They think I’m sick with the flu. That’s why I couldn’t fly home for Thanksgiving.

  Ever since my argument with Elias, our relationship—if you can even call it that—has plunged from cold to subarctic.

  Cece meows as if to let me know she’s here. I scoop her up and hug her to my chest before crossing the room to the windows.

  I fiddle with my emerald pendant and listen to the soft purrs of my cat.

  Another reason this Thanksgiving feels heavy—it falls on November twenty-fourth this year.

  Kian’s birthday.

  Back home, I’d light a candle on a slice of cake and blow it out.

  I hope he’s alive and happy, celebrating with his loved ones.

  What happened to you, Kian?

  That’s the thing about loss—it sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And when you have no closure? The ache never ends.

  Wind beats against the glass pane, snow swirling in the air. Hollow Gardens is nearby. If only I could go out, I’d light the candle there, by our tree, our carving.

  But I can’t, because the bastard won’t let me leave.

  I picture Elias again, the terrifying man I now call my husband. He used to be a puzzle I wanted to solve because I thought there was more than meets the eye.

  “Ew, numbers.” I peek over Kian’s shoulder, watching him scratch his pencil against paper.

  It looks like a grid. Tic-tac-toe with numbers?

  “Words are hard for me,” he says. He wraps his arm around me when I climb onto his lap. “But with numbers, we get along.”

  “What’s this?”

  He erases a number and writes another one in its place. “Sudoku. You need to add to nine.”

  “Sounds boring. I’d rather read.”

  Kian chuckles and kisses my hair. “Puzzles are like books, I think. There’s a mystery to solve. And mysteries are always worth solving.”

  His words echo in my mind and I shake myself. Elias isn’t a puzzle.

  He’s just mad.

  I won’t let a madman ruin my day.

  Determined, I stomp to my goodies, pick up the carrot cake, and head downstairs for a candle.

  Minutes later, I round the corner toward the kitchen.

  “Fuck!”

  The crash of glass shattering cuts through the quiet.

  Then a deep, delirious chuckle. Someone mutters under his breath.

  Elias.

  Glass clinks. Liquid sloshes.

  I square my shoulders and step in, fully intending to ignore the man and grab my supplies.

  But the sight stops me cold.

  He’s slumped over the granite island, his normally tamed hair a disheveled mess, his dress shirt halfway unbuttoned. He looks like he’s brawled with a tornado and escaped with his life.

  But it’s his eyes that stop me. The agony in them. The self-derision.

  And a broken whiskey bottle, a victim on the floor.

  “Wife,” he slurs. “Why are you down here?”

  That’s when I notice the crimson streaking down his hand.

  “You cut yourself!”

  I set down the cake and grab the first-aid supplies I discovered last week.

  I should ignore him, let the man hurt himself, but against all logic, I can’t. Not when he looks so broken.

  Elias stills when I pull up a stool next to him. He hisses as I lift his hand and carefully clean the wound with wipes.

  “Why are you doing this?” he rasps, his whiskey breath drifting over my skin. Awareness thrums between us like a living being. “If I bleed out, that’d make your life easier, wouldn’t it?”

  I snort, wrapping the bandages. “You aren’t bleeding out from that. If only it were that easy.”

  “Then why help me?” He chuckles darkly. “You hate me, don’t you? Because I hate you.”

  My lungs tighten, a dull ache flaring. I tell myself his words don’t hurt.

  But then I look up.

  His green eyes, glazed with pain and something else, lock on my parted lips. My mouth dries. Elias dips his head slightly and trails a finger over my cheek.

  A gasp escapes me. Liquid warmth pulses through my body in shivering waves.

  “I hate you so much, Lana,” he repeats.

  I flinch, drop his bandages, and step back. “Seriously, why do I even try?”

  Shaking my head, I add, “Bandage yourself. Bleed out for all I care.”

  But before I can take another step, he grips my wrist and yanks me onto his lap.

