My mind skipped over the long day of cleaning and the horrible realisation that Lucien Ashfall lived in a resplendent estate tucked in the English countryside, yet he dwelled in the middle of it—trapped in living quarters that were more of a jail than a palace.
“It’s fine.” I charged down the stairs, my headache crushing.
“Is he okay?” she asked, following me like a bad smell.
“Why wouldn’t he be?” I kept my head down so she wouldn’t see the truth that I’d fallen on top of him thanks to his bloody panther, only to end up flat on my back with him pressed against me.
“I’ve heard rumours he’s not well.”
“He seemed perfectly okay to me.”
As if I’d tell you anything.
“What else happened?” she asked, not letting me leave. “Aside from the accident.”
No way did I want her following me back to my pavilion or seeing me pass out in the garden if I didn’t make it home fast enough. I spun to face her, gritting my teeth against the rush of vertigo. “Nothing happened.”
“Something happened.”
“I did some cleaning for him. That’s it.”
“Cleaning?”
I crossed my arms, flinching against the wet fabric. “Look, I’m tired, hungry, and not feeling very well. I don’t have to answer your questions, so—”
“Is he dying?”
“What?” Words stuck in my throat. “W-Why would you ask that?”
She shrugged. “He looked in pain the last time I saw him. Coupled with the rumours that he passes out a lot...it’s only natural to wonder if he’s terminal.”
“He passes out a lot?”
God, empathy and pity and a whole lot of trouble gushed through me.
The agony on his face. The trauma in his voice.
Back in his bedroom, he’d seemed moments away from begging death to take him. His despair had been so thick, it’d choked both of us. His pain was a living entity, devouring him alive but...that wasn’t my story to tell. He couldn’t afford to look weak because then the vultures would arrive, and circle more than they already were.
I might not understand him. I might have very confusing thoughts about him. And I might wish every moment to get out of this place, but...I wasn’t a gossiper and for some reason, he’d given me a smidgen of trust.
If I stood any chance of getting out of here, it was most likely through him so...I’d be loyal to my unofficial, slave-driving employer, and keep his secrets.
I met Evelyn’s eyes, hoping my ability at lying had improved. “He’s absolutely fine. As far as I know, there’s nothing wrong with him. And now, if you don’t mind, I really have to go. It’s been a long, long day.”
I ran before she could stop me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I WOKE UP STARVING.
The adrenaline and stress of yesterday had left me with a hollowed-out feeling. Whisper also hadn’t come to visit me in the night, which made me fear that Lucien still wasn’t well.
The urge to check on him caught me by surprise.
What did it matter to me that he was hurting?
He was a stranger. An enemy.
He was the reason I was in this mess.
Not really though...
He wasn’t the one who’d tested my blood and thrown me in here.
In a way, we were allies and all the men outside Cinderkeep were the true villains.
I sighed, unable to even convince myself that I wasn’t in humongous trouble where he was concerned.
My gaze went to the gravel-rash that’d long since healed on my palm. The men who’d trapped me here under false pretences had stolen my DNA to see if I was compatible with him. At the time, I hadn’t understood, and I still had far too many unanswered questions, but...if his blood was different from other humans, I supposed it made sense that they’d need to find someone with a similar make-up?
But what does it mean that they chose me?
Were we similar?
We seemed to share an unnatural habit of passing out at random times but that only meant we sucked at life in general, not that we were special.
My stomach growled again, forcing me from my bed and into the white-tiled shower.
Once I’d dressed in a cream floaty dress that didn’t dare cling to me too tightly, I went straight to the wine cupboard.
When the pantry and fridge had been restocked the other day, the wine hadn’t been replaced, and even though I knew the shelves were bare, I still had to check.
My plans for the day—after submitting to awful servitude yesterday—included lying in the garden, soaking up the wonderful sunshine, and taking a long, restorative nap once I’d devoured a picnic for one.
But...no wine meant my nap might not be as deep and as long as I hoped.
Fine.
Closing the cupboard, I glanced around for my flip-flops then decided to take a page out from the master of this Cinderkeep’s playbook and go barefoot instead.
I knew where there was wine.
In his kitchen.
There were multiple bottles of every kind.
So what I was about to commit daylight robbery? So what I might be using the excuse of wine-hunting to check on him? So what I was worried about him and felt responsible?
Striding from my pavilion, I squinted against the bright sun and made my way through the impressive estate. Staying on the thick, carpet-like grass, I made my way to the black stone palace in the distance.
All around me, birds flitted and sang, bumblebees darted and buzzed, and the many little streams running like veins from one central heart babbled and bubbled. If I was a painter, I might be inspired to capture such countryside perfection.
But painting required far too much concentration.
I wasn’t lying when I said I was lazy.
Yes, I had to avoid all kinds of stress, but I genuinely enjoyed just watching the world go by rather than participating in it.
The moment I had some medication in the form of apple-blossom wine, I would spend the rest of the day giving my poor hands time to heal from their blisters. However, the moment I rounded a hedge of camellias, all those plans popped like bubbles.
Slamming to a stop, my toes dug into the grass.
Most of the women—at least the ones still alive—lounged in a sun-drenched garden like smug cats. Some sat beneath the shade of an intricately carved sala, while others lay on plaid blankets in full light.
Platters of fruit and cheese waited to be devoured. One blonde girl poured glasses of icy liquid, the pitcher dripping in the morning summer heat.
My mouth watered.
They all went deathly silent the second they saw me.
“Well, well,” a nameless girl purred. “You were telling the truth, Evelyn. She is still alive.”
“Didn’t think you’d survive past the first hour,” another added, smirking over her glass. “After seeing how you turned catatonic in the ballroom that first day, every breath you take is through sheer dumb luck.”
Laughter rippled.
I crossed my arms and tried to look tougher than I was. “Morning to you too.”
“Morning?” one scoffed. “It’s practically noon.”
The chorus of giggles stung like nettles.
Shifting to leave, my gaze caught on a girl with mousy brown hair, naturally pink lips, and stunningly blue eyes. She didn’t join in the others laughing, sitting on the outskirts, knees tucked up and arms wrapped around herself. Her no-nonsense jeans and white t-shirt said she might fall into the same category I did: mistake.
Giving her a quick smile, I padded away from the group only—
The girl shot to her feet.
The others hurled their hate in her direction instead of mine.
“Remind us again how you’re still alive?” A couple of girls giggled. “You’re such a waste of space, Laura.”
“You’re still wearing the same clothes as when you were thrown in here. Have you been living under a bush?” More laughter.
