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“Are you alright, love?” Ingrid asks.
I look down at her forearm. I’ve got a death grip on it. “Oh, I’m fine.”
“Worried about him, are ya?”
Fuck, my eyes burn. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Ingrid gives me a sad smile. We’re in the foyer now, our shoes echoing in the cavernous room. There’s antique brocade hardwood beneath our feet, inlaid with golden veins that crisscross the length of the room. Two housekeepers are busy cleaning the floor as we pass. They give us polite smiles but barely look up from their work.
Up ahead, there are three guards with guns strapped across their torsos stationed by the huge door. Which is odd, since they’re standinginside,not outside. They don’t even spare us a glance, but it makes my throat go dry because malice rolls off their expression in spades.
“He’s a good one,” Ingrid says.
I’m so caught up in watching the guards that I almost forgot what we were talking about before we started ascending the stairs. The wooden steps creak under our weight, but not from disrepair—they’re made of glossy hardwood, with a marble banister.
“Alex?”
She nods, casting me a knowing glance. There’s a faraway look in her eyes. “He has a good heart. He’ll be fine, no matter what happens in that room with the dragon.”
I give her an uneasy smile. Should she even be talking about Alex’s father,her boss, like this? She doesn’t seem to care though, which makes me wonder what all the other people working here think of him.
Back home, the staff never disrespected my father in my presence—mostly because they were afraid of me since they blamed me for what happened to Dolores. But, I would see the way they looked at him whenever he was around. It was never with adoration, or even respect.
No, it was fear. Maybe even a little hatred, too.
“Do you think he’ll let us leave?”
Ingrid leans in. “He wants you both here, for whatever reason. Alex will ‘ave to come up with a damn good reason to get that man to change his mind.”
I swallow thickly around the lump in my throat. That doesn’t sound good, and I know Alex won’t accept that. Scenes of him at odds with his father flash in front of my eyes, and instinctively my hand moves to my stomach. I can’t let that happen.
We walk in silence through a maze of hallways and staircases. Ingrid stops in front of an enormous set of double doors on the third floor, in the east wing of the house. She grasps the golden door knobs but doesn’t open the door immediately. Instead, she turns to me with a heavy sigh.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she begins. “I wasn’t the one who chose your accommodations and of all the rooms in the house, Mr. Duke wants you both to stay…here.”
I’m confused by the meaning of her words, but she doesn’t elaborate. The doors swing inward into a room—no, asuite—that’s even more opulent than the rest of the house. Hardwood floors polished to perfection are the backdrop for what I can only describe as an oasis.
The walls are a rich mauve, with thick golden brocade curtains hanging open over paneled glass windows. A huge four poster bed sits in the middle of the room, the posts stretching up, nearly touching the ceiling. The purple, lavender and gold color scheme are the same throughout.
As soon as I step over the threshold, I know something is wrong.
I just can’t put my finger on it. Ingrid doesn’t follow me inside the room. Our luggage has already been brought up, stacked in a neat pile by the ottoman at the foot of the bed. It’s a beautiful room, everything about it is perfect—so why can’t I shake the sense of foreboding?
Floating through the room, my eyes skim the walls. There are paintings hung in intricate golden frames. All of them are signed, and depict various landscapes filled with flowers—there’s one of a Hibiscus bush, with the blood-red floors in relief, a bouquet of lilies laying in the foreground of a lake vista. They’re all so beautiful, seemingly personal too.
It’s when I get to the bureau by the large bay window that overlooks the backyard that it all starts to make sense. The piece of antique wood furniture is bereft of any sort of decor, save for a single picture frame sitting off to one side. It’s so close to the edge that all it would take is a single gust of wind from outside to send it clattering to the floor, shattering it into a million pieces.
The frame is weathered, clumps of dust stick to the glass.
But I can see the picture just fine, and part of me is afraid to touch it. Because even though I’ve never seen this woman before, I recognize her immediately. It looks deceptively like a candid: she’s sitting in this same room—I can tell from one of the photos hanging on the wall behind her, and the armchair is still here—with her body angled away from the camera.
She’s looking over her shoulder slightly, her blonde hair falling in slight waves. Alexander’s hair is the same color. Her blue-green eyes shine, and a perfect set of white teeth peek out from behind her red lips. They’ve got the same nose, the same intense,beautifullook about them.
But where Alexander is hard, she’s soft around the edges, dainty. Pearls adorn her throat, and she’s dressed in a demure black dress that doesn’t seem to match her style, but still looks amazing on her.
This is a picture of Alex’s mother.
My breath catches and my eyes flick to Ingrid, who’s watching me with sorrowful eyes. What she said earlier makes sense now. Alexander’s father isn’t just forcing us to stay in this house, he’s forcing Alexander and I to stay in his mother’s room. My stomach churns at the thought.
How evil can this man be?