  “What on earth?” I struggle in his hold, but he’s too damn strong.

  “Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Moving. Leaving. Whatever.” Elias presses me against him, his breathing rough. “Don’t leave. Please.”

  The anguish in his tone stops me. He tightens his hold as the air between us heats.

  “Why? Why do you hate me?” A sharp pinch catches behind my sternum. I glance into his eyes. “What did I ever do to you?”

  Elias clenches his jaw while his gaze skates over my face before settling on my lips.

  He doesn’t answer me.

  But he doesn’t look at me with hate. He looks at me like I’m precious. Like I’m a dream he can’t believe is real.

  My heart throbs now, the ache stealing my words. There’s confusion too, because I don’t understand what my sins are, but I know they’re real to him.

  This is nuts. I don’t care what he thinks of me.

  But still, I finish wrapping up his wound.

  “All done.” I affix the tape and get off his lap.

  He doesn’t let me.

  Instead, he digs his fingers into my waist—almost painful—but then my body comes alive. My skin tightens as I take in his broad chest, the pulse throbbing in his neck, and those emerald-green eyes, wild and untamed.

  “Lana,” he whispers.

  My lips part. His eyes zero in on the motion.

  The world swirls as my vision narrows. His face dips closer. My eyes flutter shut when his hot lips brand my neck.

  Sparks explode at the point of contact, and I moan. My legs clench to relieve the sudden pulsing in my pussy.

  Elias growls and manhandles me until I straddle him.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he says, then drags his hand down my back and over my ass. “Fuck me.”

  My panties dampen. Common sense flees the scene. I can’t help but move on his lap.

  Once. Twice. Small gyrations that drive him wild.

  A warning flickers in my mind. I’m his prisoner. He’s a monster.

  But my body has other ideas. It wants this virile man to touch me, to hold me like he wants to possess me and never let go.

  “Elias.” I bare my neck to him. “I don’t. I need—”

  “Yes, princess.” He reaches up and palms my tits, playing with my beaded nipples. I whimper. I need more. So much more. “What do you need from the man who hates you?”

  His words are a slap across my face, snapping me out of my haze.

  I scurry off him, and the cold air crashes between us like a tsunami.

  I miss his warmth.

  My lips are swollen even though he didn’t kiss my mouth, and I refuse to analyze the regret that follows.

  What am I doing? He’s my enemy. And I’m down here to grab a candle for Kian.

  Kian, the sweet boy who would never hold me captive.

  Shaking myself, I hurry to the drawer by the dishwasher. I spotted some candles and a lighter there before. I grab them, a fork, and pick up the cake, eager to flee the stifling room.

  “I’m sorry.”

  His words halt my escape, and I swallow my gasp. I’ve never heard Elias Kent apologize before.

  “I’m drunk. Ignore me. Nothing I say means anything right now.”

  Another beat of silence.

  “What’s the cake for?” Elias exhales. “Please. Come back.”

  I stare at the carrot cake, the earlier lust finally fading to the background.

  Tears prickle my eyes again because loss once again reminds me of its presence. Faces of people who are not here with me—Mom, Kian, Dad, my siblings—flash behind my eyelids. Maybe it’s loneliness, maybe it’s Thanksgiving and I’m away from home, but I don’t want to be alone.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I won’t take your bullshit.” Slowly, I turn back and take a seat across from him. “You’re skating on thin ice.”

  Those beautiful green eyes warm a smidgen, and he nods. A truce.

  “The cake is a tradition.” Carefully, I remove the plastic lid and stick the candle in the middle. I click on the lighter, but it sputters uselessly.

  “Here, let me.” He reaches over with his silver lighter and lights the candle.

  My heart heavy, I stare at the lonely flame emitting its warm glow. It can’t chase away the darkness in this house.

  “Today is November twenty-fourth,” I murmur, needing to confide in someone. Elias is halfway to drunk, so he probably wouldn’t remember it tomorrow, anyway. “It’s the birthday of someone important. I light a candle for him every year.”

