Tears burst from her eyes, and she turned to flee the room. But as she passed a small writing desk tucked near the door, her elbow hit a crystal vase of flowers, the delicate arrangement of lilies and roses tipping over to crash on the floor.
The maid squeaked in fear, yet still rushed out, and I pushed myself up higher until fully seated, regret washing over me until I called out, “Wait! Come back!”
She must not have heard me. Groaning, I spoke as if she were still in the room.
“I’m sorry for being rude.”
It was no use. The maid had already run off, and I was left feeling like a raging bitch for snapping at her. Yes, it was early to barge into a woman’s bedroom, but she was just doing her job, and I had no right to make her feel bad about it.
Burying my face in my hands, I shook away the remaining dread I felt from my broken sleep and nightmares. I took a deep breath and lifted my head to stare at the shattered vase and scattered flowers.
The least I could do was clean up the mess since it had been my foul mood that caused it.
Throwing the blankets off, I padded barefoot into the bathroom to grab a towel and a small wastebasket, then made my way to the mess.
My knees cracked when I crouched to use the towel to mop up the water before I gathered the flowers into a pile and began picking up the largest shards of broken glass.
Callan
Lisbeth was as beautiful as I remembered. More so, maybe, now that time had scrubbed what remained of the baby fat from her face and had sharpened her cheekbones and defined her face.
When she first arrived, I’d stood watching as Franklin led her in, the air held in my lungs for fear that just my breathing would alert her to my presence.
Purposely hidden in shadow, I’d taken that first glance, my hands tightening on the railing with each step she took inside the house. I could hear the wood crack beneath my fingers, could imagine the enamel of my teeth cracked the same way for how hard my jaw had clenched.
She really was alive and well, her pretty face a wash of relief as she returned to her childhood home.
It was as if I could hear the thoughts in her head, the promises she made to herself to retake her pedestal among the Rose family, the plans she had to return to a lap of luxury she did not deserve.
Those thoughts only made me more determined to slap her down for her part in my mother’s death.
Did she think I was dead too?
The amount of self-control it took to remain on that balcony looking down at her was more than I thought I had in me.
But then she’d glanced up and froze in place, her shoe skidding over the floor as she tripped. For a moment, I thought the game was already lost and she’d recognized the man staring down.
Only when confusion flooded her expression did I know the shadows hadn’t given up their secrets.
I left before she could take a closer look, uninterested in whatever web Franklin was spinning around her. I needed a few days to process what it meant to have Lisbeth back, and I’d retreated to my bedroom to think.
Knowing it would be more fun to let her believe all would return to normal before snatching the illusion away, I’d settled my aggression into place, trapping it like a hunter would a feral animal.
It wouldn’t be too long, this beginning.
Hell, it had already been ten years. I knew I could hold out for a few more days.
Those days passed, one after the other, and while Lisbeth wandered the mansion aimlessly, I followed like a damn stalker, using the service stairs and utility hallways to stay out of sight. Every so often, Lisbeth would glance over her shoulder or turn fully to where I was standing, but I didn’t allow her to catch me in the act.
Not until she’d stood in the ballroom, at least.
Not until she returned to the scene of a crime that had her name written all over it.
Although I didn’t have the chance to find my mother’s body that night, I’d learned where she died, and I stood in the exact spot to watch Lisbeth survey the room.
When she noticed me, I knew she couldn’t see my face.