Her Salvation, His Damnation

#9

Grace’s eyes snapped open to the unfamiliar high ceilings of the mansion, her throat feeling as though it had been lined with dust. Beside her, the mattress shifted as Rose stirred, blinking against the gloom of the massive suite.

"What's wrong? Grace?" Rose’s voice was thick with sleep, a drowsy mumble from the depths of the silk pillows.

"I just need water," Grace whispered, her voice sounding raspy. She sat up, feeling the strange silence of the house pressing in on her. "I can’t sleep without a bottle by the bed. It’s a habit."

Rose began to push herself up, her hair a tangled halo. "Should I come with you? This place is a maze."

"Go back to sleep, Rose. You’ve had a long day," Grace insisted, already sliding her feet onto the cold floor. She reached for the nightgown Rose had insisted she wear earlier, a gossamer, skimpy silk thing that felt far too revealing for comfort. She wrapped the matching robe securely around her, knotting the belt tight and praying the hallways remained as deserted as they seemed.

The trek downstairs was a journey through darkness. The mansion felt different at night, less like a home and more like a sleeping beast. She navigated the grand staircase, her bare feet making no sound on the polished marble. When she finally reached the kitchen, it was engulfed in a pitch black stillness.

Grace fumbled along the wall, her fingertips brushing against the cool stone until she found the switch. The overhead lights flickered on, momentarily blinding her with their brilliance.

As her vision cleared and she turned, her heart nearly stopped.

Tate was there. He was sitting at the head of the long dining table, his silhouette imposing even in repose. He didn't look like the untouchable king she had seen during the ceremony. He looked battered. A dark bruise was blooming across the bridge of his nose, and another marked the side of his forehead. He held a pack of ice against his temple, his shoulders hunched as if under a great weight.

He didn't look up at her right away. The silence stretched until Grace finally found her voice.

"Are you... are you okay?"

The question was soft, barely a breath, but it made him move. He slowly turned his head, his gaze meeting hers. He didn't answer immediately; instead, his eyes began a painfully slow journey down the length of her body. As his gaze traveled, Grace felt a sudden, scorching heat. His eyes darken.

She looked down and realized with a jolt of panic that her robe had parted, exposing the sheer nightie under. Her cheeks flared a vivid crimson as she hurriedly drew the fabric back together, clutching the lapels against her chest with trembling fingers. She cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.

Tate’s eyes eventually returned to her face, their dark depths unreadable, though the intensity in them had shifted. "What are you doing down here so late?"

"I was thirsty," Grace managed to say, her pulse thrumming in her ears. "I just came down for some water."

He remained still, his hand still holding the ice to his head. "Dressed like that?"

The question felt like a challenge. Grace shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her toes curling against the cold floorboards. She clutched the silk of her robe tighter, her knuckles white. "I didn't exactly expect to run into anyone at three in the morning."

He simply took her in one more time before jerking his chin toward a sleek, paneled shelf built into the cabinetry. "Open it."

Grace hesitated for a second before moving toward the wall. She pulled the handle and discovered a concealed fridge, the interior glowing with a soft, blue light. It was stocked with rows of chilled bottled water. She grabbed one, the plastic feeling icy against her palm, and turned to make her escape.

"Thank you," she muttered, her head down as she began to retreat toward the door.

She had only taken two steps when his voice stopped her, cutting through the silence like a command.

"Come back."