Page 8 of Gilded Locks

Brushing her hair out of her face, her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. He glimpsed a deep gash on her temple and cursed himself for not searching her body more closely for bruises or identifying tattoos when he had the chance. He could rewind the feed, but she was on the move again.

“Where are you going now, quick little rabbit?”

Her strides were slightly steadier as she retraced her earlier steps with purpose. She was learning the layout of their home, which both bothered and impressed him. She saw rooms not open to the public, and he wondered why he hadn’t yet notified his brothers that they had a trespasser.

The kitchen cameras revealed her desperation in stark detail, and he zoomed in once again. She devoured food like she hadn’t eaten in days, tearing into artisanal bread and aged cheeses with the hunger of someone who’d forgotten that sustenance was a luxury, not a guarantee. This wasn’t the practiced nibbling of a woman worried about her figure. This was survival eating, raw and honest and beautiful in its desperation.

She was running. The question was from what? Or whom?

Stone’s fingers moved across the console like a pianist interpreting Rachmaninoff, switching between cameras to follow her exploration of their domain. She moved through the common areas with wide-eyed wonder that suggested familiarity with wealth but not with wealth like this.

The style of her earlier clothing, though torn and soaked, whispered of money, old money, inherited money, but her behavior spoke of someone unaccustomed to the kind of power that built private kingdoms.

This was no princess. This was a refugee.

Once her appetite was satisfied, she neatly wrapped the food and returned it to the cupboard.

“What nice manners you have.” He chuckled. “Steal our food and clothes, but put them back sweetly.”

He didn’t mind her thievery because she was doing the hard part for him. Dry clothes, a warm house, and a full belly. It wouldn’t be long before she crashed. And then she’d be at his mercy.

He followed her curious journey from one lens to the next. When she discovered the second-floor playroom, Stone’s breath crystallized in his lungs.

“Careful, little one.” He zoomed in to see her face more clearly.

She froze in the doorway, like a deer scenting predators, staring at the equipment and sensing the edge of danger it implied. The confusion painted across her features was genuine. She didn’t understand what she was seeing. Not completely. But some part of her knew.

A flush of color that had nothing to do with the lodge’s warmth flickered across her face.

Curiosity.

He leaned closer to the monitors, pulse quickening as he watched with a slow grin. “See something you like, Zayka?”

Her hand slowly reached out, only to still before touching a single surface. She backed out of the room slowly. Her palm pressed against the closed door for an extended moment, as if she wanted to understand but had to deny herself the time to explore in order to prioritize survival.

* * *

He chuckled. “Coward.”

He tracked her exploration to the third-floor bedrooms. The cameras were Stone’s masterwork. High definition and night vision capable, positioned to capture every angle of beds that had witnessed pleasure in its most exquisite forms. He’d installed them personally, taking pride in the image quality that would make Hollywood envious.

Never had he been so grateful for his perfectionism.

She tested the bed Hunter preferred during club events, bouncing once and moving on with the decisive dismissal.

Stone grinned. “Of course, you’ll want something softer for sleep.”

The next bed was made for slow seduction and long cuddles, Ash’s domain during parties. She sank into memory foam and wrinkled her nose like a cat offered substandard caviar.

“Sweet, little, precious rabbit. You’re used to comfort, aren’t you? I think I know exactly what you need.”

He switched cameras and waited as his bedroom door opened. Despite his pleasure that his bed suited her taste, his jaw clenched when she pulled back the covers.

His room. His sheets. His private sanctuary, to which no one entered without an explicit invitation. His nostrils flared as she slipped between the sheets, wearing Hunter’s sweater and his spare sable coat. The sight of her there, golden hair scattered across his ivory pillows like spilled champagne, sent molten heat shooting through his veins like liquid fire.

She looked like she belonged there. Like she’d been born to grace his sheets and warm his bed. The thought was so unexpected, so completely inappropriate, that Stone shoved back from the monitors as if they’d turned radioactive.

He snatched his phone, stabbing out a text to his brothers like he was declaring war.