Page 12 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER NINE

AURELIA

T he gravel crunches beneath my shoes like tiny bones breaking.

Each step toward the Harrow estate gates sends another spike of adrenaline through my veins until I’m practically vibrating with it.

My purse weighs nothing because all it has are Gideon’s forged medical documents and a tube of lipstick, but it feels like I’m carrying boulders.

Please don’t let this be a walk toward my funeral.

The guard station sits like a tumor on the pristine landscape. It’s made of concrete and has thick windows, likely bulletproof. This place really is a fortress. Through the tiny window, I see something move. A man in tactical gear spots me and his hand flies to his weapon faster than thought.

But then his eyes widen. I think he recognizes me; it dawns on his weathered face like a slow sunrise.

I stop just outside the guard station door as it opens. I’m about to deliver the lines I rehearsed, but the guard raises his hand, cutting me off .

“I know who you are. Hold on.”

He reaches for his radio without breaking eye contact, like I might vanish if he blinks. Or he’s worried I’ll attack him. Maybe both.

My fingers drift to my stomach, pressing against the flatness beneath my blue summer dress.

My womb is completely empty, but they don’t know that.

They’ll believe what they want to believe, that the Golden One carries precious Harrow blood.

That I’m desperate enough to trade my freedom for medical care.

That grief has finally broken me, or that I’ve come to my senses and want to be part of this family.

I cough as acid tickles the back of my throat; I think I almost puked at that last thought.

I want nothing to do with this fucking family. I love Adrian, but he’s not a monster like the rest of his kin. And he’s eager to denounce his name.

Adrian.

Could he be watching from some window? Does he know I’m here? Or are his wounds so bad he can barely move?

My eyes scan the visible parts of the estate, searching for any sign of him, but the windows reflect only a cloudless, blue sky. He could be anywhere in that maze of rooms. Chained. Drugged. Being fed poison by his mother’s honeyed words.

God, what if he’s given up? What if he’s?—

The gates groan open like a yawning mouth, and two more guards materialize from nowhere. They flank me without speaking. One gestures toward the driveway with his rifle.

“Move.”

I force my shoulders back and start walking. Show time.

The driveway curves through a beautifully maintained lawn that belongs in a magazine, not a torture house.

Roses bloom along the walkways, their petals the color of fresh blood and blushing cheeks.

And the trees seem arranged for intimidation, their branches creating shadows that reach toward me like claws ready to shred me open.

The mansion itself rises from the landscape like something out of a Gothic novel; there are plenty of sharp angles and gleaming windows that watch me approach. Beautiful, yes. But beauty designed to hide a destructive rot. I’ve seen enough pretty monsters to recognize one made of brick and mortar.

My breath catches as a figure appears at the entrance.

Julian.

The morning light does him no favors. His skin has the sickly pallor of someone who’s been drinking instead of sleeping, and dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes. But it’s his expression that stops my heart.

Pure, naked shock.

His mouth opens slightly. Color drains from his already pale face until he looks like he might faint.

Those blue eyes—once so full of fire when he looked at me—go wide and glassy.

For one perfect second, I see past the devil to the man underneath, one who’s shaking like he’s witnessing proof that ghosts exist.

Oh my God. He thought I was dead.

As much as I hate him, my heart squeezes from the pain on his face. I’m guessing his damn mother said she’d killed me. She let him believe it. Let him mourn?—

Does he look like he’s been mourning?

Yes. I catch a hint of pain tucked around the tightness of his eyes, but it’s quickly gone, replaced by a wall of ice so thick even bullets couldn’t break through.

He stuffs his hands in his jean pockets and looks down the tip of his nose at me. His voice is a biting slap. “You’re not as smart as I thought. Why the fuck would you come here? You finally have a death wish?”

I lift my chin, a gesture he once admired. “I want to see Adrian. I know he’s here.”

Julian’s jaw tightens. I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin and remember kissing that exact spot. Now I want to break it.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind. And I’m too tired to deal with you. My mother will?—”

“Bring her out too.” The words tumble out as I widen my stance, preparing myself for what’s about to happen. “And Valentine, if he’s here. Everyone. I have something to say that all of you will want to hear.”

His eyes narrow to slits. Suspicion bleeds through his expression like ink through water. “You think you can come here and make demands when?—”

“Aren’t you bored, Julian?”

