Page 24 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DANTE

T he absence of chains shouldn’t feel like another form of imprisonment, but freedom within these walls is just captivity with a longer leash.

My wrists bear raw marks where I was previously bound, the skin tender when I rotate them.

Julian removed the restraints this morning.

Not from mercy—never that. The doctor’s insistence that muscle atrophy would compromise my recovery forced his hand.

But I’m thankful for small miracles.

I push myself off the bed, testing legs that feel foreign after so much stillness.

The first step sends fire racing through my abdomen, a sharp reminder of where Julian’s bullet tore through muscle and grazed my liver.

My body protests each movement with dull throbs that ripple outward.

Weakness infects my limbs and my muscles trembling from the simple exertion.

But physical pain is manageable. It’s nothing compared to the hollow ache that spreads through my chest whenever I think of Aurelia somewhere in this house, breathing the same air yet completely beyond my reach.

I grab the crutches that Julian left for me and walk around the room.

After one lap, I’m breathless. I know I have injuries but I feel pathetic.

I once fought a dozen men during as assault Lucian had me wage against the Lopez family, yet I now struggle with walking a few feet.

I grip the bedpost, trying to calculate how long it will take for me to regain my full strength.

I create a rehabilitation schedule in my mind—exercises I can do throughout the day, ways to start small and work my way up.

Strategy has always been my refuge when emotions threaten to overwhelm me.

Patience. My plan has been set back, but Aurelia isn’t due for months.

I have some time to heal and bring the Consortium down before she gives birth.

A little time, but not much. I’ll need to be diligent and push for my body to heal as quickly as it can.

My plan requires strength I don’t currently possess; I must get it back.

I walk another lap around the room, then another, ignoring the sweat beading on my forehead and the way my legs shake. I’ll walk until I collapse.

Afternoon comes and I barely have the strength to move as I rest in a chair by the window. Perhaps I pushed myself too hard this morning, but I must. I must recover.

The light on my face is warm as I gaze at the garden below. Bianca’s grip on my arm borders on painful as she chatters on about a shopping trip she wants to take with her girlfriends. Her voice is a persistent mosquito buzzing in my ear while my attention is elsewhere.

Because there, on a stone bench near the fountain, sits everything I’ve been fighting to reach.

My Aurelia.

Her red curls catch fire in the sunlight, wild and untamed despite her attempt to pin them back.

Even from this distance, I can see the careful way she holds herself; her injuries still pain her.

Lorenzo sits beside her. They’re hunched together and I can tell they’re sharing private words they don’t want the cameras to hear.

If I hurry, maybe I can…

“How about a stroll in the garden?” I ask Bianca.

She squeals too loudly and I flinch. “Oh yes! I’d love that, hubby.”

I hate that I need assistance, but I let her help me to my feet and to my crutches. I barely have the strength to move but I force my muscles to work. If I hurry, maybe I can get to Aurelia before anyone notices my intent.

I convince the guards that Bianca will watch me—and that they surely can’t expect me to try to run in this state—and we depart.

After several agonizing minutes moving down the hallway to the elevator, then from the elevator to the back doors, we’re outside.

Bianca tries to steer me in the wrong direction.

“I thought we could sit by the fountain,” I say.

“Oh, okay. I guess.”

I don’t like her touch but it’s needed right now. Her hand at my elbow keeps me steady as the crutches scrape against gravel and I hobble along .

Sweat pours into my eyes and Bianca wipes it away with a handkerchief. “I think we should rest.”

“Yes,” I bite out. “Once we reach the fountain.”

The fountain finally comes into view, and Aurelia and Lorenzo are still sitting there.

Bianca’s fingers dig into my bicep when she notices where my attention has fixed. “Let’s go this way to a bench. You’re pushing too hard.”

I attempt to extract my arm gently, maintaining the facade of husbandly consideration. “Thank you. I’m fine. I just need?—”

Her grip tightens until it’s painful, both hands now clutching my arm desperately. “Adrian, you shouldn’t strain yourself. Stop. The doctor said?—”

“The doctor said movement would aid recovery.” I try again to free myself without making a scene, acutely aware of how many eyes watch us from windows and shadows.

