Chapter 24

All of the warm feelings that come from spending an amazing night with Ari instantly evaporate when less than a couple of minutes after tucking Ari back into her bed, he enters her bedchamber.

His timing is suspect. Why is he in her room in the early hours? It's not time for her medication or breakfast yet, so why is he here? The change to their usual routine makes my body tense as I watch helplessly.

With only a few minutes until sunrise, I'm restricted by the magic that binds us. All I can do is watch, from my perch outside her bedroom window, as the first rays of morning light touch the sky and the magic floods my body in a series of tingles that slowly turn my ancient form back to stone.

If he knows she's left her room, he'll be enraged, and I'm afraid of what that will mean for Ari. Carver is unstable. Years of watching the Lord of the Manor break his toys, with a twisted relish, has nervous dread swirling inside my stomach.

Could I fight the bonds that lock me in place and free myself to save Ari if she needed me? I'd like to think I'm strong enough if the need arose…but at what cost?

Carver shakes Ari awake by the shoulder and proceeds to force her to take her pills early, but why? She doesn't need any of it.

She was getting better when he was away from the estate, finally facing her grief, and she didn't need to take medication. I worry now that she'll go back to the way things were before, and I don't want to lose her to that fog again.

To my surprise, once Ari swallows the medication, Carver tucks her back into bed. Ari never speaks once. I never noticed before how silent she's always been around him. I assumed it was a side effect of her pills but now it's impossible to ignore. It's him. It's what he does to her.

He stands watch over her for a few moments before leaving. As soon as the door closes, Ari's eyes fly to meet mine and she gives me a look of such longing, of such desperation, that my heart breaks.

We stare at one another helplessly for several minutes, or maybe an eternity, before whatever medication he's forced past her lips makes its way into her system and her eyes become glazed. Slowly, she slips away from me, and falls into a deep slumber.

Hours pass in silence but the agitation in me grows. There's a feeling in the pit of my stomach, a sense of…wrongness about the way in which Ari is sleeping. It's not natural. There are no whispered words, no tossing and turning, no nightmares. She's sleeping too deeply.

It's late morning when the door to Ari's bedchamber opens once more, and the Lord of the Manor creeps back in, closing the door behind him. He calls Ari softly, but she doesn't stir. Instead of being concerned, a slow serpentine grin stretches across his face.

The unrest within me intensifies, rising like a tidal wave that's right on the crest of breaking.

Carver approaches Ari's bed with a predatory gleam in his eyes and my stone heart pounds, aching with the knowledge of what is about to transpire. The air in the room thickens with tension as Carver leans over Ari, his hot breath ghosting over her sleeping form.

Inside my stone cage I'm screaming, fighting, beating my fists…anything to try and wake her, to prevent what is about to happen.

In a sudden burst of movement, Carver's hand snakes out to grab Ari's wrist, his grip tight and possessive. Even from my distance I can see that he's going to leave a bruise.

My blood boils. How dare he mark what's ours?

Ari barely stirs, a faint furrow marring her brow as she resists the intrusion of her dreams. But Carver is relentless, seeming satisfied with her sluggish slow response as he strips back the covers.

He reaches out and almost reverently lifts her nightgown, exposing her beautiful body to his greedy eyes.

Once she's bared to him, he runs a single fingertip along her thigh, from knee to hip bone, before pushing her legs apart. He reaches down and pinches her nipple, twisting it as he palms his cock through his trousers.

When I am free of this prison, I'm going to kill him. I'm going to choke the life out of him for laying hands on her, for all the times he's touched her without her permission. But first, I need to find a way to ensure we'll still be there to protect her.

I watch, horrified as he crawls between her legs and buries his face in her sweet pussy, devouring her as if it was his right. She barely acknowledges the touch, something I'm thankful for as she's saved from knowing what he does to her body.

He finally pulls back, kneeling between her spread thighs before unbuttoning his trousers and taking himself in his hand.

Every fibre of my being screams in protest, a silent roar of defiance that reverberates against the window and through the still room. I strain against the magical bonds that hold me captive, desperate to intervene, to protect the one I hold dear. But I am powerless, nothing more than a silent observer to this heinous act.

