Page 84 of Gilded Locks
Breathless and burning, her hand closed around her throat where the phantom pressure of his fingers still lingered. The book lay open in her lap. She traced the words he’d written as a boy and reached for her wine but the glass was empty.
Slamming the book shut, she left the library and returned to the kitchen, stealing the bottle and taking it, along with the book, up to the privacy of her room.
Chapter 16
Lisichka
Hunter stalked through the halls, blood running hot, hands still trembling from what he’d almost done. His room lay at the end of the north wing, far from the others and exactly how he needed it.
The heavy oak door slammed behind him.
Home. It was a sanctuary as much as a predator’s den.
Exposed wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, dark as old blood. The walls were made of raw stone, interrupted only by a massive window that overlooked the frozen forest. No curtains so he could see any threats coming head-on.
The only one he missed approaching was the little blonde currently testing his control. Stalking to the window, he stared out at the choppy sea, wondering how anyone so fragile could manage that on the scrap wood she called a boat.
But she wasn’t fragile was she? There was something determined under that ultra-feminine surface. A survivor. Maybe even a moral compass. The longer she was here, the harder it became to form a connection between her and Jordan Calder. She was nothing like her filthy brother.
He gripped the thick custom-built bed frame that dominated the adjacent wall. A hand-carved bear faced growled back at him with a lethal stare. His gaze dropped to the black sheets and pelts.
He’d gotten too close. Shared too much. He should have never given her that book. The language barrier was a form of protection, a wall she couldn’t penetrate, and he’d just given her the fucking key.
What did it matter if she wanted to learn Russian? Why did that trigger some endearing response in him? She was a thief and the sister of his enemy. She was not to be trusted.
Speaking of which, he withdrew his phone and opened the surveillance app, scrolling through the various feeds to search for her. She was no longer in the library.
He dropped into the leather chair that faced the fireplace, worn smooth from years of sleepless nights, he propped his booted feet on the bearskin carpet and used the tracking filter to find any movement. The servants were downstairs, existing like silent shadows. Katya was reading a book, safely tucked away in her private wing. Ash was seeing to Stone’s aftercare—Ah… There she was, in the kitchen.
He watched as she snatched an open bottle of wine and carried it out. Tracking her journey, he fed his twisted obsession with her a little longer.
Lisichka. He’d called her little fox. The word had escaped before he could cage it, soft and possessive and entirely too revealing.
The motion sensors tracked her path from the kitchen to the bedroom they assigned to her. He should stop. He didn’t need to see anymore. He’d seen enough. The way she’d looked at him, hungry and trusting and a threat to every fucking wall he’d built around himself.
Instead, he sank deeper into the chair and watched her infiltrate his private home like she belonged there. Her ease bothered him. How dare she feel so entitled to their personal domain. She had no clue how deeply the three of them valued their privacy and how privileged she was to earn an invitation during off-hours. The only reason he agreed to let her stay was because he believed in keeping friends few and far between while keeping enemies close enough to kill.
Shutting herself into the bedroom, she pressed her back against the door and twisted the gilded lock with trembling fingers. Did that make her feel safe? Little did she know he had every key.
Her body language lacked the confidence she exhibited over the last hour. Now, she appeared shaky and nervous. A clever little fox on the run from a big scary predator, running back to her foxhole because she wanted to feel safe again. From him. From this world she’d thrown herself into with zero caution.
Foolish little fox, signing over her soul and committing to things she couldn’t imagine.
That thin piece of wood wouldn’t protect her from any of them. Nothing could.
She tilted the bottle back, her throat working as she swallowed several gulps. She appeared just as triggered as him by their last encounter.
Wine dripped down her chin as she pulled the mouth of the bottle away and gasped. She wiped her full lips with the back of her hand. No grace, no performance. Just a raw glimpse of her true state. A woman unraveling.
He’d done that to her.
No, she’d done that to him.
Hunter had sought the library for solitude but found her instead, curled up like she belonged there. The earnest frustration on her face as she tried to meld two of the most challenging languages in the world stirred something familiar and forgotten inside of him.
Those lost memories slammed into him hard enough to recognized the need in her eyes, that desperation to adapt and fit in, to survive. It was the first time he saw traits in her that resonated with him.
And that subtle connection carved straight through his walls. He’d been there. He recalled his own frustration, fear, and doubt from a time when he needed to make the best of a difficult situation. He’d struggled with the language, worried the words might never make sense. But he needed to learn English. His survival depended on it.
