by Sam Crescent
“Or I’ll have to give you lessons. The devil”—he ran one finger around the rim of his wine glass, never breaking our shared gaze—“is in the details.”
Grace shifted in her seat, making a point of not looking at either of us. A faint flush was flowering across her cheekbones, one I was beginning to think might be mirrored on my own face. The banter was quick and familiar, nothing like our interaction before, and the exchange of wit was leaving me breathless. Who was this man and what had he done with Elliot Rochester, moody billionaire from the first night?
“I’m off to bed,” Miss Peterson broke in, gathering herself up. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” My and Mr. Rochester’s voices spoke in tandem, and I felt an internal thrill at the synchronization.
Once she was gone, he sat back in his chair, tucking lean arms behind him to support his head as he observed me from the other end of the table. So much space between us, yet I still felt overheated and nervous at the conversation, like it was wrong somehow. It was that exquisite wrongness that made it so exciting. After a moment, he spoke.
“I don’t apologize.”
My eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I want an apology from you?”
“I—” To his credit, he looked baffled for a moment. “The first night, you—”
“The first night,” I explained softly, “is long gone.”
And to my immense pleasure, what came next was something of a miracle. He was speechless.
Blood coursing through me, I slowly stood, drained my wine glass, and licked my lips.
“I’m going to bed,” I informed him, biting back my smile. The look on his face—something between bewilderment, irritation, and admiration—was utterly picturesque, and I hoped desperately that I could memorize it.
He didn’t speak to me the whole walk to the doorframe, and on a whim, I stopped with my fingers resting lightly on the molding.
“And Mr. Rochester?” I called over my shoulder. “I don’t apologize, either.”
****
That night I didn’t sleep for a very different reason. Though less light flooded the plank floor of my bedroom, I spent hours staring at the ceiling, the dinner conversation ringing in my ears. Sometime in the quietest part of the night, I finally decided to accept that sleep was not coming easily to me. After carefully sliding from the sheets, I crossed the room to the small writing desk and lamp atop its surface. It didn’t illuminate the entire room, but it did provide a little light I could write by. But that was when I noticed the light from below. Another window was glowing with warm, yellow light, the same window I’d looked down on the first night I couldn’t sleep. Only this time, there was a silhouette in the frame, looking up at me.
Elliot Rochester.
His features were half shrouded in shadow, but it was clearly him. And he was watching me. I followed his gaze to my shoulder, bared from where my robe had slipped on my journey across the room. A wicked smile curved at the edge of my lips as I shrugged, letting the robe slip off my other shoulder too. Underneath, I wore a black slip of a nightgown, trimmed in delicate lace. Half-hypnotized, I walked my fingers gently across my collarbone, nudging the dainty strap off my left shoulder. In the window frame below, I could see him strain closer to the glass almost imperceptibly. A fire started in my core, traveling deeper inside me until I felt not just powerful, but hot. Breathless. Ready. I wrapped one hand around the neck of the lamp to anchor myself. Hooking my finger through the other strap, I dragged it. Torturously slowly, the silk brushed across my skin, and finally, in a delicious release, the entire thing fell to the floor.
Then I turned out the light.
My chest was heaving, every fiber of me alive with the exhilaration of what just happened. In the darkness, I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face.
Chapter Three
It is a truth universally acknowledged that when a single man is in possession of a good fortune, he must throw lavish and absurd parties. This was the case for Elliot Rochester, at any rate. He’d run the guest list by Grace Peterson dozens of times before he was satisfied and let her send out the cardstock invitations.
Her role in his house still confused me, but she was ever-present: a butler, nanny, secretary, and whatever else he needed, all in one ginger-headed package. And she was equally helpful to me, collecting my laundry for the maids who dashed in once a week to tidy up the already immaculate house. And when she spoke to anyone—whether it be me or the master of the house—she was efficient, professional, and always wore that thin smile.
Neither Mr. Rochester nor I spoke of the night at the window, but on the occasion that we made eye contact, there was a secret shared there that made me weak at the knees. Why had I done it? And why had it felt so good to keep him frozen there at that windowpane, slave to my every move? I didn’t know, but I wasn’t sure that mattered. My mundane life had been transformed, and I didn’t want it to ever go back to the way things were before.
But things were about to change even further. Over the course of three days, guests turned up in groups, laughing over bottles of expensive wine in the parlor when we normally would have been eating dinner. I was expected to be in attendance—Grace saw to that, at Mr. Rochester’s request—but never did anyone speak directly to me. I was as much a piece of décor in the room as a guest. Through the clouds of cigar smoke, I would sometimes catch him looking at me, those molten eyes piercing through the crowd no matter how many stood between us. But that was all.
When the remainder of the guests had arrived, the festivities lasted for days. The house was never quiet, and—as Addie had been banished into the west wing of the building—I was at a loss for anything to do besides watch the sophisticated masses transform into drunken messes. Mr. Rochester, despite always having a full glass of something or other, somehow avoided this intemperance. I wondered if it were possible for him to let loose at all.
