Page 95 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Ninety-Five

The Escape

Nobody came to feed her all day. Editha didn’t come to taunt her. It was better that way. Especially today.

The sun had long since set.

Shadows crept across the attic like fingers, stretching across forgotten trunks and dusty beams.

Lyric stood near the wall, her bag already packed and resting beside her. The boots she found were now laced tightly to her ankles. Her father’s cardigan—soft, frayed, loyal—wrapped her in borrowed strength. Her mother’s locket rested at the base of her throat, cool and heavy.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

Not with fear.

With adrenaline.

With the weight of what came next.

She crouched near the narrow attic door and pressed her ear to it.

Silence.

She listened longer, counting breaths. The house made its usual night noises—groaning wood, humming pipes—but no voices. No footsteps. No locks turning.

This was it .

She opened the door slowly, heart pounding, and slipped through.

The stairs dropped in a straight line, every step pressing deeper into darkness. The air in the crawlspace was tighter than she remembered. Cobwebs clung to her face, her arms, her lashes.

She swallowed hard and pressed on, every creak beneath her—a warning.

Cautiously, she crawled into the closet.

Once inside, she froze at the door.

Listened.

Still quiet.

She pulled it open an inch. Then another.

Malachai’s bedroom.

Empty.

The scent of his cologne still hung in the air. Sharp. Familiar. Haunting.

She stepped out, careful not to make a sound.

The room felt like a crime scene. Once a place of comfort and love, now a place of betrayal and lies. Her stomach turned.

She crossed it quickly, hand tightening on the doorknob to the hall.

It opened with a quiet click.

The hallway stretched long and dim, the sconces flickering.

She moved silently, heart racing, sticking to the walls.

Every corner she turned, she expected to see her.

Editha.

A voice. A shadow. A hand reaching.

But there was nothing.

The nursery was just ahead.

She reached for the nursery door with trembling fingers.

She turned the knob and opened it a sliver—

And froze.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Editha.

Asleep in the rocking chair.

Her chin was tucked toward her chest, arms folded loosely. One slipper dangled from her foot, gently swaying. The chair creaked with the weight of her breath, an eerie rhythm in the soft, shadowed room.

Lyric’s eyes darted to the crib.

Noah.

Safe. Still. Sleeping.

She stayed frozen in the doorway, pulse pounding in her ears—throat tight. One wrong sound and it was over.

Not now. Please, not now.

She eased the door open a little wider, just enough to slip in sideways.

Every movement was calculated. Every breath controlled.

She crossed the room like a ghost—silent, steady.

She reached the crib and crouched slowly.

Noah stirred.

Her hands moved fast but carefully, lifting him into her arms, bracing his head, pulling the blanket up and around him.

That’s when it happened.

A soft clink.

A rattle—small, silver—rolled from the folds of the blanket and struck the floor.

The sound cut through the air like a crack.

Lyric’s breath caught.

She looked at Editha.

The woman shifted.

Her foot twitched. Her brows knit. She mumbled something unintelligible.

But she didn’t wake.

The chair creaked again—then settled.

Lyric exhaled slowly, trembling.

She reached for the rattle—then stopped. It would be too loud. Too risky. She left it behind and pulled Noah tighter against her chest.

“Shhh,” she whispered. “It’s okay, baby. We’re getting out of here.”

She backed away from the crib—eyes never leaving Editha.

Once at the door, she turned the knob just enough, pulling it closed without a sound.

Only when she was in the hallway did she breathe again .

She pressed Noah’s head to her shoulder, and they moved—quiet, quick, invisible.

Tonight was the night.

And she wasn’t stopping now.

Lyric held him close—the weight of him grounding her—as her eyes darted in every direction.

The east wing hallway was quiet. Still.

She walked past the portraits that lined the corridor like silent judges—toward the grand staircase.

Every footstep sounded too loud.

Every shadow threatened to shift.

Then—

A door creaked open ahead.

Tessa.

The youngest maid—barely more than a girl—stepped into the corridor and froze.

Her eyes landed on Lyric.

Then on Noah.

They locked eyes.

Tessa’s lips parted. “You can’t—”

But before another word left her mouth, Lyric begged, “Please Tessa, you have to let me go. If I’m out of the picture… Kai is all yours. I know you love him… I can see it.”

Tessa didn’t respond. But her hand… moved—subtly—settling over her lower belly.

Lyric’s breath hitched.

No.

Her eyes flicked from Tessa’s face to the quiet placement of her hand.

Tessa was pregnant.

With his child.

The realization sliced through her.

She stumbled back a step, tightening her grip on Noah.

Tessa’s silence said everything.

And suddenly, Lyric understood. The hatred. The jealousy. The loyalty.

She was carrying his child .

How long has this been going on?

She didn’t speak, but the revulsion in her eyes made Tessa look away.

Neither of them moved.

Then—Bernarda’s voice sliced through the moment.

She moved fast—faster than Lyric had ever seen her.

She stepped between them, one hand raised.

“Tessa,” she said sharply. “Back in the room. Now.”

Tessa faltered. “But—”

“Now.”

Something in her tone made Tessa obey. She backed into the room behind her, eyes wide with confusion. The door clicked shut.

Bernarda turned to Lyric.

She didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked at the child in Lyric’s arms. Then at Lyric’s face.

“I gave her sleeping pills tonight, it won’t last forever.”

Lyric’s eyes widened. The rattle. That’s why Editha hadn’t woken up.

Bernarda held out a small canvas bag.

“Formula. Bottles. Diapers. Enough for a few days.”

Lyric stared at it, stunned.

Bernarda’s voice dropped low. Fierce, but trembling.

“Go. Now. Before she wakes up.”

Lyric reached for the bag with a shaking hand. “Why are you—?”

“Because he deserves better—you deserve better,” Bernarda said quietly. “I thought you were safe once. I thought your mother made it… Don’t let them get to him.”

Their eyes met.

Something passed between them—silent, heavy, final.

Lyric nodded.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Bernarda stepped back without a word, fading into the shadows.

Lyric stood frozen for one more second.

Then she ran.

Down the grand staircase, careful not to slip .

Through the corridor that led to the back of the estate.

To the door that opened into the gardens.

She reached for the handle. Turned it.

Cool night air rushed in, brushing her cheeks, her skin, her lungs.

It smelled like freedom.

She took one last glance over her shoulder, to be sure no one was behind her—no movement, no sound.

She didn’t look back again.

She couldn’t.

Her boots whispered over the stone.

Noah was warm against her chest.

And she ran.

Toward the garden.

Toward the wall.

Toward escape.