I thought I was strong enough to break the bonds. For her. For love.

But I'm not.

I'm forced to observe as he touches her, fingers brushing over her skin lightly, her stomach, breasts, thighs, while he gets himself off on the sight of her sleeping and spread out before him.

He grunts, and I pray he finishes quickly. A fire ignites within me, fierce and unyielding. I may be stone on the outside, but my resolve is unbreakable. He will pay for this.

Inside my prison, I can only watch and listen as Carver's actions wreak havoc on my little dove. My love. My heart clenches with every grunt, my soul screaming at the injustice of it all. The woman I have sworn to protect is being violated by a monstrous man, and my inability to stop the desecration leaves me hollow and empty. With one last lustful groan, he paints her with his spend, marking her body with his evil.

Time seems to slow to an agonising crawl as the scene continues to play out before me. He scoops up some of his cum on two fingers before rubbing it on her pussy, pushing it into her slit with a twisted grin.

He climbs off the bed, and I pray he's done. But he isn't. And I watch as he moves to the head of the bed, turning her head gently before using his thumb to push her chin down and part her lips.

I'm powerless as he rubs his cum covered cock over her lips, dipping the tip just inside her mouth before pulling away, repeating the process a few more times until he's hard again. This time he's quicker to finish, coming on her face, with his other hand squeezing her tit, while she remains blissfully unaware.

He grabs a washcloth from the bathroom, returning to clean her up. He's careful and gentle with the fucked up aftercare he gives her, wiping away all traces that he'd been there as he pulls her nightgown back down and covers her again with the quilt.

As he finally leaves, and the door swings shut behind him, I'm grateful that she was able to sleep through this. That it was me who was forced to witness it. This would have broken Jas. And sent Mal over the edge.

I know Ari said she didn't want us to kill Carver, but I refuse to watch this anymore. For the love of Ari, I would choose his death a thousand times over.

I feel so…heavy when I wake.

My limbs are like lead, my entire body tired and drained and just…wrong. Everything is off kilter and I have to prise my eyes open and it's such a struggle to keep them that way. I lick my dry lips, getting a taste of something bitter and salty.

When I manage to sit up and look out of my bedroom window, the sun is high in the sky. It has to be afternoon which means I've slept most of the day away.

I guess staying up late to fuck my gargoyles all night long will tire a girl out. But this heaviness in my bones feels more like before, like when I was lost in the haze of drugs.

Yes, Carver is home. And he's forcing pills down my throat once more, but I've only had a few doses, I shouldn't be feeling this awful already.

I don't feel sick like with the flu, but maybe I am coming down with something. I don't know. What I do know is that I need to get out of this room. I should probably shower, but I don't think I have the energy. Besides, my gargoyles cleaned me up last night, so it's not like I'm dirty. Just groggy from sleep.

Food. I should definitely get some food in me. Hopefully there's still some leftovers or something easy I can make, and Carver's return doesn't mean a return to his bland, tasteless, ‘healthy' food. I don't think I could stand it. It's like I've awakened in his absence and I'm not willing to go back to that zombie-like state he had me in before. Not without a fight anyway.

In the kitchen, there's no vase or glass of flowers on the table, and it fills me with sadness for a reason I can't explain.

I wish Carver had never come back. I hope he leaves again soon. Everything was so much better with him gone. I was living once more.

I've not done that since before my mother's death, and even then, if I'm truly honest, I feel like I've not really been myself since Carver came into our lives.

My heart pangs.

I miss my mother. Not just the good parts of her from before, a small part of me even misses the woman she became as Carver's wife. She was still here. Still with me.

Their wedding anniversary is approaching soon, though I'm not sure of the exact date. I remember that it's some time in June because my mother had peonies at the wedding, and they only bloom for such a short season.

I wonder if Carver will remember. Something like that would be ingrained on the souls of most widowers, but Carver has never grieved for my mother. Not really.

A flash of memory, of thinking he looked smug at the funeral flits through my mind but it's gone before I can examine it too closely. A wave of nausea overcomes me and I stumble.

Food. I need to eat.

