Page 4 of Widow's Walk

Christ.

I leave them with a sharp glare, following their simple instructions, until I find the second staircase.

The steps groan beneath my weight. The higher I climb, the more I question my sanity. Maybe I should’ve waited. Set a meeting. Arrange a formal introduction on neutral ground. In daylight, with witnesses.

But something about catching her off guard appealed to me.

When I reach the top, I pause outside the door. Haunting and oddly soothing classical music seeps through the cracks. I try the knob, and find it unlocked.

Of course. No fear. No caution. Welcoming danger.

The door opens into a room belonging to a villainess from a different century. Black wallpaper shimmers faintly with baroque patterns under the flicker of dozens of lit candles. A maroon chaise lounge sits beneath the ceiling-high bookshelf, dozens of books cluttering it with worn spines. An open door reveals a black-tiled bathroom with a clawfoot tub that gleams under low light.

Heavy velvet drapes pool near the windows, and there’s one thing that is out of place, like an angel in Hell. A grand piano. White. Pristine. Smooth.

I float past it, brushing the keys with a fingertip before reaching the oversized bed. The covers are askew, the scent lingering around it oddly sweet. Foliage drapes from a built-in canopy, vines curling down toward the large open window. A sheer curtain billows in the night breeze. And through it, her.

She stands barefoot on the rooftop platform, bottle of alcohol hanging from one hand, as her toes meet the edge. No barrier between her and the abyss. Black lace flutters around her like the wings of a mourning moth. Her bleached hair is messily tied, loose strands brushing the back of her neck. Her silhouette is all sharp lines and soft curves, ethereal and grotesquely beautiful beneath the moonlight. It’s no wonder why men fear her. She is beauty, and she is chaos.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. “What the fuck are you doing?” I say loud enough for her to hear. “You’re going to fall and break your goddamn neck.”

She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she laughs, and it’s light and eerie. “Oh, Blackwell,” she sings, turning slowly. Her bow is theatrical and taunting. “My betrothed. I didn’t expect you to enter mykookylair so willingly.” Her grin widens as her eyes glint, catching the wordkooky—the one I had so graciously labeled her with earlier.

Good to know she listens.

She raises the bottle and takes a long drink, immediately wincing. “Ugh, I thought this was wine.” She inspects the label with a crinkle of her nose, then shrugs it off and drinks again. “Tastes like varnish. Warms the belly though.”

“Get your ass in here. Now,” I demand, agitation rising. And we arejustproperly meeting. How will we make it to the altar?

She smiles lazily, and the moonlight catches on what looks like a diamond on her tooth. “Or what? You’ll write me a stern letter? Call off the wedding?”

“You’re deranged,” I mutter.

Her smile widens. “And you’re catching on.” She looks away. “And it wouldn’t just break my neck, I’d die,” she quips, glancing over the edge. My heart jumps when she sways, and her laugh rings out like a dare. “The look on your face. Priceless.”

“Sinclair—”

“Oh, come on. This would be perfect for you. No wedding. No mad wife. Just an unfortunate accident. Poor Sinclair, gone with the wind.”

My fists curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms as I force myself to stay perfectly still. If I startle her, she might go toppling over and it’ll look like I pushed the bitch, so I didn’t have to marry her. And knowing the vulturous minds of her family, it wouldn’t take much to spin.

She gasps after taking another swig and looks at the bottle in approval. “It gets better after a few sips.”

She grins, then her eyes widen as she feigns another stumble. My heart seizes, but I keep my expression impassive this time.

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, eyes still wide, hand splayed across her chest like she’s just survived a thrill ride. She turns to me,laughing softly, her chest rising and falling with exhilaration. “Well, that was a rush.”

I realize that one wasn’t a game.

“You’re only confirming everything I’ve heard.” I take a measured breath and extend a hand toward her. “Now, come inside.”

Her face softens, and she turns her back to me again. Sighing in contempt and cursing under my breath, I climb out onto the platform. The drop below is most definitely a death sentence.

We stand side by side in the moonlight. I keep my face forward, but I can see her in my peripheral staring blankly out into the darkness that surrounds the night. The silence we’re engulfed in isn’t at all uncomfortable.

“Do you know they call this your widow’s walk?” I ask, unable to help myself.

She smiles faintly. “It is. In both definition and theory.” She glances at me, gauging my reaction, then returns her gaze to the night. “It’s a northern thing, dating back centuries or whatever. Rooftop platforms built on the homes of captains so they can overlook the ports.”

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