Page 6

secret dungeon

Ayla

“Where are we?”

The look of confusion on his face matches the confusion in my head.

“Home, Ayla. Where else?”

“But—” Shit. Shit. Shit.

I look at the mansion in front of me. I’ve never seen it before. I thought he was taking me to my house.

“What happened to my place?” My voice comes out quieter than I expect.

More than a week in the hospital, all the doctors and the poking and prodding, my family coming and going, and all the odd conversations and it didn’t dawn on me that being released to go home could mean what it does.

Namely, I’m looking at an estate smack in the middle of Cherry Hills Village, no less, and going there with a man I’m assured has my best interest at heart.

Nevertheless, he’s a man I don’t know and one I sure as hell don’t trust.

How can I? I’ve known him for less than a week. A week of lovey-dovey comments shadowed by what feel like threats. Not blatant ones, but subtle messages that are more control than tough love.

And now, I’m going home with him.

“It’s a corporate rental now.”

Of course it is. A nice high-rise apartment building in Cherry Creek North with an unobstructed view of the Rocky Mountains.

The garage door opens before us as his G-550 slides into the bay. My dread thrums as the door begins its descent. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting that our shared life isn’t the same for you as it is for me.”

He exits the car and rounds the hood to open my door. I take his extended hand, but when his thumb rubs the diamond ring on my right hand and settles atop my hand, it settles there a hint too tightly. I don’t feel protected.

I feel trapped.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“I’ll come back for your bag. Let’s get you settled.” If he said something before this, I lost it in the grip of his hand on mine and the panic swelling in my chest.

I nod mutely and might as well be being led to the gallows. Or, from the looks of this house, the guillotine. Gallows would be too common.

Christian is speaking, but the words die between the time they leave his mouth and hit my ears. My senses are trying to take in what’s before me. My house. My house. A house that doesn’t look like… well, a house that doesn’t look like me .

The great room is living and sitting rooms with an open kitchen and breakfast room.

Exposed wood beams and heavy stonework gives this place an old-world feel.

Dark gray floors and black doors juxtaposed with the cream stone is stunning, yet the heaviness is almost oppressive.

It’s shadow on shadow, and with the low amber light, the contrast isn’t crisp, but mellow.

It’s rustic.

Just like the oversized fireplace that dominates the space.

And the heavy art seems uninspired.

But what do I know?

A laugh bursts from between my lips. It’s joined by the prickle of heat behind my eyes and the tickle inside my nose that can only mean tears.

The irony is not lost on me that I know…nothing. Or more accurately, remember nothing .

“The bathroom?” It’s all I can get out as Christian stops whatever he’s saying and points around the corner.

My ears drown out his questions or whatever sound comes at me, and I make it to the toilet before emptying the contents of my stomach into the bowl.

I retch until all that’s left is acid and tears.

I flush and turn to the heavy gilded mirror, to the woman I’ve always known, but who’s also an unknown traveler in my body.

My nose is pink and swollen. So are my lips.

My eyes are red-rimmed, and my skin is pale.

Not that that isn’t always the case, I’m Irish after all, but it’s blanched of all color and looks even worse with the red everywhere.

I wash my hands and rinse out my mouth noting that the sink is polished until it shines, and the toilet was sparkling clean too.

I could laugh wondering about my housekeeping skills and what’s changed in the last few years, but I remember we have help.

Seriously. That’s cringeworthy. I wonder if that’s this Fitz person.

Or if our help has help. If so, I’m buying the latest photography equipment and having a field day with lenses. If our help has help, I can afford it.

I open the door only to be met with Christian pacing in the hallway outside. He abruptly stops and looks at me, pity playing on his features.

“I wanted to…” He scrubs a hand down his face and lifts his chin as his hand travels his neck. “I don’t know how to help. I—” His eyes level me. “Come on.” He extends a palm.

I walk around him instead of taking it. I don’t know his Ayla, but I’m not prepared to be herded.

I find an overstuffed leather chair and curl up into it as he sits on the ottoman in front of it.

The leather is saddle brown, and I wonder what in this room or in this house I chose, what touches are the me he knew, because everything here looks…

The only word for it is heavy. Heavy woods, rich leathers, dark stained hand-scraped plank floors.