The last night was so wild that I slipped away unseen even by the pair of gold-flecked eyes in the corner of the room. Once I was inside my bedroom, the thick wooden door muffling the antics of the party-goers downstairs, I breathed a sigh of relief. There was only so much cigar smoke and noise one person can take, and I had reached my limit. I would much rather have spent the night in the west wing with Addison, but it was late by then, and she was undoubtedly asleep. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to find a quieter place in the west wing to spend the rest of the night.
The sound of breaking glass and delighted laughter from below cemented the plan.
I shrugged into my robe, grabbed a book, and crept into the hallway with a little flashlight from my bag.
The walk to the west wing was long, but pleasant. The further I got from the raucous uproar, the better. And I would have agreed with that statement the whole night through, were it not for the scene I came upon when I rounded the corner.
An icy wind was whipping through the deserted corridor from a smashed window. Broken glass littered the floor, and in the moonlight, each little shard glittered. There at the center of the mess was a meandering path of red droplets. Blood.
Cold fear gripped at my chest. This was no errant tree limb or hailstorm. Someone or something had come in through that window, and now it was in the house.
Addie.
I was running before I could think twice, and I leaped the expanse of broken glass as best I could to pass through the hallway. Her room and Mr. Rochester’s were in the very end of the wing, Rochester’s on the inside of the curve and Addie’s opposite, overlooking the forest.
Skidding around another bend, I laid eyes on the end of the hallway and the two doors. They were both closed and locked, as they should have been.
A breath of relief escaped me. She was safe.
But the rest of the house was still in the east wing, drinking and laughing and completely unaware of the danger. Sprinting to the very end of the hallway, I reached the west staircase and descended so quickly it left me winded. But I couldn’t s
top. Tearing across the first floor to the parlor at top speed, I nearly careened headlong into a tall figure. He caught hold of me by the shoulders, cutting off the shrill scream threatening to break loose from me by stepping into the light.
It was Elliot.
“What on earth are you doing running around?” he asked, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Did you get into the whiskey?”
“No.” I gasped a frantic breath. “Something’s wrong. There’s a broken window in the west wing.”
“The west wing?” His brow furrowed.
“Addie’s fine,” I hurried to tell him. “Her door was locked and it was quiet. But there’s—there’s blood.”
His expression darkened, and the tumult behind his dark eyes was fierce.
“She’s come back then,” he growled under his breath.
“She?” I asked, still trying to catch my breath. He let go of my shoulders, stalking in the direction of the broken window. “Who?”
He opened his mouth to answer, probably to brush me off or to tell me to go to bed, but he was cut off by a strangled scream coming from upstairs. Impossibly quickly, he climbed the stairs and was well on his way down the corridor when a second cry went up.
“Wait!” I hissed, trailing at his heels. But I stopped dead when I looked up.
There on the Oriental rug, just outside the second-floor bathroom, was a slumped figure. And looming over it was the largest creature I had ever seen. I froze, blinking, unable to comprehend what was in front of me. The hulking beast had tawny fur, and under it, a well-muscled body and razor-sharp teeth. It threw one look in our direction and fled, completely silently, into the night.
“It’s a wolf,” I realized, eyes wide.
Elliot didn’t lose a moment, rushing forward to the figure on the ground.
“Are you afraid of blood?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Is he alive?”
“Yes. Now help me get him up.”
Between the two of us, we hoisted a moaning guest to his feet and dragged him to the closest place to hide him: my bedroom. While Mr. Rochester got him into bed, I turned on the lamp, and only then did I see the extent of the damage. On his left side, the whole of his white shirt sleeve was in ribbons and stained red with blood. Jagged bite-marks marred the flesh of his arm, and a steady stream of blood was oozing forth with no signs of stopping. The man was no longer moaning. He was no longer conscious.
“Apply pressure,” Mr. Rochester instructed, shrugging out of his button-up and offering it to me as a compress. “I’ll call the doctor.”
“Doctor? What are you talking about? We have to call an ambulance. We have to call the police! That thing is loose somewhere, and it’s dangerous!”
He fixed his gaze on me, and it sent me into a new level of terror. His irises were pure gold.
“Be brave,” he demanded, reaching for my arm. Sharp fingernails bit into the soft flesh. “Jessa, I need you to be brave.”
I nodded slowly, still staring into those yellowy eyes, and accepted the shirt. I pressed it as hard as I could to the man’s wound, and when I looked up again, Mr. Rochester was gone.
Chapter Four
As soon as the doctor arrived, I was evicted from my own bedroom. Grace, under strict orders, was finessing the party guests and pumping them full of so much wine they wouldn’t know what country they were in. I was given no more orders. I sat on the chaise outside the bedroom door, covered in a stranger’s blood and listening to the hushed conversation between the doctor and a man whose eyes I’d just seen change. It was more than just their color. It was something deeper, more complex. And what did I want? Nothing more than to see those eyes again.
Just before sunrise, the last of the remaining party-goers stumbled back to their respective bedrooms uneventfully, and the house was finally quiet. Grace vanished, and still, I was alone. And it wasn’t until the pink glow of sunrise that the doctor and Mr. Rochester finally opened the great wooden door. Elliot looked at me, alarm coloring his already exhausted features.
“You’re still awake?”
