Page 41 of Checks & Bonds

But then, reality came crashing back in with brutal clarity.

The anger returned, sharper and more potent than before. How could she make me feel this way? How could someone like Freya have such a hold on me? It was infuriating—maddening—that she had this power over my thoughts and desires.

I clenched my fists, feeling the anger coil tighter within me. She was supposed to be mine to control, mine to claim. Instead, she defied me at every turn, challenging my authority and making me question everything.

The memory of our argument played in my mind again. Her fiery spirit and sharp tongue had pushed every single one of my buttons. And yet... despite the rage she ignited in me, there was something else—a dark desire that I couldn't shake.

I turned off the shower abruptly, stepping out and grabbing a towel. The cold air hit my skin like a slap, but it did nothing to cool the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Freya's face lingered in my thoughts as I dried off and dressed quickly. The anger mixed with something deeper—something more primal—that left me unsettled and restless.

I needed to figure out how to deal with her... before she drove me completely insane.

13

Freya

Carmen's footsteps echoed down the hall, the sound growing fainter until it vanished completely. The door creaked shut behind her, leaving me alone in the manor's vast silence. I took a deep breath and decided to explore. This place held too many secrets to sit idly by.

I started with the grand foyer, its marble floors gleaming under the soft light filtering through stained glass windows. Intricate patterns danced across the floor, leading my eyes up to a sweeping staircase. Polished wooden banisters curved elegantly upwards, inviting yet imposing.

The library was next, a place of knowledge with towering bookshelves packed tight with volumes of all sizes and ages. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of sunlight that pierced through heavy drapes. The smell of old paper and leather bound my thoughts momentarily, reminding me of the countless hours spent here trying to decipher contracts and find an escape.

Beyond the library lay a drawing room filled with overstuffed armchairs and velvet drapes. Portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes following me as I moved. Family history seepedfrom every brushstroke, a legacy that felt suffocating and foreign all at once.

The dining room was a stark contrast—formal and cold with its long mahogany table stretching out like an accusation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, casting fractured light that shimmered off polished silverware laid out with military precision. A sense of duty and tradition seemed embedded in the very woodwork.

I moved on to the parlor, smaller and more intimate, where plush sofas invited relaxation. A grand piano stood in one corner, its keys untouched for years, perhaps. It struck me as both a centerpiece for gatherings and an object of solitude.

Curiosity led me to a hallway lined with doors on either side. I hesitated before opening one at random—a guest bedroom, quaint but impersonal with its floral bedspread and matching curtains. Another door revealed a study cluttered with papers and maps pinned to corkboards. A sense of urgency hung in the air here, as if someone had left in a hurry.

I ventured deeper into the manor, finding a music room filled with string instruments hanging on walls like trophies. Their silent presence felt almost eerie without melodies to give them life.

Each room I entered added another layer to my understanding of this place—its history, its people, its secrets. As I wandered through corridors and chambers, I felt both overwhelmed and strangely connected to it all.

I stopped when I reached the west wing, hesitating. The shadows seemed thicker here, the air heavier. I knew I shouldn't go down there, but curiosity pulled me forward like a magnet. The silence was deafening as I tiptoed down the hallway, my heart pounding in my ears.

The door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open cautiously. Inside was an office, old and dignified, filledwith an air of gravitas that made me catch my breath. The walls were lined with dark wooden paneling, giving the room a somber yet stately feel. Heavy burgundy drapes framed tall windows, filtering the light into a dim glow that barely illuminated the space.

An enormous mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. Its surface was meticulously organized, every item in its place—an antique brass lamp casting a warm circle of light, a leather-bound journal, an ink well with a quill pen standing proudly next to it. Papers were stacked neatly in trays, their edges aligned with precision.

Behind the desk hung a large portrait of a stern-looking man with piercing eyes and a commanding presence. This must have been Henry's grandfather. His gaze seemed to follow me as I moved around the room, making me feel like an intruder in his private sanctum.

Bookshelves lined two walls from floor to ceiling, filled with volumes bound in leather and cloth. Titles ranged from legal texts to histories and classic literature. A ladder on wheels allowed access to the highest shelves, adding to the room's old-world charm.

A large globe stood near one corner, its surface worn from years of use. It invited exploration, as if spinning it might reveal secrets hidden within its geography. Nearby, an antique clock ticked steadily on a mantelpiece above a small fireplace. Its rhythmic sound was almost soothing amidst the room's stillness.

A pair of leather armchairs flanked the fireplace, their surfaces cracked with age but still invitingly comfortable. Between them sat a small table with an ashtray and a crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid—whiskey perhaps—and two matching glasses.

The scent of aged paper and polished wood filled my nostrils as I continued to take in every detail. Nothing seemed out ofplace here; everything spoke of order and control, much like Henry himself. Yet there was something deeply personal about this space that made me feel like I was glimpsing into the soul of his family history.

As I stood there absorbing it all, I couldn't shake the feeling that this room held more than just memories—it held legacies and burdens passed down through generations.

I moved to the desk, my eyes drawn to a small silver frame. It held a picture of two children, a girl and a boy. This must be Henry and Minka. The girl, with her light curls and mischievous grin, clutched the hand of a boy who couldn't be more than ten. His hair was tousled, eyes sparkling with laughter as he held up a fish he'd just caught.

I picked up the photo, examining the boy more closely. This version of Henry was so different from the man I knew. His face was alive with joy, his smile so wide it wrinkled his nose and revealed deep dimples on either side of his mouth. There was an innocence in his expression, a pure delight that seemed almost foreign now.

Anyone who looked at him would know he would be a good-looking guy. He had a strong jawline, the piercing eyes—but softened by youth and laughter. He looked carefree, so different from the stoic and serious man who had claimed me at the Imprinting ceremony. The memory of that day made my chest tighten, but this photograph offered a glimpse into a different reality.

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