Page 67 of When Hearts Surrender

“That asshole,” I growl under my breath.

Every time, just as I think we’re about to get closer, he’ll pull the rug from under me and morph into his icy king persona once more.

I won’t let him get to me.

The arrangement is for a short time and I want a baby. And if nothing comes from this marriage on the fertility front, at least I’ll walk out of it having saved Grandpa’s business and getting the funds to do fertility treatments and maybe even the animal shelter charity work too.

This isn’t permanent.

But despite my blistering anger, the thought of leaving the estate, of leavinghim,causes the hollow ache to reappear inside my chest.

My Silas is trapped inside the frigid king and I want to free him.

A quick pitter-pattering sounds behind me, followed by an excited howl, and I smile, turn around, and greet Silas.

“You want to come with me to explore?” I ruffle his soft, brown fur. Nothing like playing detective to distract me from an infuriating man.

Silas wags his tail and gives me another excited bark, and my earlier dark mood brightens a bit.

Blowing out a breath, I turn to the first door on the left and open it. Poking my head in, I see a guest room very similar to my room—a largebed, two wingback chairs, the curtains are half drawn, letting in some of the evening light.

Clearly, despite the wing being closed, the staff have kept things tidy.

Returning to the corridor, I continue my exploration of the other rooms, finding much of the same—guest rooms not in active use, some having white sheets covering the furniture, no doubt to extend the period between cleanings.

I walk toward the last set of doors on the hall, the mirror image position of Maxwell’s room in the east wing, turn the doorknob, and step inside.

My movements must have dispelled some dust.

Coughing, I fan my hand in front of me, shocked at the thick, musty smell in here. After drawing aside the velvet curtains, I fiddle with the stuck latch on the French doors and open them, letting in some much-needed fresh air.

The room is three times the size of the other guest rooms. The furniture here is also covered in white sheets. I make out the shapes of a large bed, a few chairs and tables, a tall dresser. But unlike the other spaces, this room is a still life painting—a dark coat gathering dust on the coatrack, a purse half-opened on the floor, a book flipped to a page on the nightstand. The space looks eerie, like it has been locked up because whatever transpired here has caused too much sorrow, but the owner still wanted to leave things untouched, a living mausoleum.

Silas lets out a mournful howl and I frown, turning to him. He’s standing next to an oak bookcase, sniffing the shelves. He pulls out a few books and proceeds to gnaw on them.

“Oh no! Silas, drop that now!” I imagine Agnes’s glacial expression if the dog damages the priceless heirlooms. Those might be first editions!

I hurry toward him as he moves his attention to another book on the lowest shelf. Growling, he sticks his snout deep into the space.

Reaching him in a few strides, I gently nudge him away and squat down, my fingers smoothing over the few unfortunate books that appear to have bite marks on them.

“Please, don’t kill me,” I mutter under my breath while stacking the fallen books back on the shelf—if no one sees them and I say nothing, we can pretend nothing happened?

Just as I reach in to adjust the last volume Silas touched—the one that had him howling with his snout buried deep into the shelf, I realize that book isn’t budging.

Frowning, I lean down and try again.

It doesn’t move.

What the…

My fingers trail over the worn spine—it’s an old copy of Emily Brontë’sWuthering Heights—before they catch on something.

A small dip on the bottom of the front cover. My brows furrow as I explore that strange recess. It doesn’t feel like a dog bite—

Rumble.

The floor shakes beneath me and the bookcase moves, revealing a gap between the furniture and the wall.

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