“I thought you might need me.” I blinked. I didn’t like the way that came out. I was tired, physically and emotionally, and I didn’t like the idea of him knowing he had any pull over me.
He knelt before me, taking my hands, dried blood and all, in his. “No, you’ve done more than necessary,” he murmured. “You’ve earned your rest. Now come. You’ll sleep in my bed.”
A little thrill ran through me at that, and if I had more energy, I’m sure a wise crack would have slipped from my mouth as easily as exhaling. But I was tired, and when I stood up, I realized something was wrong with my foot. As I faltered, I looked down and noticed a smear of blood on the polished wood floor, just under my heel.
“The glass…” I realized absently. “I must’ve stepped on it.”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s a sliver of glass, Rochester, I think I’ll survive.” And I was about to make another attempt at standing when he offered his arm to me. My fingers found his forearm, bracing only for a moment before he swept me up, cradling me against his chest. The movement, the lack of sleep, and the scent rolling off his neck dizzied me.
“You’ve got some kind of hero complex,” I mumbled, my head falling back against his shoulder to get a better view of his face.
“Something like that,” he muttered, his voice reverberating against my side.
“Well, I’m not so easily won,” I pointed out peevishly, though all I could think of was how good it felt to be in his arms. “I’m not some damsel in distress for you to save.”
“No…” He sighed. “Evidently, you are not.”
Turning the corner into the second-floor bathroom, next to the conspicuously stained rug, Elliot loosened his grip around my shoulders. He set me gently on the edge of the claw-foot bathtub. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knees and turned on the water, testing it with the inside of his wrist. When it suited him, he took hold of my ankle, his touch feather-light despite the evident power in those muscled arms and wide palms.
“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he murmured, not looking at my face. I wanted to crack a joke about the irony of the situation—Elliot Rochester, billionaire, washing the feet of “the help”—but something in the softness of his voice, the softness of his touch … it was making it difficult to be funny.
The rest of the early morning seemed to unfold in slow motion. His hands moving over my skin to dislodge the piece of glass, the bandage he wrapped my heel in once he was certain it was clean. By the time the sun rose, he was tucking me into his own bed, and I could almost forget the events of the night.
“Mr. Rochester,” I managed as he turned his back to the bed, heading for the door.
“Yes?” He didn’t turn.
“Last night … we’re never going to talk about it, are we?”
“No, Miss Edwards. I don’t think we will.”
Though he couldn’t see me, I nodded into the pillow.
I thought so.
****
The cover story was a simple one. Mr. Bradley Hildebrant had—in his drunkenness—gone through the large window in the west wing and had to be taken home to recover. All in all, not a bad night. To be expected, some even argued, from someone as wild as Mr. Hildebrant. And so the night was forgotten by all but the three adults of the Rochester household. Addie didn’t seem to know, and as far as I was concerned, that was the most important thing.
Why a giant blonde wolf had mauled a guest and no one was admitting to it, I didn’t know. But I could see that Grace did. Every time she met my eyes, it was only for a moment before she had to look away. She knew what happened that night, and from what I could tell, she had an idea why, too.
“Grace,” I began one day after Addison had gone to bed and her uncle was missing from dinner. “It must be lonely out here, in the middle of nowhere with no one but Mr. Rochester for company.”
Gra
ce considered this for a moment. “I have you and Addie.”
“We hardly see each other,” I pointed out. “Except at dinners. What do you do all day, anyway?”
“Oh, you know that.” She smiled. “Whatever he tells me to.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Always sending you on errands. Don’t you get sick of it, being at his beck and call?”
She bit her lower lip, speaking carefully. “Mr. Rochester is a complicated man. You’ve seen his moods. But he’s a good man, and he is good to me. I always do as he asks.”
She met my eyes then, and it made her words even clearer. She knew I was digging, and she wasn’t going to give up the information.
“Of course.” I stiffly returned her smile. “I’m going to go read before bed.”
On my climb up the stairs back to my old bedroom—now that the ruined bedclothes had been disposed of, and the memory of the gray-faced man in my bed had almost been erased—I realized faintly that I should have been afraid. I was in a house with a man full of secrets and his secret keeper. And I was not one to leave secrets alone. It was the same cat-killing curiosity that bred hungry journalists.
Inside my room, I couldn’t stop my head from spinning in circles, trying to figure out every possible way I could extract the truth. Grace was a vault, and Mr. Rochester … well, he was a puzzle of his own. And yet I felt I understood him completely. He was arrogant and charming, cruel and kind, fiery and cold. He was whatever you gave to him forged with whatever you wouldn’t expect.
I was filled with a new curiosity. Though it had been weeks since the night at the window, I couldn’t stop myself from crossing the room and parting the curtain slightly. My heart leaped. In the window across the courtyard, I could see the glow of a candle. He was awake.
It was such a simple thing. Anyone could have been awake then. It was early in the night, and there was no reason for me to feel the strange connection I felt. But it was there, all the same. It felt … destined. As if tonight we were meant to be awake at the same time, both missing sleep by way of dark thoughts. A shadow crossed the pane, and despite the brief urge I felt to shrug away, I kept still, not bothering to hide my stare.