Page 3 of Gilded Locks

One foot before the other. The mantra her mother had whispered during those long-ago panic attacks, before everything crumbled to ash. Before she learned that monsters wore Savile Row suits and carried ancient names.

The climb from the harbor transformed into an odyssey of endurance. Her numb, stockinged feet caught in patches of frozen mud and brittle undergrowth, forcing her to claw at bare branches that scraped her palms raw.

The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. From where, she didn’t know. Didn’t have time to check her injuries or time to waste breath on screams, and she had no misconceptions that she might be entitled to something better than this.

Crying was surrender, and surrender meant dying in this godforsaken wilderness. She would not die. She would live.

She was Mary Fucking Langford.

When she finally saw the light again, she nearly burst into tears. As she struggled up the steep incline of snow-covered rock, the light expanded into something impossible. Shelter!

Or was she dreaming?

The structure belonged in fairy tales, not reality. Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe this was heaven.

She’d grown up in the shadows of mansions and estates, but never witnessed anything quite so cavernous and…gothic.

Was it a castle? Where the hell was she?

More importantly, was anyone home?

Something created that light inside. And light meant warmth.

Survival instincts drove her harder than logic ever could. The stone structure loomed against the storm-darkened sky like a sleeping dragon, its windows blazing like molten amber eyes watching her approach.

Gothic spires vanished into low-hanging clouds while iron fixtures gleamed dully in the intermittent lightning. Not merely large, this was architecture on a scale that dwarfed human ambition, all dark stone and soaring peaks that pierced the grey heavens above. Annexed wings sprawled across the landscape with the casual arrogance of absolute power. Its very presence was a challenge to the elements that dared to assault it.

What manner of god lived in a place like this?

Her teeth chattered so violently, the sound echoed in her skull like castanets. The cold had evolved beyond discomfort into something alive and predatory, prowling through her bones with glacial fingers. Hypothermia wasn’t a possibility anymore. It was an inevitable certainty counting down with each labored heartbeat. She would likely die tonight, so her only hope was to minimize the suffering and die somewhere comfortable.

As she approached the looming castle, the high walls protected her from the spewing ice and frozen rain falling from the sky. It blocked the wind, convincing her this sanctuary was a gift, not a curse.

Before the massive entrance, she paused. The doors were carved from what appeared to be a single piece of midnight-dark wood, adorned with iron hinges that belonged in medieval fortresses. An enormous brass knocker shaped like a snarling bear’s head watched her with metallic eyes that reflected her desperation.

Questions plagued her numbing mind. What if someone answered? What if they demanded explanations she couldn’t provide without revealing the truth? What if they turned her away? What if they recognized the name she’d stolen, the identity she wore like armor, and turned her in?

The wind shifted, making the decision for her, shoving her against the wood with bruising force. Her ravaged hands found the massive iron handle, and when it turned beneath her desperate grip, she nearly sobbed with relief.

Unlocked.

Chapter 2

Into the Tempest

The heavy door surrendered, swinging inward with surprising grace, and warm air rushed out to embrace her like a lover’s caress. The temperature difference burned her frosted skin, striking with disorienting force, making her vision swim as she stumbled across the threshold and sealed herself inside, cutting off the storm’s howling rage.

Silence descended like a benediction as her flesh prickled, the comfort of heat quickly turning into a traumatic assault on her frozen limbs that made her shake uncontrollably.

Her ears rang in the sudden absence of wind and sleet, the quiet so profound it felt sacred.

“Hello?”

Only her voice echoed back.

She stood, dripping on black, gleaming marble veined with gold that seemed to pulse with its own inner fire. Above, a chandelier hung suspended like a frozen moment of violence, wrought iron twisted into thorny vines that cradled dozens of flickering candles.

Candles? Who owned fixtures like that in this day and age? She searched the floors and walls for outlets, finding none. The blend of primitive and luxury was unlike anything she’d seen before.