15. Elara

Chapter 15

Elara

K aspian is a motionless, brooding gargoyle in the passenger seat as I drive us through the columns of trees leading up to Gram's house, Wraithwood Estate.

My grip on the steering wheel is the only thing keeping my composure and preventing me from being swept away by the enclosed storm that is Kaspian Valenti.

I don't bother with small talk. Something tells me he never bothers with it and considers polite conversation a waste of time.

He's focused on the rain-slicked road ahead, his expression chiseled from coarse granite. Kaspian's sharp jawline catches the dim glow of dashboard lights. Shadows from the bare branches above swipe across his face through the car's sunroof.

The manor looms into view as we round the final bend, its ancient silhouette awash in moonlight. Vines creep up the stone facade like nightmares clinging to sanity, yet Gram makes sure those vines are tended to every day by the landscapers. As hard as she tries, they remain tangled and unruly, refusing to shape to her will.

Once parked, I break our stand-off with an unintentional whimper as I lean over to unhook my seat belt. Adrenaline can only take me so far before Kaspian's carefully leashed power reminds me just how small and unprepared I truly am.

This earns me a glance from Kaspian. His eyes, previously vacant and distant, spark with an intensity so wanton, it could ignite the old manor on fire.

"Does my presence trouble you?" he queries, his voice smoother than black velvet, but laced with something murkier, like the coarse backing of a deceptively soft cloth.

"Not at all," I lie smoothly, avoiding his gaze as I push open my car door and step out into the chilly night air.

Inhaling deeply, I fill my lungs with crisp, freshly mowed grass and damp earth.

Inhale calmness, exhale fear —that's what Maverick used to tell me when I stressed out over exams, curfews, boys…

Such trivial worries now, but his advice still stands.

Suddenly, Kaspian's beside me. It takes everything in me not to jump when he murmurs into the shell of my ear, "Would you have preferred someone else to escort you?"

The menace in his voice sends a shiver down my neck, yet it's said with such tantalizing sweetness that I can't help but have the perverse desire to hear him ask it again.

"No," I blurt out, not sure if I'm answering his question or simply trying to convince myself.

There's something about Kaspian—iIn him, I see the allure of the abyss—terrifying yet irresistible, calling to a part of me I've always denied existed.

His lips curl into a triumphant smile, indicating he's 100% aware of his effect on me.

It's infuriating, knowing he takes pleasure in my discomfort.

"No one better than you to protect me, Kaspian," I retort.

I turn to face him now, chin tilted upward to keep our eyes level, then ensure I include the injury to his shoulder in my study.

His gaze shifts to a challenging sea of malachite at my insinuation.

You couldn't protect us from my own mother , I communicate when I meet his stare head-on, throwing his leashed temper back at him.

A hint of discontent passes over his lips, there and gone in an instant.

With that, he breaks away from me and strides toward the manor, leaving me in his wake and left alone with the implications of his dismissal.

I pull my coat tighter around me as I make my way up the gravel pathway. Searching in my bag for the keys to the grand oak door, I try to shake off Kaspian's overbearing silhouette.

Don't trust anyone , Maverick had said.

Among these masters of deception, trust is like than the ruby Heart—beautiful, coveted, and likely to cut.

A frigid wind blows into us before I unlock the door and step inside, making me hunch forward and stuff my hands into my coat pockets. Kaspian enters beside me, unbothered by the drop in temperature.

"Gram isn't here," I say, not that Kaspian shows any concern over our late-night mission. "She's at a charity auction in California, so we don't have to worry about making noise or being questioned."

"Good," Kaspian mutters, his curt reply swallowed by the ornate entrance hall. He glances around, taking in the high ceiling and gilded frames containing generations of Wraithwood portraits. His attention stalls on one particular portrait dead center at the double staircase's mezzanine.

My dad, Darian Wraithwood, his fiery auburn hair and hazel eyes, more gold than green, immortalized in oil and canvas.

Kaspian's bright gaze moves to me, meeting my own with a flicker of emotion—a wild desire or maybe a promise of more deceit—rapidly masked by indifference. He peels off his tailored jacket with a tiny wince and doesn't ask for my help to remove it. He tosses it over the stairs' balustrade, his white shirt sticking to his torso under his sling, revealing the ripple of defined muscles in his back.

