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Isadora
Present day …
When I was fifteen, Aunt Midge thought it’d be fun if I babysat one of the neighbor kids for extra cash. A little five-year-old girl, whose mom worked late into the afternoons, leaving her daughter with no one to pick her up from the school bus stop. I never had siblings, a pet, or anything that I might be remotely responsible for keeping alive, so I’m not sure where Aunt Midge got the idea this would be good for me.
For eight dollars a day, I met the kid at the stop, walked her home, and hung out watching mind-numbing episodes of Larva until her mom got home. Didn’t seem like such a bad gig, until, one day, she decided to change it up by asking if she could play in the backyard. It was fenced, so I didn’t think anything of it. About ten minutes before her mom was due home, I ventured out to call her in.
She didn’t answer.
I searched every corner of the yard.
Didn’t find her.
To say I was panicked was an understatement. I literally suffered an anxiety attack while racing through the house in search of her. Wheezing for air, feeling dizzy with the urge to pass out. Full on panic.
With only a couple minutes before her mom showed up, I happened to wander outside to check the front, and found her camped out in the middle of the road, drawing with chalk.
Middle of the goddamn road.
Out of my mind, I swiped her up and carried her, as she kicked and screamed, to the sidewalk, where I could properly ask her what the hell she was thinking.
“Mommy lets me play in the street.” She was lying, of course, and not a minute later, her mom pulled up, totally oblivious to the drawn hearts and rainbows she drove over.
I didn’t bother to say a word, but later that night, the guilt gnawed at me. So much so, I skipped school the next day, to confess what happened and quit my job, feeling like a total failure. A year later, I learned the little girl was killed. Hit by a car in front of her house while she played. According to the article, she was left home alone after school.
Knees tucked up into my chest, I sit on the bed, staring off at the wall across from me. I don’t even know what it means that Laura was on the balcony earlier today. If she’s so mentally unstable that she’d try to jump, or chase her dead grandson over the railing. All I know is I can’t get the visual of her lying on the pavement with her skull cracked open out of my head. I should be asleep right now, but the scenario just keeps playing on a loop, and experience tells me it won’t stop until I check to make sure she’s all right.
Cold hardwood floors hit my bare feet, and I pad quietly toward my locked door. Cracking it open, I peek to find the hallway empty and quiet, and continue on down one flight of stairs, and past the foyer, where I skid to a halt. “Shit.”
Sampson lifts his head as I approach, but doesn’t bother to move from where he’s made the Blackthorne crest his bed for the night. Instead, his big blockhead pans slowly after me, as I tiptoe past.
The sight of him rattles my nerves even more, and I gotta believe the dog can sense it, the way he keeps a wary watch, while I scamper toward the elevator. Just a quick check will, hopefully, allow me to close my eyes and get some sleep, though. Start over tomorrow.
The elevator doors open, and I’m hit with the sound of screaming for the second time in one day. I race toward Laura’s bedroom, But skid to a halt a second time when I find Lucian camped out on the floor beside her door.
One leg propped up, he rests his elbow atop his knee, a drink dangling from his hand. He only spares me a momentary glance, eyes brimming with exhaustion and apathy.
“I’ll … sorry. I’ll leave you alone.” I spin around to leave, but pause and turn back toward him. “Is she okay?”
Without bothering to look at me, he gives a subtle nod and tips back his drink.
“Do you need anything?”
Lips pressed to a hard line, he shakes his head.
My heart is pounding in my chest, mostly from the unexpected encounter, but also because the man just makes me nervous as all hell.
Again, I turn away, but stall halfway. “I’m … sorry about my comment this afternoon. About your outfit? Diarrhea of the mouth sometimes.” I catch a flicker of distaste dance across his face, until he lifts his glass again for another sip.
The clink of the ice a
“If you don’t mind … I just want to wait until she settles. Just to make sure she’s okay.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t bother to look at me, at all, and I get a sense he’s a
Unfortunately for him, I know I won’t sleep with the sounds of her screams echoing through my head all night. So I don’t really give a damn if he’s a
Taking a seat on the floor at the opposite side of the door, I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around them. From this side, I don’t see any of his scars, only the sharp profile of an attractive, but intimidating, man. One who doesn’t bother to acknowledge me.
For what feels like an eternity, we sit quietly, the sounds of moaning and sobbing bleeding through the door. Nell’s voice is flat and commanding, hardly compassionate toward the woman, as if she’s too tired to deal with her.
Lucian sighs and rolls his shoulders back, and I wonder how long he’s been sitting here. What’s going on with her?
His shirt is unbuttoned some, his tie undone, as though he’s had to get comfortable. Still, the awkward silence hangs on the air between us.
“Your mother told me you play piano. Or played. She didn’t specify if you still do, or not.” I’m not the biggest conversationalist. Lord knows, if there was a book in my hands right now, his breathing would get on my nerves, but this one-way conversation is ridiculous with him. It’d probably be easier if I were staring at his scarred half. At least I’d feel a small amount of pity for him, but from this angle, he just looks like an arrogant, moody prick with a perfect jawline.
At this rate, I’d rather stay awake all night counting cracks on my ceilings.
As I push to my feet, he clears his throat.
“What are you really doing here?”
The familiar pangs of guilt settle in, and for a moment, I feel like fifteen-year-old me preparing to confess to Ms. Phillips that I lost her daughter for a minute. Only, he’s not Ms. Phillips. He’s the Mad Son. Devil of Bonesalt. And my palms are sweating. “While I was … down in the library, she apparently went out on the balcony. I had no idea she would … or that she might try to--”
“That’s not what I mean. Why are you here? At the manor?”
“You. I mean, Rand hired me.”
“No shit.”
“I’m here to work.”
His face kicks to the side, his brows lowering. “Yeah? Sure you’re not here to gather up dirt about the fucked-up Blackthornes, to take back to your little friends in town? I don’t think there’s enough crosses out on the road. Maybe you can talk them into adding a few more.”
Once again, my face heats with embarrassment. “I’m not here to spread gossip. I’m here to do my job.”
“You’ve already done that well, it seems.”
Another shrill scream echoes from the other room, and I drop my gaze as the slap of his words settles beneath my skin. A flare of anger shoots up from my gut. “You only know that because I told you I screwed up. Not because you actually give a shit.”