  His breath hitches, and I look up, finding his gaze dark and riveted on me.

  “Someone important?” His fingers are white-knuckled around his tumbler.

  “Yes.” Heat creeps up my face at his intensity. I want to look away but can’t. In this moment, I’m a willing prisoner. “He’s someone I miss a lot. Someone who wasn’t family, who loved me for me, not because of my name or my money.”

  Elias’s throat ripples and nostrils flare. The flickering flame casts his face in shadows, but emotions still swirl in his eyes.

  I’m hit with an urge to solve him again. The same feeling that something lies beneath the surface. Something worthwhile.

  I grip my pendant, and his gaze flicks to it.

  “He gave that to you.” A statement, not a question.

  I nod.

  “And you kept it all these years.”

  “He’s not someone you forget,” I reply.

  The air stills as we stare at each other, both of us snared in its intricate web.

  For a heartbeat, the violence, the fake marriage, all fall away. I stop remembering how much I hate the man before me, who’s looking at me like he’s beholding the cosmos.

  The ache eases a smidge in my chest.

  I close my eyes, needing to break our connection, and make a wish.

  Kian, wherever you are, I hope you’re happy. I hope all your dreams came true.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Elias,” I whisper.

  Then I blow out the candle. The darkness sings, warm for once, before swallowing us whole.

  Chapter 21: DANCE WITH PHANTOMS

  The Shadow King is in a good mood these days. I wonder if Thanksgiving two weeks ago had thawed something between us. But the man has made no mention of it, nor has he tried to touch me ever since.

  It’s enough to make me question my sanity—if those heated caresses and rough words were figments of my imagination.

  But I know they aren’t.

  I’ve spent too many sleepless nights tossing and turning in my bed, thinking of how good it felt to be held by him.

  How easy it was to burn out of control.

  Physical reactions, that’s all they are. I have one goal—to get out of this alive. Screw the man.

  Now, Elias doesn’t even blink when I stroll past him in his office as I head up to the third floor. A devious streak inside me wants to drive him crazy.

  I taunt him with a sway of my hips, “Come catch me,” or thunder up the stairs in my stilettos just to drive him nuts with the noise, but he ignores me. If it weren’t for the twitch of his jaw and the clicking of his lighter, I’d think I wasn’t getting to him.

  Then there’s the silent bodyguard who still follows me everywhere when I’m outside the mansion. But when I’m inside, he gives me privacy. Ren and I have reached an understanding: I won’t test him and he’ll leave me alone.

  Frankly, I’m not dumb. If I run, we’re back to square one. Those cold-blooded murderers in The Association will hunt me down or go after my family, which is precisely why I’m in this predicament in the first place.

  Frustrated, I climb the stairs again.

  The third floor is “forbidden,” which only means I now come here daily. So far, Elias’s threats don’t have bite. If it’s truly forbidden, he wouldn’t have removed the barricade, right?

  The first time I came up here, all six doors were locked. Oddly, five of them are on one side of the hallway. Then, over the next few weeks, suspiciously, five doors would click open, one by one, right as I passed them. I’d look up at the camera in the corner, seeing the red light blink, just as it does now.

  He’s watching me. I know he is.

  I give the camera the middle finger, and it blinks again.

  I can almost hear his dark chuckles.

  Elias is taunting me back. I know you’re snooping. I control the flow of information, not you.

  Over time, I’ve explored the open rooms—a small study, three guest bedrooms, and the last one, the room Ren mentioned before, is my favorite place in this cold, dark house.

  An enormous library.

  It’s like the ones in Europe—ornate, gold leaf decorating the ceilings, antique sconces on the walls, filled to the brim with books, completely out of place in this modern home.

  The mobster definitely loves reading.

  Cece pads at my side, tail brushing my calf. I’ve asked the devil why he has the cat and if she’s from the Albanian café, but no surprise, he doesn’t answer my questions. Either way, I’m grateful for her. It’s like she understands me; she knows I have nobody here.