Once I've managed to eat a piece of toast and nursed a cup of fruit tea, I hide in the solarium tending to my plants while I try to come up with a plan. I know Sax and Mal want me to leave Carver to them, but they don't understand. They don't know him like I do. I need to have some security that he won't try to force my hand or make me stay, and blackmail makes the most sense.

He's a lord, being a lord is the most important thing in his life and his reputation is everything. How many times had I been punished for tarnishing it? How many lectures had I received for not being appropriate or seemly in public? Carver's Achilles' heel is public perception. It matters to him what others think of him.

All I need is some juicy tidbit of gossip, some dodgy accounting files, tax evasion, drug issues, proof of an illegitimate child – anything that will give me the upper hand. Then he'll be forced to stay away from me, and no one gets hurt or killed.

In my gut, I know I'll find what I'm after in the west wing. Why else would he keep it locked? Even from Danvers.

Jas was sombre when he said it contained darkness, but I need that darkness. I need to harness it, that's the price of my freedom. I know it. My mind goes to the set of keys for the estate Carver carries in his jacket pocket, and I know one of those must be for the west wing. But how am I supposed to get my hands on those?

My head swims a little, and I take a few steadying breaths, leaning on the pot of a large bamboo plant while everything comes back into focus. If I am going to do something it needs to be now.

I head upstairs and change into another gown, one I know is a favourite of Carver's. It has a frilled ruffle edge that sits off my shoulders, and gathers between my breasts. The pale pink fabric is almost sheer, gossamer, falling to my feet, and while I squirm, I know Carver will be pleased to see me wearing it. Taking a deep breath, I turn to the statue of Sax and pray he forgives me later tonight before making my way to Carver's home office.

I knock on the huge mahogany door, before letting myself inside. Carver is sitting behind a large oak desk near the window in the dark room. The walls are lined with bookshelves, all filled with vintage books, photographs, a few certificates and knick-knacks. It's so oppressive in here.

His eyes widen when he takes in my dress, his gaze moving almost hungrily over me. "Ari, princess, what are you doing out of bed?"

I clear my throat, keeping my eyes cast down as I force myself to say, "I wanted some company."

The words are poison in my mouth, bitter and sharp, like I'm chewing on glass.

He's wearing his suit the same as always, and I know I'll find the keys in his breast pocket but how do I get them? A hug maybe? My stomach clenches and I swallow back the bile that rises up my throat.

"It's unlike you to be so codependent." He chuckles, motioning for me to come closer.

Inhaling, I push my shoulders back, ignoring the way his eyes are drawn to my breasts, and perch on the edge of his desk, my leg pressed against his arm.

He swallows, hand landing on my thigh. "Perhaps my time away affected us both more than we anticipated."

I nod, not trusting myself with words as he slowly gets to his feet. He presses his body against mine, pulling me into a hug, and as he does, I slide my hand inside his jacket. My little finger and right ring finger dip into the inside pocket, and as they brush the ring of keys he notices, so I run my other hand up his back and bury my face in his neck, pressing my lips against his skin to distract him. It works and he turns his attention back to me, allowing me to close my first around the keys and keep them when we eventually part, although he still keeps me closer than I'm comfortable with.

There's a sharp knock on the door as Danvers calls out, "Car's ready. I'll meet you out front, Lord Clifton."

Carver looks down at me, something like reluctance on his features as watches me carefully.

"I'm just about to head into town, I have some business to take care of." He cups my face and places a soft, apologetic kiss on my forehead. "But I'll be back soon."

He leads me to the solarium with a wide grin, placing another kiss on my cheek before he finally leaves.

When the front door clicks shut, I take a shaky breath.

Fuck.

There's an army of ants crawling over me, burrowing their way underneath my flesh. I want to peel off everywhere he touched me, but instead I bite the inside of my cheek and count to ten, ignoring the disgust that's settled low in my belly.

Finally uncurling my fist, I look down at the keys. Their imprint is pressed into my palm, the intricate metalwork embossed into my skin.

There are three keys on the ring, and I only recognise the west wing key because its shaft has the same intricate design as the lock.

I rush so quickly to the west wing that I have to stop twice to catch my breath, my body still exhausted, but I know I don't have much time.