The question catches him off-guard. I see it in the tiny flinch of his right eye, the way his breath pauses for just a second.

I take the opening, letting the ghost of my old smile play at my lips.

This smile used to make his knees weak. Now he barely reacts.

“All that responsibility, all those meetings. Where’s the danger?

The excitement?” I tilt my head, studying him like he’s a puzzle I’m trying to solve.

“When’s the last time someone surprised you and you actually enjoyed yourself?

Hell, I don’t think you’ve been to The Den in months. ”

Something sparks in those dead eyes. Curiosity. Maybe even hunger. He’s currently playing pretend but, deep down, Julian hates this life. He just doesn’t yet understand there’s a way out.

“Five minutes,” I continue, keeping my voice light despite the hurricane in my chest. “That’s all I’m asking.”

He blinks at me, long and slow. I count my heartbeats—one, two, three, four—before he moves.

He steps aside, one arm sweeping toward the door in a mockery of courtesy. “Five minutes,” he agrees. His voice drops, carrying the weight of a death sentence. “Then we finish what should have been finished weeks ago.”

I nod and move inside ahead of him.

The foyer swallows me whole. The glassy eyes of dead things watch from every wall—deer and wolves and bears, all frozen in their final moments of terror.

The marble beneath my feet gleams like glass, reflecting distorted versions of myself on its surface.

Everything smells like leather and old wood and chemicals. Formaldehyde, maybe.

Julian’s rumbling voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling as he speaks to a guard. “Get my mother, Valentine, and Adrian. Tell them a… guest is here to see them.”

My fingers find the edge of a small mahogany side table and I steady myself.

The wood grain beneath my palm triggers something—a memory that isn’t quite a memory.

I’ve never been in this house before. I’ve never seen these particular trophies or touched this specific table.

But something about this place and the way things are laid out…

the way the light falls through the tall windows…

It’s like déjà vu’s twisted sister. Familiar but wrong.

Weird. Why does it feel like I’ve been here before?

Footsteps thunder down the staircase. My hands won’t stop shaking. I clasp them together, then release them, then clasp them again.

Valentine appears first.

The moment he sees me, his entire body sags. Relief and guilt crash across his dark tan face until I can’t tell which one’s winning. He takes three quick steps toward me, arms already open for an embrace?—

I shake my head. One sharp movement that stops him cold.

“I know you hate me,” he says.

Despite everything, his voice makes emotions gather in my chest. He sounds so broken and raw.

He continues on, “But I’m so happy you’re okay. I regret what I did, and you don’t have to forgive me. But you’re still my daughter. You’ll always be my daughter. I love you.”

My defiance cracks just a hairline. His eyes—those dark eyes that taught me to shoot, that watched me grow up, that kept so many secrets—shine with moisture. He means it. Every word.

But meaning it doesn’t erase the betrayal, and it doesn’t undo the knife he planted in my back while calling it love.

So I say nothing. I just hold his gaze until he looks away.

I glance at Julian, who’s observing with detached interest. My eyes move back to the staircase. But the next person doesn’t come down then. I hear the ding of an elevator, then squeaking. Adrian appears from around a corner. He’s in a wheelchair that’s being pushed by Bianca.

I grip the table I’m next to tighter; if it wasn’t here I worry my knees might buckle.

My Adrian. Alive. Breathing.

He looks pale and weak, but he’s sitting upright. And these goddamn assholes have chained him to the wheelchair. Cuffs wrap around his wrists like silver snakes, binding him. More chains secure his ankles. They’ve turned him into a caged animal.

I glance at Bianca, so pissed that she’s been here with him, but I barely have time to think about her before my attention is back on the man I love.

He’s crying.

Adrian Harrow is crying.

They aren’t careful, controlled tears from someone trying to maintain their dignity. These are jagged, naked sobs that shake his entire frame. His mask hasn’t just slipped, it’s been ripped away entirely, leaving nothing but the man underneath.

Our eyes lock across the short distance, and I see everything. I see a relief so profound it borders on religious. A love so fierce it could burn down the world. Questions and hurt and desperate, aching hope.

My feet itch to run to him. I want to drop this charade and throw myself into whatever embrace those chains will allow; I’ll kiss away those tears and promise him everything will be okay.