Page 9 of Through Any Fire (Any x #1)

I f I thought the Bianchi house was grand, it was nothing compared to the Keane mansion.

Nathaniel drives us through the gate, and I roll down the window.

A gentle breeze streams through the car.

The place itself must span half a football field, with too many windows to bother counting.

Floodlights illuminate its cream exterior, and men walk the grounds, scanning their surroundings.

I wonder what the rest of their security looks like.

We slow in front of a garage door, and Nathaniel clicks a button.

The garage opens quietly, and I shield my eyes from the bright light inside.

When the car stops, I hop out without preamble.

My steps echo as I look around. Several cars ranging from blacked-out SUVs to a sleek sports car are parked.

A lone motorcycle waits in the corner. The cherry red Corvette pulls my eye, and I circle it.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Nathaniel asks. His voice is scratchy, and I wasn’t expecting such a gravelly sound to come from such a lanky man. His salt and pepper hair is short, but he only has a few lines around the crinkle of his eyes.

“She sure is.” I look back to the car and think about stealing the keys and running through the gate.

But that would be stupid. Instead, I turn on my heel and face Nathaniel. A young woman enters the garage, and I startle. She can’t be older than twenty. The newcomer doesn’t seem to feel the weight of my stare; instead, she just gathers my bags and whisks them into the house.

“Not to worry. Tinley will take your bags upstairs.” Nathaniel turns and leads the way through the door. “Come, follow me.”

We enter an industrial kitchen with at least two of each stainless steel appliance you can think of. In the center sits a long prep table, where a plump woman hunches over, writing in a notebook.

“Darla,” Nathaniel says, startling the poor woman. Darla’s shoulders jump as if she wasn’t expecting to hear anyone. “This is Loren Keane, Mr. Keane’s bride.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but Darla drops her pen and straightens, dusting her hands on her stained apron and crossing over to us.

She examines me from head to toe. While Darla can’t be taller than five feet, the stare she’s leveled on me sends a shiver down my back.

She has coarse white hair tied in a neat chignon and pale skin with smile lines and crinkles around her green eyes, and she wears a gray uniform with a white apron tied around her waist.

Darla props her hands on her hips as she continues to appraise me. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks with each uncomfortable second that passes, until she finally nods and extends a hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Keane. I’m Darla Sullivan, the Keane’s chef and household manager. ”

I take her hand, shaking it firmly as I introduce myself. “It’s nice to meet you. Please, call me Loren.”

Darla smiles, but there’s a guarded sheen to her matronly gaze.

“And it’s Catrone,” I assert, with a pointed look to Nathaniel, who doesn’t reply.

Darla’s eyes dart between us. She hums and steps back. “Would you like me to show you to your rooms?”

Rooms? Plural?

I nod once and follow behind as she exits the kitchen.

“Nathaniel,” I call back. “After I meet with my husband tomorrow, I have a social appointment. Will you be available, or should I drive myself?”

“Your security will be available to take you. You will meet Cohen tomorrow after you speak with Mr. Keane.”

My chin dips in acknowledgment, and I follow Darla.

Lifetimes seemed to have passed since the last time I walked these halls, so not much is familiar.

I had to sneak between the shadows, sticking to a very specific route to avoid any unwanted attention.

When I think back to those times, my mind overflows with memories of him —not his home.

I lose track of the turns we take, but the grand opulence spans throughout the entire manor.

Hardwood floors, heavy plush curtains, and dimmed chandeliers in nearly every room we pass.

Finally, Darla and I stop in front of a plain door. She opens it without ceremony and ducks into the room. I follow closely behind.

Inside is a medium-sized living room with a couch in the middle. It faces an electric fireplace on the far wall, and a stocked bar cart waits in the corner. Matching curtains hang on windows on either side of the fireplace .

“Through here is your bedroom.” She indicates to a door on the left side of the room.

“There’s also an en suite and walk in. Tinley will stop by at ten, daily, to collect any laundry and make the bed.

If you have any specific requests, you may leave them on the coffee table.

” She stretches a hand toward the glass coffee table in front of the couch, where a fresh vase of flowers and a new notepad sit.

A voice in the back of my head tells me not to get used to this sort of luxury, and my shoulders stiffen.