He doesn't seem to notice—or care—about my lingering gaze on his body.

"Where's this office?"

I press my lips together, hating that his ambivalence is starting to hurt me. "End of the hallway up the stairs, at the grandfather clock."

Kaspian gives a stiff nod before heading up. I follow him closely, desperately trying to ignore the way my heart throbs erratically in my chest, like a terrified bird caged within bone and sinew.

He prowls deeper into the manor as if he owns it. Forced to keep up, I come up behind him down a narrow hallway housing dozens of portraits, both bought at prestigious auctions or custom-ordered. Gram has a thing for Renaissance-style paintings, these long-dead individuals gazing down at us from their painted prisons, their watchful eyes piercing through time and seeming to focus more on me than Kaspian.

Kaspian stops in front of the seven-foot antique clock that barely dwarfs him. He turns to me then, those intense green eyes housing more intelligence than most humans should be allowed to possess.

"Go ahead," he says in a tone that's a shade above bored.

It's then I realize my hands are still stuffed inside my coat's pockets. I pull them out, my fingers remaining icy despite the protection, and move the clock's hands to midnight. A soft click follows before the wall beside the clock opens into a stone corridor.

Kaspian shows no surprise at the revelation. Not that he would, considering the number of secrets he keeps, hidden rooms being the least awful.

Our phones' lights help us navigate the narrow passage, the ceiling nearly hitting the top of my head and forcing Kaspian to stoop forward.

We stop when we reach a worn wooden door with iron hinges.

Without a word, Kaspian extends his hand toward it. His fingers move to the rusty latch, prying it open with a grunt. The door creaks open, revealing a room the size of rich man's home office. Our lights cut through the pitch black, glinting off the large oak desk heavily ornamented with golden filigree and an eroded brass plaque engraved with the name William Jonquil .

Kaspian withdraws, the warmth of his body vanishing along with him as he strides in and begins exploring the room with an efficient precision that should be confidence-inducing. Instead, it sends bolts of anxiety across my shoulders.

Kaspian pauses at the desk, his eyes registering every inch of the woodwork. He doesn't touch anything just yet, scanning the room, absorbing details while his inner robot churns. His focus then shifts to a tall mahogany bookshelf stuffed with faded journals and books bound in deteriorating leather.

"This seems promising," he murmurs absently, forgetting I'm even in the room with him.

He starts pulling out books sporadically one-handed, setting them aside as they fail to meet his mysterious criteria. Kaspian's actions are swift and methodical as if he's done this a hundred times before.

To give myself something to do other than gawk at him, I get to work on the desk. It's covered in a layer of dust so thick, it mimics fur, disturbed only in the spots I explored the last time I was here. My phone's light finds an oil lamp at the desk's corner.

"Do you have a lighter?" I ask Kaspian.

Kaspian pauses in his perusal of the bookshelf. He retrieves a silver lighter from his pants pocket and tosses it to me, the small device spinning in the air before I snatch it out of midair clumsily.

"Always be prepared," he says, a hint of derision creeping into his voice before he gives me the Boy Scout salute and turns back to the shelf, resuming his hunt. "What do you suppose the Girl Guide's motto is? Cookies for world peace?"

At least I have two working hands, asshole.

I clamp down on my retort, aware it would only make this forced proximity worse for us. Flicking the lighter on, I carefully hold the flame over the wick in the lamp, waiting until it catches fire.

The room fills with an preternatural flame that turns the shadows into spider legs as they crawl up the wall.

The lamp's glow illuminates Kaspian's profile, lending him a demonic beauty. It highlights his sharp cheekbones, cut jawline, and thick lashes concealing his eyes. I feel an inexplicable urge to reach out and trace his features with my fingers. But instead, I swallow down those confusing feelings and focus on our task.

I specifically search for the diary I'd found under Jonquil's plaque, the crumbling, yellowed pages filled with Sarah Anderton's name and strange symbols reminiscent of arcane circles—a series of lines, numerals, and angular symbols that look like they were written by someone who just came off a hallucinogenic trip. Yet the repetition of certain symbols and numbers hints at a structured method to the madness.

But I go straight to the faded sepia-colored photo of William posing by his desk. Maverick's doppelg?nger.

