I nod, dazed, but already curiosity is rekindling in my gut. “Will you tell me?”
He thinks it over, then answers, “Not tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saylor
Waking up alone in Blue’s bed is like the morning after the best concert of your life. Everything’s quiet, but your ears are still ringing. The pillow still smells like whatever expensive soap he uses, mixed with something that’s just him. My body aches in interesting places, a roadmap of last night’s activities. The faint red marks around my wrists have faded, but I can still remember the weight of those handcuffs.
A piece of paper rests on the pillow beside me, written in that precise handwriting that screams expensive education.
Had to handle something. Back soon. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone. - B
The note should be reassuring. Instead, it makes me realize how enormous and empty this house is when it’s just me rattling around in it. Every footstep echoes off the vaulted ceilings, turning my morning routine into a one-woman percussion section.
I slip back to my room wearing one of Blue’s shirts—a white button-down that hangs to my thighs. The fabric is stupidly soft, which explains why rich people always look so pleased with themselves.
Getting dressed means choosing armor for a battle I haven’t figured out how to fight yet. I pick a vintage-inspired dress in deep emerald because green makes me feel powerful. My hair goes up in a simple chignon today—something sleek and controlled—and my lipstick is dark red like the doors of Grimlock.
If I’m going to plan my firstsuccessfulmurder, I should look the part. Fake it until you make it, right?
Wren has breakfast waiting in the smaller dining room. And by smaller, I mean it seats only twelve people instead of twenty. Even Blue’s idea of cozy could house a small government.
“Just coffee and toast,” I tell her, settling into one of the antique chairs.
“You need more than that. Can’t plot revenge on an empty stomach.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Plot revenge?”
“Whatever you want to call what you and Blue are up to.” Wren sets down toast that’s golden and perfect. “Point is, you need fuel.”
“Speaking of Blue, where is he exactly?” I ask, trying to sound casual while spreading what’s clearly butter that comes from cows with trust funds. “His note was pretty vague about this ‘something’ he had to handle.”
Wren’s energy changes slightly, a careful neutral that means she knows more than she’s saying. “Blue has a restless soul. Keeps himself busy.” She refills my coffee cup. “He and Hans will be gone most of the day, I expect.”
The finality in her tone makes it clear this topic is closed. I focus on my breakfast instead, but the toast—thick artisan bread that tastes magical—might as well be sawdust. I can barely manage half a slice. Eating alone in this dining room makes me understand why Blue insisted we always eat together. The silence isn’t peaceful; it’s oppressive. The house is holding its breath, waiting for something interesting to happen.
Which is exactly what’s going to get me in trouble again.
My brain keeps drifting back to the third floor. Those locked doors with their fancy keyholes, all those skeleton keys hanging in the hallway. Blue’s “punishment” last night was definitely a distraction, but it didn’t exactly kill my curiosity about what he’s hiding up there.
And that kind of thinking is how I will end up handcuffed to his bed again, except next time he might not be in such a generous mood.
But more than that, I keep thinking about him and Hans out there somewhere, doing whatever it is Blue does when his restless soul needs tending. The helplessness claws at my chest, making me want to go exploring for answers, for proof that the stories about seven wives are more than small-town gossip.
“Wren,” I call, pushing away my barely touched breakfast. “I think I need to get out of this house before I do something stupid.”
She appears in the doorway instantly. “Something stupid, how?”
“Either trying to pick locks I have no business picking, or figuring out how to hot-wire that fancy car in the garage and going after Blue myself.”
“Ah.” Wren nods sagely. “Neither of those options would end well for anyone involved.”
“Exactly.” I stand up, smoothing my skirt. “Any chance I could get a ride into town? I promise not to get kidnapped, murdered, or otherwise ruin Blue’s day.”
Wren considers this while wiping her hands on her apron. With Blue and Hans gone, her protective duties have shifted. “I suppose I could use some things from town. And someone should check on Elliott. That man forgets to eat when he’s experimenting with new recipes.”
“Perfect,” I say, already standing. “Give me five minutes to grab my purse.”