The creams don’t lighten; they accentuate.

“Did you hear me, Princess?”

I shake my head once, wishing I hadn’t. My brain feels too loose in my skull and shaking it swiftly sloshes it around.

The vomiting loosened it; the shaking makes it worse.

“No.” I use my words to avoid more pain, rubbing a hand against the stubble where they shaved my head, feeling gingerly along the ridge of scar that’s still tender.

He stands and does the hand scrubbing thing on his face, before silently walking to the kitchen. He returns with a cup of coffee, a scone, and a handful of grapes.

None of it makes my roiling stomach settle. Flat sprite and saltines sound good. Or water and toast. But coffee?

I break the scone apart and pop a little in my mouth, hoping the flour will soak up the acid. Maybe this is what the über rich do—scones instead of saltines. I’d laugh if the last time didn’t cause me to be in the very situation I’m in.

“How long have you lived here?”

He looks to the kitchen to my right, before settling his gaze back on me. “I bought this place three years ago and had some work done on it. I wasn’t in it four months or so when we met. You’ve been here with me since then, so we’ve lived here almost two years.”

I don’t miss the emphasis on the we even though I don’t like it.

“What did you have done to it?” I keep my questions generic and not about any kind of “we” as I have another bite of scone.

“I gutted it. The bones were good. But the floor plan was dated and didn’t fit my needs.

The master had a small bathroom and no closet space.

I wanted the gourmet kitchen. It took almost nine months to get to what you see now.

” He stares at my coffee before looking back to me. “No to the coffee?”

I shake my head, gently this time to avoid the pain.

“May I?”

I nod, and he takes the cup, taking a sip, wincing only slightly as he drinks.

“What?”

“Nothing. ”

“Tell me.”

“You like less cream than I do, but more sugar. Give me a second?” He stands and moves into the corner of the kitchen.

Of course he’d know how I take my coffee.

I hear gurgling and hissing before he returns, finding his seat on the ottoman, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He takes a sip and his features practically mellow. “I can handle the cream part, but the sugar isn’t my thing. Not in coffee anyway.”

That explains his body. I can’t be certain, because I haven’t seen him naked, but if his tailored shirts are anything to go by, the muscles beneath it are a work of art. Broad rounded shoulders, tapered waist, solid thighs.

When my eyes make it to his face again, the grin that plays at his lips is devilish. “Ayla Barone, did you just check me out?”

The heat that washes over me singes my face, and I drop my eyes. But I know better than to give this man an inch. “No. I was just admiring the furniture.”

“The furniture,” he repeats, humor playing in his voice.

I go back to safer topics. “What’s your favorite part of the house?”

“Want to see?” He stands and extends a hand.

I avoid it again and quickly realize my mistake, because he lays a hand on my lower back as we move to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that I now see aren’t windows at all.

They’re bifold steel doors that open the entire length of the great room onto an outdoor living area.

A stone terrace runs along the back of the house overlooking a lush green lawn.

That kind of grass in this climate is an investment all to itself, much less its maintenance.

On the kitchen side of the house is the outdoor entertainment area, two different grills, outdoor refrigerator, and a cooktop.

All look brand new, polished until shining.

There’s a series of fans in the rolled wood ceiling above making this an outdoor living space, not merely a porch.

The area where we stand has multiple seating areas with a fire pit. Beyond this to my left is more but I can’t decipher what. I wander, walking away from the hand on my lower back, disconnecting from a man who is still a stranger to me, no matter what I am to him.

He follows silently until I stop at the hot tub and thin lap pool beside it.

“Which part of this is your favorite?”

“The peace. A city of nearly three million and all the conveniences that provides, and this little patch of land.” He extends the hand still holding his coffee cup, and I follow his gaze seeing more than a patch, fully lined in trees creating a layer of privacy. “It’s peaceful. It’s home.”

“And what was my favorite part?”

He turns me to him. I’m still wary but too tired to fight it. “I’m curious if it’s the same now. But I’ll tell you after you check out the house.” He leans in, and I stiffen, only to have him drop a kiss on my forehead and turn and walk back to the great room.