by T. L. Martin
But it has to be done. None of the other brothers have let me get this close. If there’s any chance I might discover something to help me find Frankie, I have to know.
Inhaling sharply, I close my closet and open the one beside it. Rows of pressed, black button-downs and crisp pants line the racks. Three polished pairs of shoes sit on an oversized shelf meant to store at least ten times that many.
Nothing else.
Chewing my lip, I work my way to the dresser and flit through the drawers. A wave of surprise runs through me when I see actual, normal clothes. Not entirely normal—no jeans or T-shirts—but there are immaculately folded undershirts, boxers, and sweatpants. Hesitantly, I trace a finger along one of the pairs of pants, careful not to cause a crease.
Does he actually wear these? I can’t picture it at all.
When the bathroom turns out to be as useless as the rest of the space, I remove my contacts then pad across the room, sinking exhaustedly onto the bed. It doesn’t feel as strange as I thought it would, being in his bed, although there’s nothing to give away that it is his bed. The whole room feels distant, clinical. Nothing to offer an ounce of insight into the seductive darkness I sense within him.
I try to stay awake, keeping the light on so I won’t fall asleep before he gets here. But soon my eyelids flutter shut, and I drift away.
“Sometimes we reveal ourselves
when we are least like ourselves.”
—Anais Nin
My fists tighten, pumping once, twice, at my sides as I pace up the stairs and down the hall. My adrenaline is still going haywire, but it’s a vast improvement from last night—when I’d stood outside my bedroom door, knowing who was on the other side. Images of her on my bed, under my covers, turning my blood hot and tempting me to twist the knob.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
So I called Griff and had him do an impromptu pickup. He wasn’t exactly thrilled—the moans in the background made it clear why—but when I told him who was up on the list, it was enough to shift his perspective.
It was a long time coming for Baldy, anyway.
We prepped to pick him up weeks ago, but plans changed when Frederick Fergusson popped up on the grid again. I wasn’t surprised to find Frederick became an elementary school bus driver. Not a big stretch from having been Misha’s transporter all those years ago, picking up street kids and delivering them to the storage room. They really need to do better background checks.
I reach my door and swing it open, stopping in my tracks when I spot Emmy asleep in my bed, a thin sheet the only thing covering her small frame. I grit my jaw, double-check the time on my watch. Nine o’clock. She’s supposed to be in the dining room by now—the only fucking reason I chose precisely this time to enter my room.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I’m reminded of the dried blood caked under my fingernails. I need my room to myself, and I need a goddamn shower. The sink in the basement only cleans so much.
With a growl, I make my way to the bathroom, lock the door, and ignore the nearly naked woman on the other side of the wall. I take my time washing up and shaving, being intentionally loud enough to wake her. She has plenty of time to get dressed and slip out before I finish.
Once I’m done, I wrap a towel low around my hips and open the door. Emmy is awake, barely, and sitting up on my bed. Her eyelids are heavy from sleep, her hair is a mess from her scalp to her waist, and her little nighty is bunched up at her thighs.
My cock stirs to life on its own, straining against the towel, and the fact only pisses me off more. My shoulders pull tight when she shifts and parts her lips, her sleep-ridden gaze drifting downward.
My eyes turn to slits.
I had a lot of time to think during my therapy session last night.
After more than a decade of being a slave to my demons, I’m damn close to ridding the world of Misha completely. Too close to let trivial temptations like women fuck with my head. Raife might think Emmy Highland is different—my cock certainly agrees—but in reality, she’s just another woman. A woman who pulled our number out of thin air and who I caught sneaking around my house. A woman who apparently has an agenda of her own—which is the only reason I’m risking keeping her this close.
Anything else is just a distraction. A distraction I have no interest in wasting any more of my attention on. Raife can do that on his own.
“Get up.”
She starts at my rough voice, but soon she’s stumbling from the bed, tripping on the tangled sheet and barely managing to right herself.
I flick my gaze to her closet. Her very temporary closet.
She gets the point. After grabbing what she needs for the day, she hugs the items to her chest and slowly glances up at me below long lashes.
There’s the little mouse.
“You have five minutes to shower and dress. Then go to the ladies’ quarters, where you’ll eat breakfast with the other secretaries at exactly eight-thirty every day from here on out. Aubrey has a list of jobs for you. She’ll stay at your side from start to finish, and you won’t do anything more than a bathroom break without her beside you.” I pause, giving her time to absorb my instructions. “Do you understand?”
She licks her lips and nods. “Yes, sir.”
Fuck.
“Four minutes.”
Her eyes widen, then she rushes past me and closes the bathroom door behind her. Her floral scent hits my nostrils, and my lungs tighten at the feminine smell lingering in the air.
I’ve never had a woman in my room. Not even when I’ve fucked them.
My eyes drift back to the bed’s rumpled sheets. The skimpy lingerie hanging in her closet. A bottle of contact solution sits beside a pair of black-rimmed glasses I’ve never seen before.
