Page 45 of Chained

"Yes, I was born here." He moves back to his seat as he arranges the files on his desk. "We all were."

"All?"

"Me and my siblings. I'm the oldest."

"What happened to your parents?"

He stills, his jaw tightening as he bites down hard. I look away, his gaze intense as something shifts in the air.

"You talk a little too much." His voice is cold as he stands to his feet. My stomach turns as I stare at the ground. I pushed him too far too quick. I twist my fingers together. Should I apologise? Tell him I'm sorry? I blink a little slower, trying to figure out my next move.

Comply or die.

Hailee's face flashes quick, hidden behind static in my mind. I don't want to die. I have too much to live for.

"I'm sorry." My voice is no more than a whisper. I don't even know if he heard until his shoulders soften, a smile spreading fast across his face—one I can't tell if it's real or fake.

"Would you like a tour?"

I nod softly, my curls bouncing on my shoulders as I shift to a stand. He moves quickly towards me in quick strides before pausing, lips parting.

"One minute." He turns with a smirk, turning back to the desk. His hands fumble with the folders, shifting them into neat piles. My eyes follow, stalling as he slowly reaches for the dagger that sits on the wood, wrapped in a crimson case. My breath catches, heart pumping.

Oh, Hailee. I'm so sorry.

I can feel the tears building, threatening to spill. My heart aches with grief while my insides ignite. I hate him—for what he did. For whatever he plans to do.

He watches me intensely as my face shifts from a crumble to a flat expression. My lips in a line, eyes wide. I don't look away, not this time. He can face the grief he caused.

"Shall we?" He slides past me, slotting the knife into his inner suit pocket. I hear the laugh that rattles in his throat. My eyes dart around the desk, looking for anything I can end him with before the thought dies fast—there's nothing. Nothing I could reach before he'd have me on the floor. I swallow it down.

I'll kill him. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day, I will. I swear it. It sounds like a threat, but I swear on everything I love, it's a goddamn promise.

I follow his step as he holds the door open for me to cross, his hand finding my waist before I can even blink. He doesn't move it, instead leaves it slotted on my hip, fingers curling against my skin like they belong there. I wait for the disgust, for my skin to begin to crawl under his touch, but it never comes. Instead, I'm flooded with shame as my stomach flips in a way it shouldn't.

The hallways bleed into each other, every corridor looking the same as the last. I try and hold onto what I can—a painting here, a door there, the way the carpet changes colour as we move from one wing to the next. I don't know if any of it will ever be useful, but I hold onto it, anyway, because it's all I have.

"How big is this place?" I ask, keeping my voice light.

"Big enough." His hand shifts slightly at my waist. "It's been added to over the years, different parts built in different centuries. You can tell by the walls." He nods ahead, where the ceiling drops slightly and the plaster changes texture. "That section is the oldest part of the manor. Fourteenth century."

I look up, studying the structure. It's a beautiful home, if only it wasn't a cage.

"Your family built all of this?"

"My ancestors. It's been passed down ever since." His voice carries something I can't name. Not pride, exactly. More like ownership. Like the building is just another thing that belongs to him, the way I belong to him.

He pushes open a heavy door. The warmth hits me first, then the noise. Music is low in the background, voices and the smell of whiskey and cigarettes filling the air. The room is wide and red, full of men in suits sat around tables, glasses in hand. A girl stands behind the bar with her head down, and I clock her immediately—the way her knuckles are white around the cloth she's holding.

Nobody looks at me except to glance and look away again. Vincent doesn't acknowledge a single person in the room, just steers me through like they're furniture.

"The parlour," he says simply. "My father's favourite room."

I don't ask about his father this time. I already know where that door leads.

We move back out into the corridor, and the further we walk, the quieter it gets. The carpet is older beneath my feet, the walls a little darker. It feels empty but full at the same time—the air full of something that unsettles me.

That's when I hear it. Behind a door up ahead, sounds I don't want to put a name to. I keep my eyes forward, keep my breathing even, keep my face from doing anything at all.