Page 48 of Brutal King

This is Gideon’s room, there’s no doubt about it. He’d never settle for anything ordinary.

I shoot a couple of close-up pictures, and a few more from some feet away. Suddenly, they aren’t just tall, they’re huge and commanding, completely overwhelming the wide hall. They loom over me, imposing and demanding.

Come inside. We don’t bite.

“Yeah right,” I say, but my hand is already on the brass lever.

The door opens with a screech, the haunting echo filling me with both terror and curiosity. I ignore any warning bells ringing in my ears and enter.

The bedroom is moody and elegant, with slate gray damask panels on the walls and a large crystal chandelier hanging from a groin vaulted ceiling.

But the impressiveness of the architecture isn’t what catches my eye and has me blinking in surprise. It’s the three cats currently napping away the afternoon on his canopied bed.

“What in the world?”

One cat, an orange fluffy thing with green eyes, is splayed out at the foot of the bed. Another, a black one that might be Winter, I can’t be sure anymore, is in the middle. Lastly, a huge black and orange mix is curled up on a pillow, his face buried under his own tail.

Neither of the felines is bothered by my presence. They aren’t afraid I’ll shoo them away. That tells me they’re used to being here, which in turn means… Gideon knows about them. He not only knows, but he lets them sleep on his bed.

I’m not sure what to do with that information, especially when all it does is add questions to an already complicated man.

Does he let them in himself? Does he sleep in the bed with them? How many cats are currently in the house, anyway?

“Strange man,” I say as I approach the orange cat and stroke his thick coat.

I take photos of the cats sleeping on the villain’s bed, and of the modern velvet couch set in front of the antique fireplace. I’ve always been intrigued by the way different eras can come together so well. Gideon is in everything, the lines and contrasts. Lights and shadows.

This place is a photographer’s dream, and although I would never admit it to Gideon, I’m inspired. Every picture I take is done with more enthusiasm than the last. Because I’m not just capturing amazing architecture or evidence to be handed over. I’m peering into the secret world of Gideon Black. I am forever committing to memory the details of his life behind closed doors.

This is what he sees when no one is looking. What he touches. I open the chest of drawers and run a finger over his things— ties, cufflinks, belts, and a jar of pennies.

They call him the Ferryman and these are his calling card. I reach in and pick up a few, then let them slip between my fingers. Are they destined for someone specifically? Or does he simply collect them for fun?

I shut the drawer and stand in front of the mirror. Shutting one eyelid, I imagine a coin placed over it. It’s morbid as fuck, but I can’t help it. It’s hard not to wonder if Gideon’s ultimate plan for me isn’t to put pennies over my eyes.

Unless I do it to him first.

Just in case, I pluck two of the coins and stick them in my pocket before continuing on with my exploration. Creeped out or not, I want to satisfy my curiosity about the beautiful monster that’s taken me hostage.

Gideon is many things. Cocky, arrogant, and evil. Animal lover? What he isn’t is boring. I’m fascinated by him, by what makes him tick, what motivates him. Why is a billionaire that looks like some dark angel, who could have anything in the world, so hell-bent on revenge? Better yet, what is it about him that makes me want to find out? I want to discover if, like the photographs I take, there’s more to him than what I can see with the naked eye.

Being in his personal space gives me an intimate glimpse into his mind. Is it an invasion of privacy? Perhaps. But if I feel any guilt over snooping, I tamp it down with reminders of his transgressions against me. Besides, I’m too captivated by this opportunity. Even if it does bother me, my conscience won’t stop me from capturing it all. Imagining him here, lounging, deviously plotting. Sleeping in a pile of cats.

Tossing and turning when his nightmares visit him at night.

I drop the camera as that thought creeps into my mind.

For a moment, I stare at the bed, a faint image flashing through my head of Gideon lying there restlessly battling his demons. Why would I think of something like that? What did I observe that made me believe a man like him would have nightmares? He’s the Devil incarnate, there is no reason for him to fear the night.

Yet, when I go to take another shot, I can’t bring myself to do it.

It’s the light. Somehow, it’s changed. Shifted. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Letting the camera hang around my neck, I explore the room. At one end, is a door that leads to a massive bathroom with white marble floors, large walk in shower, claw foot tub and cream colored walls. Here, once again, the use of old and new combines flawlessly. Past and present.

I’m starting to see a pattern with Gideon.

Beyond the bathroom is a closet that’s bigger than my bedroom at Briar House. Suits in every shade of dark—like his soul, I add— line two sides of the room, dress shoes fill an entire wall shelf, and belts and other accessories are placed in wooden slots on the closet island.

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