Page 6 of Her Obedience (Ruin & Gold #1)

T he vehicle rolls to a stop in front of imposing double doors. My mind feels disconnected from my body, still processing the horror of what I've just witnessed. The man's body crumpling to the pavement. The blood—so much blood—splattered across my dress, my skin.

"Miss Everett." Victor's voice breaks through my fog. "We've arrived."

I don't move. Can't move. My limbs feel leaden, my thoughts fragmented. Victor opens my door and waits patiently, then sighs when I remain frozen.

"She's still in shock," he tells someone I can't see. "Should I?—"

"I'll handle it."

The new voice is deep, authoritative. Familiar. Gage Blackwood appears at the door of the SUV, his tall frame blocking the security lights. He's changed from his formal attire into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that clings to his broad shoulders.

"Penelope." His voice is gentler now, almost kind. "You're safe here. No one will harm you."

I want to laugh at the absurdity of his statement. Safe? A man was just killed in front of me. His blood is drying on my skin, my dress. And now I'm at some remote estate with the man who's been having me followed for weeks.

When I still don't respond, Gage leans in and unbuckles my seatbelt. His movements are careful, deliberate, as if I'm a wounded animal that might startle.

"I'm going to help you inside now," he says. "You need to get cleaned up and rest."

He slides an arm behind my back, another under my knees, and lifts me from the vehicle with surprising ease. My body finally reacts, tensing against his hold.

"Don't," I whisper, the first word I've spoken since the attack.

He pauses, looking down at me. "You can walk if you prefer."

I nod stiffly, and he sets me down, keeping a steadying hand at my elbow.

My legs tremble, but they hold my weight.

I follow him numbly through the enormous doorway and into a soaring entrance hall of marble and glass.

Indirect lighting casts a warm glow over modern furnishings that probably cost more than my shop's annual revenue.

A woman in her sixties appears, her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, her expression professional but kind. "The blue guest suite is prepared, Mr. Blackwood."

"Thank you, Mrs. Henderson." Gage guides me toward a sweeping staircase. "Please have tea sent up, and perhaps something stronger. Also, Miss Everett will need fresh clothing."

"Of course, sir." She eyes the blood on my dress with concern but asks no questions.

I should run. Should demand answers, call the police, scream. Instead, I follow Gage mechanically up the stairs, down a hallway lined with what appear to be original works of art, and into a suite that's larger than my entire apartment.

"The bathroom is through there," he says, gesturing to a door. "Everything you need should be provided. Mrs. Henderson will bring you something to change into."

I stand motionless in the center of the room, unable to process simple instructions. Gage sighs, then gently guides me to sit on the edge of the bed.

"The man who attacked you," he says, crouching to meet my eyes, "was a common criminal. His death, while regrettable, was necessary to ensure your safety. My men were following protocol."

Protocol. As if murder is just another item on a corporate checklist.

I find my voice, though it sounds distant even to my own ears. "You had me followed."

"Yes." No denial, no excuses. "For your protection."

"The black SUV. The business cards. The text messages." My voice strengthens as anger begins to cut through the shock. "That was all you?"

"My organization, yes."

My hands clench into fists. "Why? What do you want from me?"

He stands, creating distance between us. "That's a longer conversation, one we'll have when you're more... composed." He moves toward the door. "Get cleaned up. Rest. We'll talk in the morning."

"No!" I find myself on my feet, trembling with anger rather than fear now. "You don't get to decide when we talk. You've had me stalked for weeks. A man just died in front of me. I want answers now."

Gage studies me, his expression unreadable. "Very well. Clean up first. I'll wait."

Before I can argue further, there's a knock at the door. Mrs. Henderson enters with a tray of tea and what looks like brandy, followed by another woman carrying folded clothing.

"These should fit," Mrs. Henderson says, setting the clothing on the bed. "The bathroom has everything else you might need. Ring if you require anything more."

They withdraw silently, leaving me alone with Gage again. He pours a measure of amber liquid into a crystal glass and offers it to me.

"It will help with the shock," he says when I don't take it.

I finally accept the glass, downing the liquid in one burning swallow. The heat spreads through my chest, dulling the edge of my panic.

"Shower," Gage says. "Change. Then we'll talk."