"This is what I wanted to show you," I say to Kaspian without taking my focus off the photo.

Kaspian turns and pauses, as if noticing my sudden grief before approaching me.

"What is it?" he asks, reaching over my shoulder to take the book from my hands. His fingers briefly brush against mine as he pulls away with Jonquil's logbook—and photo.

"Hey—" I grab for the photo without thinking.

Kaspian deftly moves it out of my reach, his one-handed limitation not affecting him at all. Rather, he inclines his head at the newly raised vantage point of the photo and muses, "You've been holding out on us, beastie."

I snatch the photograph back from Kaspian's by jumping for it, my fingers crumpling its fragile edges. "Yes, he's the spitting image of my brother, but that doesn't have anything to do with our current issues."

His expression shifts to one of keen interest, zeroing in on the snapshot that wavers in my unsteady hand. "Did you always know of this ancestor?"

"No," I admit, smoothing out the creases I created. "But the resemblance is uncanny, so we must be related. This manor has been in our family for centuries. I think it was built for the founding Wraithwoods, but his last name is Jonquil, not Wraithwood, and—" I shake my head. "Like I said, finding out who he is and how he relates to us isn't a priority."

Kaspian's attention drifts from the photograph to me, a trace of understanding sparking in their emerald depths. "How do you propose we discover who he is?"

I give him the once-over, certain that the sympathy I saw in those crushing eyes of his was a trick. "Nothing. Not until we solve Maverick's treasure hunt first."

At his uncomfortable silence, coupled with his piercing focus, I relent. "Fine, I'll start by asking Gram about it when I next see her."

Kaspian nods, his expression returning to his usual apathy before laying the logbook on the desk so he can sift through the pages, studying with rapid intensity.

I lean forward, my cheek nearly brushing his as I try to decipher the cramped, elegant script and linear and circular symbols. I inhale his clean, aftershave and aged whiskey scent and nearly get drunk off it.

I ask tightly, "What was he logging?"

Kaspian's finger stills on a page, his body tensing near mine. "You may want to know more about him sooner than you think. This man was practicing in the occult."

Goose bumps creep over my overheated skin under my coat. " What? "

"These are the same symbols the Sovereigns use in their rituals. Not the ones you saw today, but others."

My mouth goes dry. I push off the desk. Tear off my coat to help me breathe. "No. No ."

Kaspian sighs, his fingers tapping idly on the desk. "Nothing is impossible when it comes to the Court."

I back away until my spine meets the icy stone wall, the biting cold of it searing through my clothing. My heart pounds violently against my ribs as I grapple with Kaspian's words. My world is spinning, my breath coming in shallow gasps. "I've just been flung headfirst into a nightmare, and I don't know how to wake up, Kaspian."

My vision splits in two: the first is of Kaspian, his eyes steady on me, a rock against the tumultuous storm in my mind. He's there, an arm's length away, ready to catch me should I fall apart.

And the second is reality: Kaspian's face smoothing into his unfeeling stone and his voice following suit.

"The Cimmerian Court has existed for centuries," he explains, his voice as close to an eye roll as it can get. "No doubt your Jonquil was a part of it. Really, beastie, how are you surprised? Are you so naive that it never occurred to you Maverick's involvement is because of his heritage? Don't be so foolish."

"Stop it. You're being cruel."

"You mistake bluntness for cruelty," Kaspian counters, his voice dripping with annoyance. "You think I enjoy this? Do you think I want to be stuck in this shitty old office with you, and before that stuck in a godforsaken library with you, and before that shot by your fucking mom? All my problems at the moment are centered around you ."

"I didn't ask for any of this," I snap, my hands shaking as I dig my nails into my palms. "This type of violence has existed in your life for years. You've trained for it, and I'm positive you crave it as soon as you crack your eyes open in the morning. That's if you even sleep, you fucking demon. You basically live on scorched earth. I was thrust onto it."

"We all have our crosses to bear. Mine was being birthed into the Valenti family. Yours is being a Wraithwood."

I snarl at his relentless tone, my temper flaring hot and deadly. "It's not that simple. You act as if you're the only one who suffers in this situation."

Kaspian's lips rise into an empty smirk. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out an object glinting in the lamplight—a large silver locket that looks centuries old, with a broken ruby in the center.