I rub a palm over my freshly shaven jaw, frustration burning inside me and pulling my muscles taut.
I gotta get the hell out of here.
“Some are Born to sweet delight.
Some are Born to Endless Night.”
—William Blake
A low whistle sounds when I enter the dining room. Aubrey sits alone at the table, one leg crossed over the other and her red hair spilling down one shoulder. Her head tilts as she looks me up and down. “Going for a carefree look today, huh?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, ignoring the sting at my ankle as my burn flares to life. She pushes a full plate of food toward me once I sit beside her. “Woke up late.”
Her lips quirk. “I noticed. The other girls finished their breakfast almost twenty minutes ago.”
I push the scrambled eggs around my plate with a fork, Adam’s naked, dripping torso still taunting me. His white towel hung low on his hips, letting me glimpse the hard V-shape disappearing beneath it. I knew he was cut, I felt it yesterday when my palms were pressed against his chest, his abs. But that’s not the same as seeing it bare, watching the ripple of muscles tense across his body when he spotted me on his bed.
That alone sent a surge of warm satisfaction through me. And when my eyes dropped lower, it only confirmed that at least a part of him wanted me, too.
But then I’d looked back at his eyes. They were as cold as the room encasing us.
He claimed me.
He owns me.
So why doesn’t he take me?
“Big night?”
“Hmm?” I take a bite and glance at her, slowly remembering where I am.
She leans back against the seat, still watching me closely. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“I call it the Matthews Effect.”
I pause mid-chew, my eyebrows shooting up. “The what?”
“Happens to all of us.” She winks. “You’ll understand soon enough. Now hurry up. We’ve got a job to do.”
The Matthews Effect. Finishing my bite with a swallow, I think of Frankie.
Did she feel it, too?
“What’s this?”
“This,” Aubrey mutters over my s
houlder, her eyes skimming the paper in my hands, “is a list of your daily duties.”
My brows furrow while I review the checklist. Dishes, sweeping, mopping, assisting with food prep and cleanup.
It’s all housework. And it’s all in the kitchen.
I blow out a breath and let my hands fall to my sides, still clutching the page. “Wow.”
“Problem?”
“Just . . . not exactly what I was expecting.”
Aubrey chuckles and starts walking past the ladies’ quarters, me following at her side. “Disappointed?”
“No.”
Maybe.
She glances sideways at me. “You don’t have to do that.” When I stare at her blankly, she adds, “Lie. There’s no one judging you here.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I don’t think I’ve ever not had someone judge me. Every move I make, every word I say. Every piece I paint.
It was the same for Frankie, growing up with Mama, but it was different for her too. She had nothing to hide. No monsters in her head to keep quiet. Mama still scolded and punished her, even more than me once she realized there was no hope for my soul. But that was just for being a normal teenager—sneaking off to parties, hanging with boys. Things I never did. The noise, the trends, the forced small talk and smiles—I never could get used to it.
Instead, I would keep my head down, burying myself in books and school when I wasn’t painting. I graduated at the top of my class, secretly envisioning a future I knew I would never have—like going to college, finding a place I might fit in. But Mama wasn’t wrong about me. I know how deep my darkness stems, and I know I’ll never be free of it, no matter how far I run.
I was Frankie’s weird little sister, a loner—identities I still wear on my sleeve. I liked how effectively they kept people away. I was hot enough to get a one night stand when I needed one—when I went long enough without freeing my mind through art that I inevitably caved in on myself. But I was still weird enough that people otherwise left me alone.
Batshit Crazy Betsy was the rare exception. I think her nickname explains why we got along so well.
Frankie, on the other hand, she always fit in. She may have been restless and always searching for something more, but she was also born knowing exactly who she was.
Why would she have thought she needed a place like this?
“I have to say, though,” Aubrey murmurs, pulling me from my thoughts. “Your list has to be the most bland I’ve seen yet. Not to mention the most particular. They don’t usually keep us so limited to one area of the house.”
That gets my attention. “Really?” My footsteps slow, and I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “Did he tell you why mine’s different?”
“Who, Adam?” She looks at me and snorts. “No, and I didn’t ask. If one of the Matthews gives you something to do, you need to trust there’s a good reason for it. Always. Every relationship is built on trust, and the relationship between you and your master is going to be the most important relationship you will have for at least the next year of your life. Probably longer.”
Following her into a restaurant-sized kitchen, I fidget with the hem of my dress and think her words over. The next year of my life. I can’t believe it’s only been a little over two days since I signed the contract. So much has happened since then, and I tense just thinking about what else might be coming. When I first arrived, I thought I’d be able to pull this off in less than a week. That I’d be flying back home with Frankie in the seat beside me, safe and sound, by the weekend. At the very least, that I’d be able to reach her somehow by then.
Now, I’m not so sure.
I don’t even know where to take my search anymore. She’s clearly not here, in the mansion, or I would have seen or heard from her by now. Loud and bursting with energy, she’s one of the most outgoing people I know. There’s no way I’d be able to miss her.
