as I do, it seems that I can’t stop seeing it. There’s blood everywhere.
Yet it’s all smudged, indistinct. As if someone tried to clean it.
The level of destruction increases the deeper into the wing I go. And unless the chain is anchored outside somewhere, there’s not much farther to go. The only rooms remaining in this direction are the solarium…and Gideon’s bedchamber.
His room is the least ravaged, but only because nothing remains except for his big four-poster bed—as if every other piece of furniture and the rugs had been utterly destroyed or discarded.
This is where the chain ends, wrapped around the leg at the head of Gideon’s bed. White linen sheets cover the mattress—and they’re clean, though rumpled and unmade, but I can’t mistake the faint, rusted stains for anything else except more blood that hadn’t come out in the wash.
Hands shaking, I fall to my knees and attempt to pull the chain free. But it’s not wrapped around the thick wooden leg, I realize. Instead the fine links seems to pierce through the solid oak, the diamond teardrop hanging from the opposite side as if it had been pinned there. Desperately I pull, thinking that if I pull hard enough the diamond will pop off and the chain will slide free, yet there’s no give at all, and the pressure of the thin gold links against my palm and fingers threatens to cut into my skin.
I need a glove—or something else to protect my hand.
With frantic purpose, I strip off my jacket and wrap the fabric around my palm before gripping the chain again and hauling back with all of my strength, bracing my feet against the wall and throwing my weight into it.
Nothing happens…though the chain should have snapped. It’s a fine piece of jewelry but a gold necklace isn’t that strong.
It also usually doesn’t stretch the length of a manor house, then shrink to less than three feet long. Right now it extends from the bed frame to my neck with no slack in between.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
The realization is a reassuring one, easing my panic and calming the racing beat of my heart.
This can’t be real.
So I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep in the car and now I’m dreaming.
Okay. My ragged breathing slows. Okay.
I’m okay. Just having a dream filled with some really disturbing symbolism.
But it’ll end when I wake up. Letting go of the chain, I rise to my feet and look around the room. Gideon’s bedchamber has its own access to the solarium—which, when we were young, was his favorite room in the entire house. The door leading to that glass-walled chamber has been torn away; nothing remains but the twisted, broken hinges. Gray daylight spills through the doorway.
And I know this is only a dream—a nightmare—yet still my heart freezes when I hear the soft growl coming from that room. Still my body begins trembling when I see the hulking shadow of…something prowling toward Gideon’s bedchamber.
Something. Or someone.
Pulse thudding in my throat, I drop into a crouch beside the big bed, caught in an agony of indecision. If I run for it, surely the noise of my pounding feet and the slithering chain would alert them. If I stay right here, remain very quiet, maybe whatever is in the solarium won’t realize I’m hiding. Silence seems like my best option.
But oh my god I want to run.
Abruptly the growling stops, replaced by the sound of…an inhalation? As if someone is taking a long, deep breath.
As if something is scenting the air.
And they are in this room. In this bedchamber. And coming closer.
Cold sweat drips down my spine. Every muscle in my body tenses, preparing to flee. Then I hear a footstep, then another, coming ever closer, and I can’t bear this anymore. I’ve got to get out of here, I need to run.
Mentally I measure the distance to the door. I just have to get that far, slam the heavy oak shut behind me, give myself a few extra seconds head start—and hope that slamming the door doesn’t prevent the chain from magically stretching again. Because if it pulls tight while I’m sprinting away, I’m going to break my neck.
On a soft prayer, I dart for the door.
A heavy body crashes into mine before I take three steps, knocking the air from my lungs, spinning me around—
And dumping me back onto soft cushion of the bed.
I shriek in terror, ready to fight. Pinning my flailing hands, the giant figure looms over me, his dark hair a wild tangle, most of his face in shadow…
His face.
Abruptly my struggles stop, my heart squeezing tight in my chest. “Gideon?”
Eyes as green as spring meet mine, narrowing as they search my features. “When I dream of you, Cora Walker, you do not usually run from me.”
I hardly recognize the voice that seems to reverberate from deep within his chest before emerging on a rumbling growl.
I hardly recognize him—or the way he’s gazing down at me. His eyes were always filled with warmth when he looked at me, but now they’re glowing with heat, like glass drawn from a furnace.
More aware of the hard, muscular body leaning over mine than I’ve ever been aware of anything before, I ask breathlessly, “What do I usually do?”
His head dips toward mine, that thick tangle of hair smelling cold and crisp, like a night spent in the woods. I gasp as he buries his face against my neck, inhaling deeply. His mouth skims a
burning line from the hollow of my throat to my jaw.
“Usually you’re waiting for me in my bed, your soft thighs open and your body yearning for my touch.” That roughened voice thickens. “The beast within me enjoyed it when you ran, Cora.”
Oh god. The beast in me is enjoying the way he’s holding me down, breathing in the scent of my skin. “Does he?”
Against my ear, Gideon makes a rumbling sound of assent. “But you smell far sweeter this time. As if you are not a dream at all.”
Mind swimming in a haze of desire, I tell him, “I think I’m the one who is dreaming.”
“Then I shall make you scream so loud that you will awaken.” The gravelly promise in his voice is followed by the shock of his big hand pushing beneath my skirt. A stunned breath catches in my throat, my body tensing—then arching toward his on a ragged gasp when his long fingers dip into my panties, delving through slippery wetness and heat.
A tortured groan rips from his chest. “You are wetter than ever I have dreamed. Shall I taste you, then, my sweet Cora? Shall I lick and tease your…your little…”
His body goes utterly still. His hand withdraws from my panties, and when he pulls back, his fingers glisten with the wetness of my arousal—and he’s holding the glittering thread of the gold chain, which had been trapped beneath my body when he’d tossed me onto the bed. I’m still lying upon it, but now I feel the tug at the back of my neck and strange sensation of the line being pulled up between my legs as Gideon raises it higher, his gaze following the trailing length to the bedpost.
Abruptly he drops the chain and backs away, staring at me with an expression near to horror. “You are here. You have come.” Torment darkens the green of his eyes and he rips his hands through the long tangle of his hair, his voice hardening, taut anger whitening his lips. “Bloody fucking hell, Cora! You should never have come!”
