Page 3 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
He manages a stern expression. “No hard feelings,” he says gruffly. “Look forward to doing business.”
He has no goddamn clue, but that works in my favor.
Then again maybe I should leave well enough alone. He does have quite a few friends, bought or otherwise. Quite a few resources. I could use him as an ally, never breaking him. Never breaking his daughter.
Eighteen is still so young, so innocent. The kind I’ve never been.
She would be better off with some rich kid, one who will insist on plastic surgery even while he fucks around with the nanny. That’s the life she was born for.
Not for the likes of me.
I work the question in my mind like my thumb against the ridges of the pawn, feeling it out, testing as I leave the room. The hallway is full of antique vases and plush rugs. Is this what prep school girls like? Of course it is. If a man does something foolish and ridiculously expensive, it’s probably for a woman.
Would the young Ms. James want a house of her own like this?
It’s like my mind conjures her from thought alone.
When I turn the corner, she’s there, her hazel eyes wide, her body leaning back in surprise—back toward the open staircase. I catch her arms, the sudden lurch in my heart more than shock, more than relief. It’s the feel of her soft skin beneath my hands, the knowledge that I’ll leave finger-shaped bruises on her flesh. She smells like fucking strawberries.
I want to slam her against the wall, to growl at her about the risks of being so damn edible around men who like to eat pretty girls for dinner.
But her father is in the study behind me, only a few yards away. An entire crowd of people mill around downstairs, their jewelry sparkling from the chandeliers. This isn’t the place. This isn’t the time.
In that second, staring into her wide eyes, looking at her pink lips, I know there will be a place. A time. I won’t be able to leave her alone, not now that I’ve seen her, touched her. She’s going to be mine. No matter how many antique vases I need.
I’ll buy the entire city to own one young woman.
I settle her firmly on the landing, making sure she’s sturdy before moving down the staircase. I catch glimpses of worried looks from the partygoers. Even in this goddamn suit they can tell I don’t belong. Too dangerous. Too cold. They aren’t as safe as they think. Half the men in this room are my customers now. The other half wish they were rich enough to be.
By the time I’m done with this city, I’ll own every goddamn neck in the room. Every wrist. Every sunshine smile.Chapter OnePandora was the first woman to be created by the gods. Zeus ordered that she be formed from the earth, her creation a punishment for Prometheus’s theft of fire.
In that way her curiosity was foretold, part of her fate.
I pause with my hands on the keyboard, studying my words. Like taking a breath after too long underwater, I’m back at school. I have two correspondence classes, this one Gender in Classical Greek Literature. An analysis of the first reading assignment is due tomorrow.
The woman signifies more than the punished; she’s the punishment itself, retribution for events that occurred before her conception. Blame without agency is a central theme for women in Greek literature.
The other class I’m taking is Subjectivity, Individualism, and the Crisis of Morality. At first it seemed like a stark contrast to study the breakdown of traditional customs while studying an ancient civilization.
Then again, who better embodies nihilistic randomness than the Greek gods?
They acted on impulse, creating lives and destroying them, rewarding and punishing on a whim. Vengeful and cruel, without the inherent gifts of morality imbued on other modern deities. Gifting humanity with a beautiful woman only to condemn them for her eventual curiosity.
At ten o’clock Gabriel still hasn’t returned. I wander to the window. A full moon lights up the maze of hedges, the line of trees beyond. Jonathan Scott might be in those trees. He might be anywhere. My eyelids are heavy, but I’m afraid to sleep.
A stream of cheery notes startles me. My phone.
Please tell me you’re having wild sex right now.
Thank God for Harper. A reprieve from the nightmares.
And she’s one of my only links to the outside world now that I’m trapped here. I flop onto the large bed, plush and utterly cold without Gabriel. The estate is large and so very lonely.
Coursework is a good distraction from the fact that I can’t actually leave. After the fire and the creepy switched painting of my mother, I know there are real dangers outside these walls. But I also can’t help but long for a simple trip to a coffee shop, a walk in the park. How persistent is the danger? How serious is the threat to me, specifically?