“Thank you,” I reply with a quiet voice. “I think I’ll turn in now. It’s been a day.”

Darla looks me over again, and the lines around her eyes seem to soften. She nods and slips out of the room, leaving behind a faint aroma of vanilla. The door latches softly behind her, and like that, I’m alone.

I step numbly into my new bedroom, and as I look around, it occurs to me that Darla was being literal.

Nothing about this space says a man lives here.

There’s a king-sized canopy bed with fluffy lilac sheets and pillows that appear freshly laundered.

More flowers and scenic portraits adorn the walls.

On the right side, there’s a sturdy walnut dresser and vanity under a vast, arched window where the full moon shines in.

A lamp next to the bed is on, casting a small radius of light.

Everything combined, this is clearly a guest room.

While the revelation is partly comforting, there’s a part of me confused by the pit growing in my stomach.

At that exact moment, a growl unleashes from my stomach. Okay, maybe I’m just hungry.

I could either go looking for food—and likely get lost—or I could just go to sleep and deal with it in the morning.

I choose sleep .

As I curl onto my side, I check my phone. There’s a text from Alice.

How’d it go?

I type out a quick response and silence my phone, shoving it under my pillow.

It went.

I’m up before the sun rises, having spent hours tossing and turning. Two nights of shitty sleep in a row makes for a grumpy Loren.

When I finally can’t take it any longer, I turn on the waterfall shower and wash off the makeup from last night, using more luxurious products than I could ever justify buying.

It’s not until I’m rinsing the suds from my hair that I catch the faint cherry aroma.

My nose scrunches up and I look at the bottle.

It’s the brand I’ve been using since I was a teenager.

I didn’t think to bring my own, so how did this end up in here?

My confusion washes away with the last of the soap as I rinse off. While unexpected, it’s not exactly surprising behavior from Callahan Keane.

I go through my usual routine, using what I can find in the medicine cabinet and below the sink.

After a half hour, I finally wake up. My chestnut hair is glossy, falling in light waves to my chest, and the steam from the shower seems to have helped my puffy eyes return to somewhat normal, though they remain bloodshot.

Within minutes, I finish up in the bathroom and then check the time on my phone: almost six-thirty.

The sun peeks through my windows, and I take it as a sign to get moving.

As good a time as any to track down some coffee.

I snoop through the dresser, finding a drawer filled with lacy panties and matching bras, and heat rushes to my cheeks.

My fingers tremble on the edge of the drawer.

He put me in a room where another woman previously stayed?

And he didn’t even have the decency to clear out her used panties?

I trap a scream in my throat and slam the drawer shut.

Thankfully, the next drawer is safe, and I find a silk loungewear set that feels like butter. I contemplate putting my underwear from yesterday back on, but the thought grosses me out too much. Instead, I pull on the loungewear with nothing underneath. It fits perfectly.

By the time I step into the hallway, the sun has risen, casting the manor in golden light. My steps are purposefully quiet, and I try to remember the way to the kitchen. There were at least three turns to get here last night…right?

After another fifteen minutes—and countless wrong turns—I finally make it to the kitchen.

Pans clang and bacon sizzles, and I’m led by my nose to the center of the chaos.

Darla whirls around the kitchen, barking orders to a younger chef and checking on whatever it is she’s checking on.

I stand for a minute, watching as she seems to be in complete peace while in the eye of the storm.

When she spins around to check on a pan of sausage links, she finally spots me. “Mrs. Keane, please take a seat at the dining table. I’ll bring you breakfast. Coffee?” She’s already onto another burner, stirring eggs and seasoning them with pepper.

“Oh, I was hoping to eat outside, actually. Get some fresh air.”

Darla freezes, turning to me. “We eat as a family, no? Have a seat. I’ll bring you a plate. Any allergies?”

I guess I won’t be eating outside today. Who all will be at breakfast?

“No cheese,” I say, watching as horror dawns on her face. I raise my hands in reassurance. “It’s not an allergy. I just don’t care for it.” My nose scrunches. “Can only stand it on pizza. ”

Darla’s eyebrows shoot to her forehead, but then she quickly composes herself and nods. “Okay, Mrs. Keane. No cheese.”

“Thank you, Darla. And it’s Loren, remember?”

She waves me off, and I let it go. “Coffee?”