Page 31 of Goldrage
Bianca screeches and then whimpers. Her irritating voice scrapes against my eardrums. Valentine’s shoulders drop, resignation etching lines into his weathered face. But it’s Adrian’s reaction that makes my muscles seize up—shock bleeding into concern, then morphing into something primal. It’s the kind of look that says he’d tear through his chains if he could, consequences be damned.
“The paternity test was inconclusive,” Mother adds. “Some issue with their equipment. The doctor will drawmore blood and try again in a month. For now, the father is unknown.”
A month. Four weeks of not knowing, of wondering, of?—
No. I know. The math doesn’t lie, even if everyone else in this room does.
My child. My blood. Someone I’ll shield from every shadow that ever darkened my doorway. I’ll raise this child right—not with Lucian’s fists and fury, not with his cruelty disguised as lessons. I’ll be the father I never had, because I’ve spent twenty-eight years learning exactly whatnotto do.
And fuck… I just need someone to love.
I’m already moving toward the couch. “Aurelia stays here. She doesn’t leave the estate. I won’t risk her running off with my child.”
Adrian’s head snaps up, chains singing their metallic song as he strains forward. “Why are you so sure it’s yours?”
I let the silence stretch, let my smile answer for me. Cold. Calculated. The kind of expression I learned from watching Lucian conduct “business.” The timeline speaks louder than any words could. Seven weeks ago, Aurelia was in my bed, under my hands, crying out my name. Not his.
“Guards.” My voice carries the weight of command now, settling into my bones like it was always meant to be there. “Grab her things.” I watch in satisfaction as a guard snatches Aurelia’s purse, leaving her without a phone or any way to contact the outside world. After the guard hands me the purse for safe keeping, I say, “Prepare one of the guest rooms. Ms. Draven will be staying with us until the child is born.”
Aurelia jumps to her feet with fire in her eyes. “No. You’renottrapping me in a room again.”
I turn to face her fully, drinking in the sight of her—alive, defiant, carrying my child. The contrast to how I last saw her, bleeding on marble floors, hits a tender spot in my chest. The same damn spot I’ve been trying to ignore.
But finally, that tenderness is no longer for her. It’s formychild.
“You’re carrying the Harrow heir,” I say. “You think I’m going to let you wander around Seattle, risking my child’s life? You’ll stay on the estate grounds. You’ll be comfortable, well-fed, properly cared for.” I let my voice drop, soft as silk over steel. The same tone Lucian used before he struck. “But you will not leave. Not until that baby is born. After that, I’ll show you a mercy you don’t deserve. You’ll be free to live your pathetic life as long as it’s not in Seattle. I’ll be raising the baby alone.”
The cry that tears from her throat is pure anguish, and tears gather in those green eyes like storms on the horizon. Her mouth opens, closes, the words trapped behind whatever wall she’s built to survive this.
Perfect. Let her feel what I felt when she betrayed me. Let her understand what it means to lose everything that fucking matters.
Aurelia’s face drains of color, but there it is—that stubborn lift of her chin I know better than my own reflection. Adrian looks ready to shatter his wheelchairwith the force of his fury, muscles coiled despite the chains holding him down.
But he won’t move. He can’t. I hold all the cards now, and the knowledge fills me like the finest whiskey. This is what Lucian felt. This intoxicating rush of absolute control, of bending the world to your will through force and fear.
Why did I resist this for so long?
Valentine steps forward and clears his throat casually. “Julian, perhaps?—”
“No. This is how it’s going to be. She made her choice when she walked through those gates.” I lock eyes with Aurelia. “You’ve been desperate to be part of this family your whole life. Welcome home.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AURELIA
The hallway stretches out in front of me like a throat waiting to swallow. Persian runners muffle my footsteps as I explore. I’ve spent the entire afternoon wandering. This place is a maze and it feels endless. Crystal chandeliers drip from coffered ceilings. Frames have portraits of dead Harrows who watch me with disapproval. And what I hate most is that this place doesn’t scream “old money.” It’s more like a desperate monument from people who need you to know they could buy your soul.
I move deeper into the mansion, a few of Julian’s guards following me. I touch some paneling and the wood feels alive, pulsing with secrets it’s absorbed over decades. How many screams have these walls swallowed? How many pleas have died in these corridors?
I stop at the end of a hallway where there’s an archway. I peer inside and glimpse something that makes my stomach turn—dozens of glass eyes.
The trophy room.
I walk inside despite my mind telling me to turn back. The smell hits first—leather and formaldehyde. A stale fear. Dozens of mounted heads line the walls in neat rows. Deer with magnificent antlers. A mountain lion frozen mid-snarl. Bears, wolves, even what looks like a fucking zebra. There are species from all over the world here, and all of them are staring down at me with those terrible beady, empty eyes.
I swallow, just to keep my throat open. These aren’t trophies; they’re victims. These poor creatures had been living their lives, breathing and running and caring for their young, until some Harrow decided their death would make a nice decoration.
And the arrangement makes my skin crawl. They’re not displayed randomly. There’s a pattern that feels less like a hunter’s pride and more like a serial killer’s collection. Each head is positioned to make you feel surrounded, watched, and judged by the dead.
