Page 46 of Chained

Then the door swings open.

He doesn't see me. His head is down, one hand moving through his hair, and we walk into each other before either of us can stop it. His hand catches my arm on instinct, steadying me, and we both go still at the same time.

Ace.

Apologies almost fall from my lips, but I close them instantly as soon as his eyes find mine. My heart jumps at the sight of him, and for a second, it's like we're frozen in this moment. Neither of us moves. Up close, the lost look I'd seen before is worse somehow. Like whatever was behind his eyes has gone somewhere it can't come back from easily. His jaw is tight, his white shirt stained a deep red.

He's a psychotic killer. I can see the proof with my own eyes. I should feel terrified, I should feel the urge to run, to scream, to do anything but hold his gaze—but I don't. It's weird; I know what he's done. I know this isn't the first and probably won't be the last, but I see something in him that's different from the other men. A sadness I can't quite name. A guilt that mirrors my own.

He holds my gaze, anchoring me in place. My heartbeat slowly starts to rise as we search each other's eyes for answers neither of us want to give.

It doesn't last long—Vincent's hand wraps around my waist again, pulling me into his side possessively as he drags me forward. Ace still has hold of my arm, and for a second, I'm part of a tug of war between two men. One who scares the shit out of me and one who makes me feel something I can't describe. I don't know if it's pity or curiosity. I just know it's something.

He finally lets go, and I don't look back. But I feel his eyes on me until the corridor bends and takes him out of sight. I don't know what to do with the fact that somehow, in the middle of all of this, that feels like the worst thing that's happened all day.

"Don't mind my executioner. He loves to make a mess." Vincent's voice rings in my ears, his rough laugh echoing around the empty halls.

John's voice keeps flooding back. Psychotic killer. The Order's executioner. I try to make those words fit the face I just saw, and I can't. I don't know what to do with that.

I should stay away, stop asking questions and pretend he doesn't exist, but part of me feels…connected to him. Not romantically, but I don't know…I just feel like somehow he may be the key to the chains that bind me. I don't know if that's optimism or sheer desperation. I don't get time to wonder. Vincent's hands dig deeper into my waist as he holds me tightly against his side, completely oblivious to the thoughts weighing heavily on my mind as he guides me through the manor. I'd long stopped caring about each room or even listening to the words he was spilling. As much as I hate to admit it, my curiosity about Ace had started consuming my mind, and I don't want to admit what else it's consuming. But I'd be lying if I said it stopped there.

Chapter Fourteen

Amora

Everything inside me is unsettled, my stomach twisting and turning with every step as Vincent continues to guide me through the manor, his fingers claiming as he strokes against my hip as we step outside. The sun is high above, blazing down, but the air is a little colder. I shudder at the chill, eyes darting around the gardens.

"I think you'll like it here." His voice is soft as he turns to study my face.

I fake a smile, well enough that he accepts it and looks away. I don't know what's wrong with him, I really can't work it out. I think you'll like it here. That's delusional, right? I'm really starting to feel like this man genuinely believes I want this. That I'd choose this.

The hedges that surround us are higher than us both, full of red and white roses. It's beautiful, of course it is. The whole manor is, but I guess that's why it works. No one suspects the beautiful house with a gorgeous garden to be harbouring countless women, forcing them to perform for men and hand over their bodies like sweets.

I spot the table in the centre of the gardens. The fountain sits beside us, my eyes lingering on the statue—a woman wrapped in a snake. And for a second, my chest aches. I feel like her, trapped in stone with a serpent wrapped around my body. But instead of feeling scales, I feel skin. Hands. Ones that don't belong there.

Vincent pulls the chair out, waiting for me to sit. It's almost romantic. Almost like a date, except it's not. He's my captor. The man who owns my life.

"I thought we could get to know each other more." He pushes me in, his fingers trailing to my hair as he straightens it down my back. I don't turn; I just stare at the pebbles on the ground that I gently move with my toes. He moves quickly to take his own seat, his fingers snapping in the air.

I look up as a maid comes quickly with a silver jug and two glasses, her eyes never leaving the ground. Her outfit is so small, so tight, it barely covers beneath her waist. The sour taste fills my mouth as his eyes fan down her body, the way his tongue flicks against his bottom lip.

Vile. There's no other word to describe him.

He smashes the glass down onto the table, the crash making me jolt.

"Pay attention when I'm talking to you." His tone is colder, eyes burning into me. I swallow.

The maid begins to pour lemonade into the glasses, the liquid cloudy.

"I want to know you, Amora." He leans back in his seat, his fingers rubbing against his jaw.

"There isn't much to know." I don't want to tell him about me, my life. I don't want him to know the secrets that I hold close or the love I have for the other half of me that's lost. I don't want him to know anything.

"There must be something." His eyes never leave mine, and I don't know where to look. Every inch of me exposed.

"What do you want to know?" Tell me what you want to hear. Tell me so I can think of some lies to make you happy.

"Anything," he says, his tone silk but his stare sharp. "Everything."