I leap away from the wall. "The amulet—you have it?"

I make a move for it, but Kaspian is faster. He palms it before my back leaves the stone, the ruby's glimmer from the lamplight dying in his clenched hand. His eyes slide from his fist to me with a mocking slant.

"Your necklace was probably found by Maverick here, in this room," he says. "The silver has small symbols etched on its inner surface matching the ones written by Jonquil in this logbook. Your innocent Mavvy was quite the explorer."

The room tunnels into a rush of blood in my ears, his cruel bluntness wrapping around my heart and squeezing like a cold-blooded serpent.

"You had it all this time? Why did you keep this from me?"

Even as I ask it, I have the uneasy certainty that Maverick's death is far more complicated than I was led to believe.

"Because, beastie." His tone descends to a threatening purr. "You're on a need-to-know basis."

I shake my head, my pulse thrumming erratically against my throat. "That's not your decision to make. I've shared everything with you. Everything I know. Every part of—" my body.

An ironic smile dances upon his lips as he reads the angry flush in my cheeks. He leans back against the desk, sprawling in an audacious display of arrogance. "Yet the decision was made."

My gaze flits between the concealed amulet in his grasp and his triumphant grin. A surge of rage fills me, simmering in my veins, threatening to explode. I force my hands to relax, but my control is fading fast.

"I am not just your plaything, Kaspian. This is real to me. This affects me brutally."

His laughter fills the room with a sinister melody.

"Oh, beastie," he murmurs, idly threading the amulet's chain between his long fingers. "You're not my toy. You're my pet."

"And what are you to me?" I challenge him, my voice hitching. "Nothing, that's what."

He stills for a moment, his heavy-lidded stare locking onto mine with a weight that chains me to the spot. Then he straightens, towering over me like a colossal statue carved from merciless pain.

"The real question is," Kaspian says with a nasty grin, "why did Maverick keep all this from you? The dutiful sister who idolized him?"

"Don't you dare talk about my brother like you knew him," I spit out, my voice shaking with so much wrath, it's about to fracture my heart. "Unlike you, I loved him."

The green in his eyes swirls with onyx. He moves so suddenly, all shackled energy and deadly grace as he backs me up into the wall and frames one side of my face with his arm.

"And how did that work out for you?" he sneers, his breath coating my lips. His words slither out, his forked tongue coated with venom. "Did your love prevent his death? Did it bring him back? Face it, Elara, love is nothing ."

He moves with such deftness that his hand clamps around my jaw before I can blink, his thumb and forefinger digging into my cheeks. " You are nothing."

Kaspian's statement clangs within my skull the same way Cav's did when he said something similar. It's like they want me to hate them. It validates what squirms within their souls, the parasite the Sovereigns implanted there, telling them they are worthless, and thus all others should be treated as such.

Especially those they start caring about.

"Let go!" I try to pull away from him, from the terrible meaning in his words, but his grasp is a bruising vise.

"I think not," he says with deep-seated scorn. "It's time you faced the truth. Maverick was part of a secret society that deals in blood rituals and murders. Your loving brother played a dangerous game and lost because he didn't have the emotionless strategy required to win. You are weak, just like he was. I will never be so fragile that I'd cry just because someone is being mean to me like you are right now. Why don't you go tattle to Mommy or Daddy? Or big brother? … Oh, wait. You can't."

His words slice through me, cauterizing my weakness for him as they cut.

"I hate you," I hiss through blurred vision, but I blink furiously, refusing to give Kaspian the satisfaction of witnessing more tears.

That awful not-smile of his returns.

"No, you don't," he says, releasing his grip on my face and pushing away from me. His cool and clipped voice is stripped of all emotion—or any semblance of humanity. "And you despise yourself for it. I'm the only one willing to give you the brutal truth, yet you still want me."

"Shut up!" I shout, leaping toward him with such force that his back presses against the edge of the old wooden desk with an abrupt thud.

Kaspian doesn't wince or recoil under my weight. He chuckles darkly under his breath as his free arm folds around my waist and locks me against him. "Careful now. You're making me hard, beastie."

A hint of mirth plays on his face, but something else controls it, malevolent and cruel. It sends a clear message:

The real test of my survival starts now.