Two guards materialize, their bulk creating a wall between me and my destination. “Mr. Harrow,” the taller one says, his tone respectful but firm. “The other direction would be better for your recovery. The eastern path has better shade.”

I grit my teeth. I want to shove past them and close the distance between Aurelia and me regardless of the consequences. But that would only tighten the noose around both our necks. Julian watches everything, waiting for me to reveal just how desperately I need her.

So I submit to Bianca’s insistent tugging, allowing her to steer me away like an invalid who can’t make his own decisions. But not before I catch Aurelia’s gaze across the garden.

Those green eyes, usually bright with defiance, hold a weariness I’ve never seen before. For one suspended moment, we exist in a bubble where distance means nothing, where the barriers between us dissolve. I try to pour everything into my look—reassurance, longing, promise.

Love and adoration.

I’m coming for you. Hold on.

She looks away first, shoulders drawing up to her ears as she hugs herself and angles away from me. The dismissal cuts deeper than Julian’s bullet.

The estate settles into an uneasy quiet after dinner, that peculiar hush that falls over places with too many secrets.

My crutches tap a lonely rhythm against the floor as I navigate the darkened hallways.

It’s around midnight, and I told the guards I needed something to eat.

The excuse is flimsy—I finished a second helping at dinner while I stole glimpses of Aurelia across the dining room table—but it got me out of my cage.

Guards trail me like patient shadows, maintaining professional distance while ensuring I don’t stray from acceptable paths. Their presence grates against nerves already worn raw, but I’ve learned to move as if they’re furniture. Acknowledging them only emphasizes my captivity .

My route takes me past Aurelia’s door. Pure coincidence, of course. Nothing suspicious about needing to use this particular hallway to reach the kitchens located in the opposite wing. My pace slows, crutches suddenly requiring more careful placement as I stall for time.

Aurelia’s door mocks me. Just wood and brass, no different from dozens of others in this place.

But behind it breathes the only person who makes any of this bearable.

My hand drifts upward, hovering inches from the handle.

One knock. One word. That’s all it would take to shatter this suffocating distance.

My fingers curl into a fist.

What then? Storm inside and steal moments that would cost us both? Watch guards break down the door while Julian decides I need more permanent restraints? Aurelia might end up punished for my lack of control.

“Mr. Harrow,” a guard says behind me. “The kitchen is this way.”

I lower my hand with a sigh and continue down the hallway. Each step away from her feels like betraying my soul’s only desire.

Female voices drift from the kitchen as I approach. They’re too low for me to make out any words, but the voices are unmistakably urgent. I slow my approach, years of survival instincts awakening despite my body’s weakness.

Finally, I’m close enough to catch some words.

“—the timing has to be perfect—” That’s Lady Harrow’s voice, barely audible.

“—but what if he realizes—” Bianca now. Her nervous energy makes her pitch higher than usual .

“—leave that to me. You just focus on?—”

My crutch catches the edge of a decorative table, making a vase rock loudly in the quiet darkness. The voices cut off instantly, silence rushing in to fill the void. When I round the corner into the kitchen, both women spring apart like guilty conspirators caught mid-plot.

Which, evidently, they are.

“Adrian!” Bianca’s face flushes as she rushes toward me, hands fluttering between reaching for me and wringing together. “You should be resting, honey. What if you fall?”

I let her fuss because resistance would raise questions, but my attention is fixed on Lady Harrow. She regards me with the calculating coldness of a snake deciding whether to strike or retreat. Whatever scheme they’re hatching, my unexpected arrival has disrupted it.

Lady Harrow glides past without acknowledging my existence, leaving behind the certainty that whatever they’re planning will cost someone dearly.

Possibly me.

Definitely Aurelia.

The next evening arrives with deceptive calm.

The guards shift through their rotations.

I’ve spent hours mapping their patterns from my window, noting when someone’s attention wavers, when blind spots align.

The guard outside my door—Thompson—always takes three steps left during his hourly position change, creating a twelve-second window.

That means eleven seconds to slip past. One second for a margin of error.

As for the cameras, I’ll have to hope that the timing coincides with a guard looking away or changing shifts. This is the only option I’ve come up with.