Page 2 of Widow's Walk

I bolt down the hallway, forcing myself to slow before I hit the stairs. I descend casually, trying not to look like my heart is hammering out of my chest.

I stop and post up outside of the office and begin to pace, pretending to be lost in thought. Despite every internal warning, I wait with anxiety and excitement.

The door swings open, and he comes rolling out like a storm. Shoulders tense, eyes ablaze. He stops the second he sees me. I stand there like a deer in headlights as he stares back.

My eyes break from his to study the rest of him, knowing I only have a second or two to do so. Dark eyes, nearly black, framed by thick lashes. His hair almost as dark, and rich skin from his Persian roots on his father’s side.

He’s handsome, objectively. But more than that. He’s formidable. A grown man, and I’m barely a teenager.

His gaze rakes over me with something like contempt, or maybe horror, scowling before turning away without a word. Only a thunderous silence and the slam of the front door echoing in his wake.

But for a single second, he looked at me. Really looked at me as if I weren’t invisible. And for the first time in my life, someone saw me.

I didn’t mean to end up in the kitchen. I just needed to get away. From the murmuring guests, the cold stares. My feet carried me on autopilot until I found myself standing beneath the harsh fluorescent lights and the scent of roasting meat.

The clatter of pans and rhythmic shuffle of prep work came to a halt the moment they noticed me. They stopped and stared.

Then, like someone had hit the play button, they turned away. Back to their chopping and stirring, murmuring to each other in voices too low for me to hear. Pretending as if I weren’t even there. Which I appreciate right now. I don’t want eyes on me. It’s why I wandered in here in the first place.

I drift further in, hands behind my back. I peek into a simmering pot, pass a tray of neatly cut vegetables. Floating through until I end up next to a man who drew me to him.

He’s tall, but not like the men I’m used to seeing. Older than my father, but not yet greying. The only one who hadn’t looked at me like the others when I entered the room. Not with suspicion, as if I were here to make trouble. Not with pity for the girl being raised by animals. He looked at me with calm, quiet curiosity.

I feel his eyes on me, and I learned long ago to never back down to a stare down. So, I meet his eyes with mine, unwavering. But I almost lose the contest when he gives me a small, but warm, smile. It’s not something I’m used to.

“You hungry, little shadow?” he asks. Simplyasks. Doesn’t lash or bark.

My breath catches in my throat. I don’t verbally respond. Only nod my head once.

“My name’s Baxter.”

Chapter one

Sinclair

The Golzars are in my house.

I started drinking the moment I heard they were coming. Not sipping, but drinking. Not because I’m nervous because fuck that. I’d like to be in the right frame of mind when people start negotiating over my uterus.

Right now, I’m standing directly outside my father’s office, leaning against the wall with a wine bottle in one hand and the stem of my patience snapping in the other. Two mob gnomes stand flanking the door like little lawn ornaments, trying to pretend like I’m not here. But the way their shoulders lock up when I shift tells me otherwise. They’re skittish, and it puts a little smile on my face.

“The engagement will be announced next month. We’ll host a party in honor of it,” I hear my father say, I’m sure he’s sitting behind his mahogany desk, trying to puff his chest out for the Golzars.

“Our family accepts,” a deep, unfamiliar voice says.

A long pause follows it, and someone clears their throat. “Yes, we accept,” another deep voice adds with a disgruntled manner like he’s chewing on broken glass.

A dark chuckle happens, and the first unfamiliar voice speaks again. “I apologize for my son’s surliness. He’s still coming to terms with the arrangement.”

Translation: He doesn’t want to marry the psychopath you’re offering.

My father’s chortle makes my eye twitch. It’s the kind of sound that makes you want to set something on fire.

“I’m sure the rumors about my daughter have something to do with it.” He laughs again, and others join in this time. “I assure you, she only needs a firm hand, and she’ll stay in line. But she’s young and in good health. Should give you plenty of heirs.”

My nostrils flare, and I white-knuckle the bottle in my hand. One of the gnomes scoots slightly like he’s preparing for impact. I smirk at him, but he won’t look at me. I lean in closer and imagine what it would be like to turn men to stone with a glance.

What Athena meant as punishment, Medusa turned into power.

---