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“You run. He chases. That’s what dogs do.” His voice is a deep, rich sound that practically vibrates on the air. Smooth and immaculate, it doesn’t match his scars. It’s a sound that hums in my chest, the kind of hypnotic timbre that lingers in the ear after he’s spoken.
“I didn’t realize it was in play.”
“You’re the new girl.” It isn’t a question, because it’s apparently obvious, and he says it as if he’s just tasted something sour and bitter and is looking to spit it out. In spite of the fact that I’m on his payroll, making more money here than any of the odd jobs I’d find downtown, he doesn’t even know my name. Imagine that. A place in this town where someone is disgusted with me as a person and not simply because I’m Je
“Yes. I’m Isa. Or Izzy. Whichever you’d prefer.”
“I’d prefer that you watch where you’re going.”
“Takes two to collide.” It’s a bad habit, talking back. One that’s gotten me in trouble more times than I care to admit, but it’s also completely reflexive. I can’t help the things that fly out of my mouth sometimes, and it sucks, because he’s obviously been through some stuff. I know from my own experience how things like rejection and ridicule can turn someone into a stony wall of Back the hell off. “I just mean, you could’ve easily stepped aside when you saw me coming.”
“Smartass?” Leaning forward just enough that I can feel the heat of his frustration rolling off his skin, can practically taste the delicious cologne he’s wearing, he drills those fiery eyes into me as if they’re laser beams shooting out his sockets. “You’ll find the best way to stay employed in this house is by staying on my good side.”
I literally have to bite my lips together to keep from asking which half he considers his good side. Again, reflexive, brought on by years of torment at the hands of my asshole classmates, when I was forced to stand my ground, or swallow their crap.
This job means too much to me. My freedom. My independence. And I am singlehandedly blowing this first meeting, so to respond with, “My apologies,” requires a kind of tongue-biting self-control I’ve not yet mastered.
“Your boots are loud and clumsy. I can hear them all the way in the east wing. Find a different pair, if you insist on ru
“These are the only shoes I brought with me.” Eyes on his, I lift my leg, bending my knee as I stand on one foot, hopping to keep balanced while I slide the boot off and set it to the floor beside me. Same with the other. “Anything else about my outfit you don’t like?”
Chin tipped at a condescending angle, he dips his gaze, and a sneer tugs at his ruined lips. “Perhaps a pair of pants that don’t make you look like you were in a brawl with a wolverine.”
This guy is something else.
“Would you have me remove those, too?” Biting my tongue once again, I set my fingers to the buttons of my jeans in mocking, as if to take them off, and catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement, maybe? A dare?
Ignoring my question, he steps past me, as if already bored with our exchange, and snaps his fingers. “Sampson.”
The dog follows after him, down the hallway.
There’s a regal arrogance to the way he walks, the easy stroll of a powerful man who doesn’t give a shit about some local Townie clown who wears fishing mucks for shoes.
I turn away toward my path again and exhale a shaky breath. I’ve never met a human being so intense in my life. As if the very air crackled around him, threatening to strike out at me. Which probably would’ve felt better than the fly-in-the-soup attitude I got instead. Like I was nothing in this guy’s day, aside from the nuisance who didn’t watch where she was going.
All this time, I’ve given him some measure of credit, benefit of the doubt, and all that.
Turns out, the Devil of Bonesalt really is an asshole.
Light physical, mostly emotional support, I text to Aunt Midge, when she asked what was wrong with Lady Blackthorne that she needs a companion. She’s probably lonely after her husband’s death.
If I tell her the truth, that the entire family is bat-shit crazy, or moody as hell, she’ll not only tell me she was right, but it’ll be passed around The Shoal for the next week like a donation basket at church, everyone adding their version of the story. I refuse to give this town more gossip to devour.
Well, I’m sure she’ll find you a good source of entertainment. How’s your room? They lock you in a tower?
I lift my gaze to the room I’ve been assigned, and just like the first time, my eyes can hardly imbibe the magic of it all. Tall windows curtained by thick, black drapes allow in the shimmer of moon’s light. The bed and vanity are a heavy, but ornate dark wood that I’m guessing would take a half dozen men to move. The linens are velvet grays and black, with only a splash of white for the sheets. A black crystal chandelier hangs from the center of the room, giving it a gothic Victorian appeal. In spite of the incessant chill that hangs on the air, the bedroom is cozy, and the fireplace across from me crackles as it burns.
Perhaps the only thing I’d change is removing the creepy doll that’s propped on the nightstand beside my bed. One of Laura’s, I’ll bet. Long, blonde hair and blue eyes hardly detract from the stern angle of its brow and the devious smile stretching its lips, as if it might come to life while I sleep. Other than that, the room is somehow fitting for me.
Like a fairy tale, I text back.
Yeah, well. Fairy tales are just that. Tales. Don’t get too caught up in it.
Like I would. Try not to have too much fun while I’m gone.
In the time it takes Aunt Midge to text back, which is three times as long as it takes me, there’s a knock at the door, and I nearly drop my phone on the floor.
Climbing off the bed, I type back, Talk later. Love you.
The floors creak as I make my way across the room, and I throw back the door to find a woman with dark bronze skin, about the same age as Nell, though slightly less gloomy and fairly attractive. Silky black hair is pulled into a tight bun that sits at the back of her head, and bright red lipstick adds a pop of color.
“Hi, I’m Giulia. You must be Isa.” The first person besides Rand who actually knows my name. “I’m a couple rooms down. Just thought I’d stop in and say hello.” The gray double-breasted dress with white collar and cuffs, and a white apron tied to the front, is a dead giveaway that she’s housekeeping.
“Thought all the employees in this place left for the day.”
“Blackthornes keep me overnight. Just in case. But I’m the only one, besides the nurse. And you, it seems.” She peeks past me, as if trying to see into the room. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.” She’s probably been in here to clean it at some point, anyway. Who am I to tell her she can’t come in?
Ambling to a stop in the middle of the room, she tips her head back, as if she’s absorbing something in the air, and when she turns to face me, there’s a slight smile on her lips. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Never in a million years did I think someone with my background would end up living in a castle by the ocean.”
“Your background?”
“Poor. I lived on the streets. My daughter and I did.”
“She lives here with you?”
“No. Didn’t think this was a place for children. She stays in a boarding school now.” Nodding toward the fireplace and back, she asks, “Are you comfortable in here?”