I know I should continue demanding answers, but the blood on my skin has begun to itch, a constant reminder of death. I take the clothing and retreat to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

The bathroom is lavish—white marble, brushed gold fixtures, a shower large enough for four people. I strip off my ruined dress, dropping it to the floor in a heap of silk and blood. The hot water stings my skin, but I welcome the pain, scrubbing until no trace of the evening's horror remains.

When I finally emerge, wrapped in a plush robe provided, the clothing Mrs. Henderson brought waits on the counter—simple black pants, a soft cashmere sweater, and underwear that somehow fits perfectly.

I dress quickly, avoiding my reflection in the mirror.

I don't want to see the haunted look in my eyes.

Gage waits in the sitting area of the suite, standing at the window overlooking manicured grounds illuminated by security lighting. He turns when I enter, his gaze assessing but not intrusive.

"Better?" he asks.

"No." I remain standing, arms crossed protectively over my chest. "Nothing about this situation is 'better.'"

He gestures to an armchair. "Please, sit."

"I'll stand."

A slight smile touches his lips, almost admiring. "As you wish." He pours more brandy into my empty glass and extends it.

This time I accept it without hesitation, taking a smaller sip than before. The warmth steadies me, allows me to focus.

"Start talking," I say. "Why have you been following me?"

Gage doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with those piercing blue eyes, as if measuring my capacity for truth.

"Your father and I have an arrangement," he finally says. "One that involves you."

Cold dread pools in my stomach. "What kind of arrangement?"

"A marriage arrangement." His voice is matter-of-fact, devoid of emotion. "Formalized when you were sixteen, to be fulfilled when you turned twenty-six."

The room spins slightly. I grip the back of a chair to steady myself. "That's ridiculous. This isn't the Middle Ages. You can't arrange marriages like—like business deals."

"And yet, it happened." He remains perfectly calm. "Your father needed something from me ten years ago. I required something in return. You were the agreed-upon payment."

A hysterical laugh escapes me. "And you expect me to just accept this? To marry a stranger because my father made some deal?"

"Not a stranger." Gage steps closer, his presence filling the room. "I've been monitoring your life for years, Penelope. Your education, your friendships, your business... None of it has been a mystery to me."

The implications of his statement hit me like a physical blow. "You've been watching me since I was sixteen?"

"Not personally, at first. My organization kept tabs on your development, your potential. When you left your family, we increased surveillance."

"That's—that's stalking. It's illegal. It's?—"

"It's protection," he interrupts. "The world is dangerous for a woman alone, especially one with your background and connections. Tonight proved that."

I shake my head, disbelieving. "The man tonight was a random mugger."

Gage's expression flickers with something I can't quite identify. "Was he?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implication. My mind races back through the attack—how the man had appeared so suddenly, how he'd specifically mentioned my necklace rather than just demanding my purse, how quickly Blackwood's men had responded.

"You staged it," I whisper, the realization washing over me like ice water. "The whole thing was orchestrated."

Gage doesn't confirm or deny, which is confirmation enough.

"Why?" My voice breaks on the word. "To what end?"

"To bring you here." He moves to the window again, giving me space. "Your father has been increasingly... insistent about completing our arrangement. The timeline had to be accelerated."

"So you traumatized me? Had someone pretend to attack me, then killed them to—what? Make me feel indebted to you?"

His shoulders stiffen slightly. "That wasn't the plan. The man wasn't supposed to be eliminated, merely subdued. Victor made a judgment call when the situation escalated."

"A judgment call." I drain my glass, welcoming the burn. "You're talking about a human life."

"I'm talking about your safety," Gage counters, turning to face me again. "The details of tonight's operation are regrettable, but the outcome remains the same. You're here now, where you belong."

"I don't belong here," I snap. "I belong in my apartment, in my shop—the life I built for myself."

A cold smile flickers across his face. "Did you? Build it yourself?"

Something in his tone makes my stomach clench. "What do you mean?"

"Wildflower. Your apartment. Your so-called independence.

" He approaches slowly, like a predator stalking prey.

"How do you think you secured such prime retail space at twenty-one, with no credit history and limited funds?

How did you obtain business licenses so quickly?

Why did your landlord approve extensive renovations on a five-year lease? "