  I don’t contact home other than occasional messages to tell them I’m okay. I cut the brief calls short because I don’t want them to worry. If my brothers sense an ounce of sadness or desperation, they’ll come get me, safety be damned.

  So I tell them Elias and I have a comfortable relationship, that we’re roommates who barely see each other. I tell my friends we’re in the thick of our honeymoon phase and he’s whisking me around the world. And with time zone differences, I can’t call often. I send staged photos: stock images of a couple holding hands, chocolates that mysteriously end up in my bedroom every morning, and lots of photos of the calico cat.

  It’s quiet this morning. Hannah fussed over my breakfast like the mother I’d never had. Moments like these make my heart clench. I wish I remembered my mother. I wish I could taste her food, which Rex always said was delicious.

  I’m eating again. Hannah’s food is divine, so why keep punishing myself if the Shadow King doesn’t care if I starve to death?

  A few guards patrol the perimeter and, of course, Ren lurks about, his movements precise and purposeful, which tells me he’s just like Elias: lethal, violent, if not more dangerous.

  I stop in front of the mysterious locked door on the third floor, the only door on the right side of the hallway.

  Two locks. The first looks simple. I kneel and tug a bobby pin from my hair, trying to remember the steps for picking a lock from the videos I’ve watched.

  My answers must be inside, right?

  If this works, then I’ll work on the keypad, which looks like a cipher. I see faint wear on the number two. My blood thrums at the idea of a puzzle. No new puzzle boxes have shown up from my mysterious admirer. Perhaps they didn’t realize I got married and moved away.

  I insert my bobby pin into the key slot and press my ear against the wood.

  Wiggle it right. Then left. A lift. Another click.

  I twist the knob. It doesn’t budge.

  Releasing a sigh, I try again. Left. Then right. I add a second bobby pin the way I’ve seen the experts do it.

  Still nothing.

  Cece meows, clearly annoyed on my behalf.

  My phone buzzes.

  Shadow King

  If you’re done playing spy woman, I have a job for you. Come to the office.

  Anger constricts my chest. What the hell is this? He’s been sending me more press releases to proofread, market research, and crap for the Berishas I can do in my sleep. I was the Chief of PR at Fleur, and he’s making me do grunt work I typically assign to interns. I alternate between being insulted and being bored out of my mind.

  The damn bastard. I agreed to marry him to protect my family, not to work for him. Especially if he won’t even let me leave the house.

  Gritting my teeth, I stand and kick the door for good measure.

  “Ow!” Genius move, Lana. I grab my foot and hobble down the stairs.

  Elias arches a brow when he sees me limping into his office. “What did you do? Try to kick in the door?”

  His lip twitches. The bastard is trying not to laugh.

  I stomp forward, biting back a wince with each step. He leans back in his chair and swivels toward me, an air of nonchalance in his frame. He looks too damn good in his crisp white shirt, unbuttoned to the chest, revealing his deliciously cut muscles. Then he taps his lighter against the armrest.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The movements quicken the closer I get, drawing my attention to his corded forearms, the perfect veins and tatted vines running up his skin like a map I want to memorize.

  Suddenly, I forget why I’m here. My fingers itch to turn his arm over, to examine his tattoos up close. A perverse need surges through me—to lick the vines, to taste his skin.

  A dark chuckle. Then body heat and vetiver as he hauls me onto his lap, and dangles his arm in front of me like a treat.

  “Bite it.”

  My gaze snaps up, finding his eyes—the greens darkening like a forest at night—snared on mine.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say.

  “And yet, you’re considering it.”

  I swallow.

  “Go on, princess. Take a bite,” he rasps. His eyes dip to my parted lips. “Don’t be a pussy like last time.”

  The bastard is referring to our moment in the foyer when I wanted to slice his throat.

  My core clenches. I try to remind myself why I hate him.