"You played that well," Gerhardt said, closing the door to the guest suite. "Or maybe you weren't playing."
He loosened his tie, tossing it onto the armchair.
"I did what I had to do," Isa said, turning away to hide the shaking in her hands. "Helena likes ambition."
"Helena likes predators. Don't confuse the two."
"I'm going to take a shower," she said, grabbing her nightgown. She needed to get away from him. She needed to think.
She turned the water on high in the bathroom, then slipped out the side door into the hallway.
The house was quiet. She moved like a ghost, her bare feet silent on the parquet floor. She needed to get a sense of the house's layout, to find where the physical vault might be. She had the digital key; now she needed the lock.
She turned the corner toward the east wing, where she knew Christopher kept his private study. The heavy oak door was closed, but not quite latched. A sliver of light and sound escaped.
She pressed her ear to the cold wood.
"...she has Alvina's eyes, Christopher. It's unsettling."
Isa froze. Alida's voice.
"It doesn't matter," Christopher's voice rumbled. "She's a pawn. Once Gerhardt produces an heir, we can dispose of her. Just like we did the mother."
The air left her lungs.
Dispose of her. Just like we did the mother.
Her mother didn't die in an accident. They knew. They were involved.
She pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. She wanted to burst in there and scream. But she had no proof. Just a conversation she was never supposed to hear.
She backed away slowly.
She returned to the room, her mind racing. She was sleeping in the den of the lions who killed her family.
The bathroom water was still running. She turned it off and walked into the bedroom.
Gerhardt was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was shirtless.
She stopped.
His back was to her.
It was a map of violence. Thick, raised keloid scars crisscrossed his skin. Burn marks. Lash marks. Some looked old, fading into white. Some looked newer.
"Oh my god," she whispered.
Gerhardt flinched. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on in one fluid, angry motion. He turned to face her, his eyes blazing.
"Did I say you could look?" he snarled.
"Gerhardt... who did that to you?"
"No one," he said, standing up and advancing on her. "It's none of your business."
He was breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide. He was having a panic attack.
She didn't back down. She stepped forward.
"You're shaking," she said softly.
"Don't touch me," he warned, but there was no conviction in it. He looked like he was about to shatter.
She reached out and placed her hands on his chest.
The heat was there again. The furnace.
He groaned, a low sound of pain and relief. His resistance crumbled. He slumped forward, resting his forehead on her shoulder. His heavy arms came up to wrap around her, crushing her against him.
"Just... a minute," he muttered into her hair. "Just give me a minute."
She stood there, holding the son of the man who might have murdered her mother. She should hate him.
But as she felt his heart hammering against hers, syncing with her own rhythm, she realized something terrifying.
He was just as broken as she was. And for tonight, they were the only glue holding each other together.
