Page 9

Jacob Hart wasn’t a good man, but he was my future. He was the type of man I knew how to handle, how to control. And now he’s dead. Killed in front of me by a psycho in a Santa hat that I’m just now noticing is tucked under my pillow.

Scrambling up, I throw the pillow across the room and stare down at the hat. Draven left. He left me here, door open and car running to fend for myself. He was in my room? How did he know which one was mine, and more importantly, what message is he trying to send by doing this?

Not a good one, I’m sure. Maybe it’s a warning to keep my mouth shut. Maybe it’s a token of appreciation because I did, but I doubt it. The feeling of dread pooling inside my stomach has less to do with the horror I witnessed tonight than it does the inky black uncertainty ahead of me, and this only makes it worse.

Bastard, baby, murderer, psycho. Draven.

What secrets are you hiding?



















Four

Breakfast consistsof over-easy eggs, wheat toast, fresh fruit, and a glass of orange juice I don’t touch. I love oranges, but nothing flavored like them. True to Madeline’s word, it shows up precisely at 8:00am on a silver tray. Elegant, I suppose. Also unnecessary.

After I finish eating, I wander downstairs with my dishes to find the kitchen. It’s massive with four ovens, two sinks, three refrigerators, more cupboards than I’ve ever seen, and an island in the center with a butcher’s block countertop. There isn’t a single microwave in sight.

The moment my presence is noticed, all movement stops. Four faces turn toward me like I’m a ghost, an unwelcome intruder. Maybe I am. “Oh, god. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “No one told me what to do with my dishes when I was done with breakfast. I thought I should bring them down.”

A short woman with pale white skin and jet black hair moves toward me, regaining her composure first. “You must be Miss Harbough. I’m Temperance, I’m the head of housekeeping here. In the future you can leave your dishes in your room and either Lina or Eve will grab them.”

Here we go again with names. There’s only one other woman in the room with us, and she doesn’t look like a Lina or an Eve with her wavy, mousy-brown hair and giant eyes. “Are you—”

“Shay,” she says, and I have to admit that name fits her much better. “I’m not a housekeeper. I’m a server, and also a runner. I’ll be the one you come to if you need anything. Clothes, shower products, things like that.”

So she’s important then. Probably the one responsible for my sundress disaster of a closet. “It’s nice to meet you, Shay. Thank you for getting everything ready for me. Who do I thank for that amazing breakfast?”

The man lazily washing dishes rolls his eyes and nods toward an uppity-looking guy wearing an apron. “That would be Lord Leopold here. Leo, for short. Head of the kitchen, sole cook, and definitely better than all of us in every way.”

“That’ll do, Dane,” he mutters, then plasters on a smile as he wipes his hand and reaches out for mine. “Leo is fine. My full name isn’t even Leopold, it’s Leonard. Dane’s just angry he was demoted to dishwasher after he set histhirdoven on fire.”

Dane sticks his tongue out teasingly, and the tension in the room seems to dissipate.

My shoulders relax. “I can’t cook, either. I can bake like you wouldn’t believe, but the rest is lost on me. I’m glad to know I’m not alone.”

“Oh, you can bake? You’ll have to come down and—”

“Hush, Leo,” Temperance interrupts. “She’s Alexander’s fiancé. She won’t be baking anything.”