Page 66 of Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter Eleven

There was a small landing at the top of the stairs with a window. Heavy fabric blinds were drawn. Light came from a small, elegant lamp sitting on an equally elegant side table. Immediately to the left at the top of the stairs was a lovely carved door. A small hall ran along the right side; the railing that protected the hall from the opening of the stairwell was made of glossy dark wood. There were three doors off the hall.

Rose looked around at the four possible doors, shrugged, and tried the one closest to the top of the stairs. It was pitch dark beyond until her groping hand found a switch on the wall.

The room was large, taking up nearly half of the footprint of the house. Pale green walls with crisp white trim were complemented by Oriental rugs in colors of gold and moss green atop the worn but still lovely hardwood floor. It was dominated by a bed.

A massive bed. It was probably nine feet square. The duvet cover was pale gray shot with silver threads. A massive headboard and footboard, both of dark wood, had posts that stretched nearly to the ceiling. A couch and two wide, low armchairs made up an elegant seating area near the door.

Silver sconces with white glass shades were evenly spaced along the wall, illuminating the room.

Rose stared at the big bed for a moment, then practically leapt back and pulled the door closed. She turned her back to the room, a sinking feeling weighing down her stomach.

At the foot of the stairs, there was the quiet murmur of voices as Marek and Tristan talked. Weston was nowhere in sight.

Tentatively, she went to the first door in the hall, knocking once before opening it.

It was a narrow sitting room, roughly a third of the size of the remaining upstairs square footage. There was a fireplace in one wall, and leather tufted furniture—couch, chaise, armchair. A soft white blanket was thrown casually over the back of the couch, inviting someone to sit down and tuck the blanket over their legs. A small cart in the corner held a discreet single-serve coffee machine and a kettle for tea. In front of the windows was a small square table, one side pushed against the wall, chairs pulled up to each of the remaining three sides.

She closed that door and went to the next—opening it to find a room-sized closet. At this size, it should probably be called a dressing room instead of a closet. One wall was lined with clothes bars, built-in drawers, and slanted shelves for shoes. The other wall had a vanity, complete with a mirror surrounded by round-bulb lights and a small chair. Beside the vanity were three dressers. A long, narrow padded bench was placed in the center of the room, the perfect place to sit to put on a pair of shoes.

She stepped back, closing the door, belatedly realizing that she should have poked around to see if there was anything she could wear. But something about the room unnerved her.

Something about the whole place unnerved her. And maybe even scared her.

The final door opened and Weston appeared. Behind him she could see a massive, elegant bathroom. He met her gaze briefly, then looked away, only his left eye moving. Silence hung heavy and awkward between them.

You’re Rose Hancock, the woman he is stupidly in love with.

Not that he was in love with. Tristan had used the present tense.

I’ve seen your picture. It’s the bloody wallpaper on his phone.

Rose started to say something, but stopped. The half-formed sound was enough to make him meet her gaze.

You’re the reason he kept bouncing around looking at different cottages, until we finally found ‘your’ cottage.

“The cottage?” she asked quietly.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know what it was. We’ve been over this.”

“Why, Wes?”

“I don’t need your pity,” he said.

Marek’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose’s back was to the staircase, so she couldn’t see him, but she heard his steps stop, felt the pressure of his gaze.

“It’s late,” Marek said quietly. “Perhaps we should get some sleep.”

“There’s only one bed,” Rose replied, not turning.

“This house is set up for trinities.”

“We’re not a trinity,” Weston said. “Who are you, Lee?”

Marek was silent for a moment, as if crafting his words before he spoke. “I am technically a legacy to the Trinity Masters.”

Rose turned until she could see both men.

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