Unless she left long ago.
Or something happened to her.
When Aubrey leads me through the kitchen and stops behind a long sink, I turn to her, trying to keep my tone neutral. “A year—that’s a pretty long time, right? I mean, to commit yourself to something—someone—that you know nothing about? What happens when people change their mind? What about those who want to break their contract?”
“What do you mean?” She frowns. “They leave. They’d be giving up their end of year bonus when they do, but whatever. Their call.”
“Just like that? It’s that easy?”
“Emma, the Matthews are busy men. They have businesses to run and all kinds of things to keep them on their toes. They just so happen to also have very particular tastes and preferences that few outside these walls would understand. So it’s Stella’s job to find those who do understand and who fit their tastes. It would be counterproductive for everyone to keep someone here against their will.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I rub my hands on my sleeves. If Frankie left here willingly, why hasn’t she contacted me? We’ve never gone this long without speaking. We promised each other we never would.
Aubrey takes a step toward me, squinting like she’s trying to figure me out. “What, did something happen? Are you reconsidering the terms of your contract?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not reconsidering anything. I just”—I clear my throat, trying to think up an excuse for my behavior—“it’s an adjustment, that’s all.”
She smirks. “Well, sure. I think anyone Adam Matthews claims would agree. I still can’t believe he claimed you.” Reaching beside the sink, she pulls out a bin filled with dirty dishes. She gestures to the side counter, which is piled with more plates and silverware. “All right, so I’m under clear orders to stay at your side until I’m told otherwise. Guess we’ll be double-teaming these.”
I glance from the dishes to Aubrey, who’s slipping on a pair of gloves. For some reason, I can’t picture her doing anything so mundane in this place. “So . . . is this what you do every day?”
Her lips quirk as she shakes her head. “No. Stella and I handle the Matthews’ business related needs.” Her eyes drift down to the list in my hand. “I’d get started if I were you. You’re done for the day only once everything on your checklist is complete, or when your master summons you. Oh, and”—she twists her lips as she takes in the state of my hair and minimal makeup—“I’ll let you finish the dishes first, but then we’re making a quick detour to the spa. Our masters are known for making unexpected calls. He could come for you at any time.”
Warmth flutters through my stomach at the thought, although the hard look in his eyes earlier makes me doubt he’d ever come for me.
I try to ignore the wave of disappointment that pours over me as I turn on the faucet. “So . . . you’ll be staying with me all day?”
“All day.”
I swallow, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to make any progress with her glued to my side.
This is far too convenient.
Something tells me Adam knows more than I realized.
“The dark goddess moves within me;
To me she brings the fruit of the hidden.”
—Segovia Amil
Day after day drifts by in the same disappointing pattern. As promised, Aubrey hasn’t left me room to breathe, let alone snoop. She’s a dedicated servant, just like the rest of them, which surprises me. There’s nothing about her that screams follower, not the same way I see it with Stella and the others I’ve met. She’s a free spirit with a will of her own, much like my sister, although their similarities end there.
I’m a long way from figuring out the people of the Matthews House.
My duties keep me stuck in the kitchen. The most excitement I had all week was walking in on Griff in the pantry with his pants unzipped and a secretary on her knees, but even that was a letdown. After his behavior in the Dark Room, I expected more from him.
I’m in the same boat I was in when I first arrived a week ago. Each day I’m dismissed, Aubrey wa
lks me to Adam’s room. And each day, I intentionally keep our pace slow, soaking in every detail of my surroundings and tracking each camera we pass.
There’s no way to sneak upstairs without being recorded, let alone the basement—which is where I’ve been aching to go. Sometimes I toy with the idea of trying to get away with it anyway.
What’s there to lose?
Still, I haven’t risked it yet. Each night I go to Adam’s room only to find it empty, cold, still. It’s lonelier than I thought it’d be. Lonelier than my assigned room in the ladies’ quarters. Because now, there are always these kindling sparks of hope, anticipation, and danger building throughout the day that maybe he’ll be waiting for me.
That maybe he’ll want to see me.
Really see me.
Then I remember who I am, and that no one wants to see the parts of me I try so hard to hide. It’s a plain fact, not something I pity.
Frankie loves me, and she’s always encouraged me to use art as an outlet. But even she won’t look at my paintings. And if she did, she wouldn’t see what I do anyway.
Someone like Frankie would never truly see me. She could stare straight at my soul spattered across the canvas. She could tilt it for better lighting. But all she’d ever be is standing at the edge of the cliff, never feeling the dive, let alone the impact of the drop. And if it really came down to it, I don’t think she’d want to feel it either.
There’s a difference between loving someone as they are whole, and wanting to see all of their pieces. I’ve understood this for a while now, and I don’t fault anyone for it.
I’ve sought approval from Mama all my life. I’ve sought love and companionship from Frankie. I’ve sought pleasure and a few moments of pure release from art and men.