Page 10

10

RYLEE

S team surrounds me as hot water trickles down my body. Shampoo is lathered into my hair, smelling of mint and eucalyptus. As it rinses down my back, tiny stings can be felt from the fresh lacerations on my body. I tense but don’t allow my face to react. It’s part of my punishment still, until it scabs over and heals.

I follow with conditioner, which has the same aromatherapeutic scent.

He is a man who projects a strong image but requires balance. Each tiny detail in his home and behind the wall he’s internally built shows me that.

A breeze of cool air overcomes the steam, followed by the overwhelming sensation of someone watching me.

He is here.

I don’t turn or make it obvious that I’m aware of his presence. He is still a man in an organization that I detest. They ruin families. They ruin kind, good people, all for The Exiled.

Turning the water off, I reach for the towel and wrap it around my body. The shower is massive, lined with heated tiles, glass walls, and even equipped with a bench. A window is set in the middle with a view of the backyard and woods, mountains beautifully sitting behind. It never gets old.

Opening the shower door, the steam escapes and once it’s all cleared, the view of him is clear.

A hand on the white granite countertop, legs crossed at the ankle, and still in the suit he had on last night. His gray hair is disheveled, eyes tired behind the wire frames, and his beard is in desperate need of tending to.

“Do you often watch houseguests in the shower?” Sarcasm is like a second language to me.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You are in my shower, so I don’t see the issue.”

He isn’t wrong.

As the door closed to his office, I decided it was time to nose around. I found myself in his master suite, then naked in his bathroom, and decided it was a far better option than the smaller bath in my room.

Wringing out my hair, water drips onto the floor. His expression doesn’t change. Still amused by my antics like I’m a child. His lack of response only further annoys me.

So, still ignoring him, I spin on my toes to leave and scurry back to my room to change, but his hand grabs my arm before I can.

“Who did that to you?” Nathaniel’s voice is deep and eerie.

Fuck. My back.

“No one. It’s nothing,” I respond casually, not wanting to get into it.

“It’s not nothing. Who? Names. Now!”

I’m not a coward; I own who I am and what I do. “Me. I did it,” I confess confidently.

“Don’t lie to me,” he counters.

I shake him off, crossing my arms and turning around. My eyes narrow as I glare. “I’m not a liar. And don’t act like you fucking care.”

Nathaniel’s face is stone, and through gritted teeth, he says, “I do care. Now, explain!”

My eyes roll, a habit I’m not ashamed of. “Not that it is any of your fucking business, because it’s not. But if you must know, I broke my own rules by coming on your floor the other night. Remember, it was when I was on my knees sucking your cock?”

His nostrils flare; it seems like he is displeased by my answer, but I’m not here to tell him what he wants to hear.

Not wanting to continue with this conversation, I change the subject. “How old are you?”

Shaking his head, he throws back at me, “Does it matter?”

Tapping my chin with my finger, I reply, “Perhaps it does. Do you happen to have a life insurance policy with my name on it?”

“Well played, Ms. Vandenberg.” He chuckles as his eyes glance over to the Mason jar I left on the counter.

Then curiously, he asks, “Who gave you that?” His head nods toward it.

“Thomas.”

Then I remind him, as I take a step forward to grab my juice, “We aren’t in a session. Rylee is what you will call me.”

Nathaniel blows out a deep sigh and shakes his head. “My apologies. But I’ll need you to leave that here.”

I’m agitated now. “No. He said it was fresh green juice,” I respond in defiance. I will never have a man tell me what I’m allowed to eat or drink.

Unscrewing the tin lid, he brings the glass jar to his nose and smells it, then places it back down. Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Nathaniel then informs me, “It’s poison.”

Why would Thomas try to poison me?

My face apparently says it all.

“It seems like my son doesn’t care for your presence here. But don’t mind him; it’s harmless. He knew I would stop you from having it.”

Perplexed, I question, “Thomas is yours too?”

“No. Thomas is who Elijah had deliver you this cocktail. Thomas likely had no idea what was inside. See, harmless,” Nathaniel reassures me casually, but I don’t feel reassured at all.

I don’t respond to any of it.

Elijah is a member of The Exiled.

Is he trying to do to me what they did to my mom?

I turn and start walking away from my host, my heart racing alongside my mind.

Before I am able to fully escape his presence, he shouts behind me, “Greta needs to speak to you. It’s important.”

I stop, caught off guard by his statement.

He and my grandmother are closer than I care for. This is the second time he’s mentioned her, and I don’t like it.

Walking down the staircase, the house is quiet. Nathaniel’s bedroom door is closed. I had a message from Greta waiting on my phone after my shower. He was right; she wants to talk and will be over later this evening.

I feel unsettled.

Clothes were waiting for me in the dresser, leggings and an oversized tee. My hair hangs long over my shoulders, still damp.

Rogers pokes his head out from the hall. “I’ve sent someone for your belongings; they should be here shortly.” He then disappears.

Nathaniel is going to pay for this later.

Roaming around, I find myself in the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee is calling my name with a mug sitting next to it. I pour myself a cup and drink it immediately. I love it hot, like burning tongue hot.

With my coffee in hand, I walk back upstairs, as another closed-door room had piqued my interest from earlier.

Standing before it, my hand reaches toward the cool metal doorknob. Turning it, I can tell it’s not locked now as the knob allows me to rotate it fully around.

Pushing the door open, the room is dark with a sliver of light peeking through the curtains. It’s also dusty and aged. Flicking the light on, a couple pictures are hung that look like a child has drawn them. Stepping onto the carpeted floor, I take another sip of my coffee as I examine the drawings. A little boy with a bat—this must be Elijah’s childhood room. The space is sparse, shelves without clutter. The bed is made, and the dresser is bare.

“Get. Out.”

The words startle me.

Slowly, I turn. A man with a skeleton face stares back at me. His wooden baseball bat is pointed at me, dented and bloodstained.

Elijah Sinclair.

“Shocked I’m still alive?” I ask.

His face shows no emotion, no anger, or annoyance. Just straight-up uncaring.

“Unfazed. Plenty of other ways to kill you,” he says.

Lovely. I suspect winning father of the year awards won’t be in his future.

Taking another sip of my coffee, I’m apprehensive but inquire against my better judgement, “Why do you want me dead?”

“I don’t trust you.”

I've heard he only tolerates his father and partner, Rain, so his response isn’t alarming. I’m also grateful he doesn’t acknowledge my distaste for The Exiled, which means my plan to destroy his father is still a secret safe with me.

Elijah impatiently repeats himself. “Get the fuck out of my room.”

I bow to him, sarcastically. “As you wish, Prince.”

But I need to be careful; having him focused on me adds another obstacle to my plan that I don’t need.