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As I walk, my fingers trace the spines of countless books, their titles embossed in gold or faded from time. Each one holds a secret, a piece of the puzzle I’m here to solve. It’s eerie, being surrounded by so much information, knowing that somewhere in this labyrinth lies the key to my survival.
Reaching the rows of musty records and family trees, my pulse quickens as I pull out volume after volume, laying them out across the long wooden table. They fan out like cards in a game of fate, and for a moment, I stand there, gathering my wits as I dump my bookbag next to them and pull out the contents.
Diving into the work, sifting through pages filled with names and dates, marriages and births, deaths and alliances, each fact I uncover feels like a step forward.
Hours pass in a blur of concentration. Every so often, I feel one of the guys’ eyes on me, ensuring I’m okay, but they never interrupt. They understand the importance of this; they feel the weight of history pressing down on us just as I do.
By the time light filters in through the stained-glass windows, announcing mid-morning in the autumn, casting colourful patterns on the dusty floor, my brain swims with connections and possibilities. The strain of relentless focus sets my nerves on edge, but I push through it, driven by the need to find answers.
The librarian drifts past but doesn’t interrupt, probably assuming we slipped in while she was distracted.
“I’m breaking the rules, but I need to know you’re okay.” Damien’s quiet voice comes from behind me, his cool hand briefly brushing my shoulder. I didn’t even hear him approach.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Found anything?”
“Maybe,” I reply, not wanting to reveal too much yet. “It’s a maze. Fucking complicated.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
I nod, diving back into the sea of information, letting it carry me toward the truth I’m searching for—a connection, a weakness, something to give us leverage. Every revelation sharpens the blade we’ll wield against our adversaries.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath as pieces start to fall into place. A shiver runs down my spine, part dread, part exhilaration. We’re getting closer, the endgame looming, and I know that whatever happens next will change everything.
My eyes scan line after line, searching for the invisible thread that connects the Ashdowns to the Harrises. The glow from the desk lamp casts shadows across the pages, making the silence around me even more pronounced.
“Almost got it,” I mutter as my finger trails down an old ledger, the ink faded but still legible. My heartbeat quickens – there it is. A transaction, a marriage, a scandal hidden between the lines of history, subtly linking the families like poison flowing through veins.
“Shit.” The word slips out before I can stop it, a whisper of dread. I feel nauseous as the implications hit me, the web of deceit stretching back generations.
“Ever?” Charlie checks, his voice closer now, his presence a warm contrast to the chill settling in my bones.
“Found something. It’s not good,” I confess, feeling the weight of centuries pressing down on me. This information could be a weapon or a noose, and right now, I can’t tell which.
“What is it?”
“Distant cousins. Stanley and Crystal... and me.”
A sense of triumph courses through me, potent and intoxicating, and also filled with disgust at what Stanley tried to do to me. Did he know this? He must’ve. Crystal clearly does. Well, she’s about to find out that blood doesn’t make us fucking family. They wanted a queen? Well, they’re about to get one. And she’s bringing hell with her.
17
EVER
“Let’s get you back home, where you will stay until further notice,” Alistair murmurs after my revelation. “You have a promise to make good on.”
I’m not caged; I’m protected.
That’s what I tell myself as we slip into the musty tunnel, leaving behind the secrets that bind my blood to Stanley and Crystal. But the guys’ words are iron bars—all around me—and they say I’m on lockdown until they figure this mess out.
The heat from earlier—the rush of power I felt—still simmers in my core. I need them too much to argue now.
I crave the dark touch of the men who claim to guard me. So, I follow, a willing captive led back to the decadence of KnightsGate Manor.
Once we are inside, they lead me up the stairs to Alistair’s room. The heavy door closes with a hush, sealing us away from the world. It’s just us—a circle of predators and one willing prey. They start to strip, and I can’t tear my eyes away. Each layer of clothing that falls feels like a promise being unwrapped, an unspoken vow of the debauchery to come.
Alistair’s designer shirt hits the floor, revealing the hard lines of his chest, each muscle toned and exquisite. His blue eyes hold mine, daring me to look away, but I can’t. I don’t want to.