Sliding the key into the lock, I don't know what I'm expecting, but as I the barrel clicks, and the door swings open to silence, I'm oddly disappointed.

It's only a windowless corridor with a series of rooms feeding off from it. The wall paper is very Willaim Morris-esque, and it wouldn't surprise me if it was original. There are no lights, only wall candle sconces, and as I manage to light one, more strange and hideous paintings are revealed in the dim glow.

In the first room, I find a storage room with boxes stacked and labelled with faded dates scrawled in pen. There's just clothes, shoes and a few other random items – nothing that seems important or blackmail worthy.

The next room is a mini-library, but this one is coated in a thick layer of dust and has clearly been unused for a very, very long time. The third door is locked and none of the keys on the ring fit, which leaves only the last room.

The door opens with a drawn out groan and I hope this is it. I tense, almost anticipating ghosts or ghouls to jump out at me, but instead I'm greeted by what appears to be a personal museum of sorts. Torn curtains cover the windows, limiting the light, and glass cases holding artefacts and pieces of jewellery dot the room. Some walls are covered in drawings, paintings and photographs of the estate in various stages through its impressive lifespan. Where other walls hold portraits of various Cliton family members, either looking regal or insane, their paintings more fanatical and darker than I expected.

A smile tugs at my lips when I spot one painting of a party at the estate, one of the gentlemen looking strangely like how I imagined a human Mal – only more refined.

There's a desk in the centre of the room, on a raised platform. It looks as if it's been designed so that the person sitting at it can look down at the glory of the estate through the years, surround themselves with the history of it, relish the memories and absorb the preserved heritage in a weird way.

As I sit, I feel like there are a million eyes on me, watching and waiting. Trembling, I bite down on my bottom lip. I need to find something I can use. For us. For the monsters that have come into my life and turned it upside down.

Do I love them? Is that the feeling in my chest everytime I think of Sax's tender whispers of ‘little dove'? Or the way I get butterflies every time Jas lovingly braids my hair? Even Mal snarking and bickering makes me feel safe. Wanted. Desired.

Is that love?

I leaf through the papers on the desk, finding only notes and bills for the house. A thin blue folder catches my eye, but all that's inside are newspaper clippings, mostly about the house. A few seem out of place, and I realise they're about the missing woman from a few weeks ago. There are also some clippings about various other disappearances over the last ten years – all female. Why does Carver have these?

There are articles about the accident, and my mother's death, including a picture from the funeral, Carver standing tall and serious, his arm wrapped around my shoulder. But that's not me. Not really. My eyes are flat and empty, I have no real memory of being there with him.

Blinking away the stinging sensation in my eyes, I sniffle and exhale slowly. It wasn't my fault. What happened – the accident, her death. Sax helped me come to terms with the fact that my mother made a choice that night, just like I had, as did the drunk driver. She wouldn't want me to live like I have been, a waif barely existing. A part of me wonders what she'd think of my three monsters. My stone sentinels.

Opening a drawer, I try to focus on the task at hand but there isn't much in here either. I reach towards the back of the draw, letting out a hiss when I catch my finger on something sharp. Carefully grabbing the pointy object, I unbury it from amongst all the paperwork.

It's an earring. A dangly teardrop, too garish to be one of my mother's, and too cheap to be an heirloom. Where did this come from?

A few more files reveal that Carver is richer than I thought, especially given the disrepair of the manor house and the lack of staff. Why is he hoarding all his money?

Leaning back in the chair, I curse. "Fuck."

Why isn't there anything here? And if there is nothing here, why is he so determined to keep me out of the west wing? Is he ashamed of how he's let the house crumble? No. There has to be something more to it than that.

I blink slowly, my eyes heavy. Maybe I should have a nap in the solarium and wait for sunset. Then I can talk to Sax and press him for more information about the evil they think they'll find in here.

Returning everything to where I found it, I retrace my steps, stopping outside Carver's office to place the keys on the floor in the hope that he'll think he dropped them on his way out.

Exhausted, I drag my weary body to the chaise lounge and lie back. My eyes flutter a few times as I struggle to keep them open and finally, with the silence of the house surrounding me, and the late afternoon sun warming me, I drift into a heavy sleep.