8. Frey

EIGHT

FREY

I'm worried. The guards have left me alone for hours this time, without even the customary sandwich or trip to the bathroom—a bad sign. Despite my full bladder, I am not the slightest bit relieved when I hear footsteps finally approach. In fact, I feel more like a soldier on D-day, grimly resigned to the horror I might face in the moments ahead. How I react will not only determine my own life and freedom but the welfare of every person I care about.

There is no turning back. No time to rethink my only course of action. The razor blade is already in my grasp, and all I can do next is act.

And pray.

I've already made peace with what I must do to avoid being dragged to some creepy altar—because if I let myself be taken beyond this dingy room, there won't be any meaningful future for me afterward.

I'm ready.

As the doorknob turns, I still feel a sick, heavy dread settle in my stomach as I rise to the balls of my feet. I step forward as the figure pushes the door wider, all while manipulating the blade between my fingertips. There's no time to think. No room to second-guess. Lunge! I tell myself as a slender figure steps into the doorway, serving as my only obstacle to escape.

It should be Colton, his expression contorted in a cruel, menacing sneer.

Not…

"C-Catherine." I barely manage to tuck my hand behind my back before she can see the razor blade. As a result, it bites deep into the flesh of my palm. Damn it! I just hope it didn't break the skin. Fighting to keep my expression blank, I croak out, "What are you doing here?"

"Hello." Her voice is as welcoming as always, though her smile resembles more of a grimace than anything joyful. My apprehension only grows as I crane my neck to fully take her in. For once, she's slacked on her primary duty of being Michael Heywood's polished, perfect wife always. The illusion has cracked. Her eyes are sunken, her hair a lifeless and dull mass coiled into a low bun. She's wearing one of the outfits my father insists she be seen in public in, but it's ill-fitting, practically swallowing her narrow frame. In only the past few days, she's lost an alarming amount of weight.

"It's so good to see you, Frances," she says softly. I can tell from how her eyes widen that she's as shocked by my appearance as I am by hers. Self-consciously, I start to smooth my filthy skirt, not that it will do any good. Nothing can hide the bruises covering my body from head to toe.

"Michael thought that you would like it if I helped you get ready," Catherine explains. Despite her gaze darting around the room, I can't tell if she's shocked that I've been held here for so long.

Watching her chips away at the steely resolve I've built up since Silas left. God, the razor blade in my grasp seems to burn, demanding to be used. But could I really attack Catherine? I want so badly to lump her into the same category as my father and Colton, but…

It's not fair. The concept of freedom seems so fragile, drifting further out of my reach with each passing second. All I have to do is stick to my plan and seize the moment.

But I don't have Daze's fighting spirit and his fierce ability to remain focused.

I'm weaker, prone to pathetic second-guessing—like the fact that Catherine never harmed me once. Though she's married to my father, I don't have any ill will toward her, either. I'm sure he knows that, and he sent her here in his stead on purpose.

To keep me from doing anything rash that might disrupt his meticulous planning.

In response to Catherine's expectant stare, all I can muster up is a single, breathless question. "Why?"

"I'm going to go with you to the wedding venue," she says, avoiding the question directly. "Your dress is already there, and it's so pretty, Frances. I know you'll like it." Tentatively, she reaches out and fingers a long tendril of my hair with another strained, labored smile.

I duck out of her reach. "Are we going back to the house?" I ask, feeling my hope rise. That could be a better location in the end than here. I know the area well enough, at least, to find an escape without potentially resorting to violence. Maybe this will all work out for the best?

"No, Frances," Catherine says as she slowly shakes her head. My heart sinks. "Not at the house."

There's no point in hiding my confusion. "Then where?"

She pats my shoulder, still forcing that painful grin. "Let's not worry about that now. Have you been eating okay?"

I nod. It's obvious that this isn't some charming weekend away. Even though she appears exhausted and haggard, I look just as bad, if not worse. If I had some hope squirreled away that Catherine might resist my father's antics, then her pretend act now thoroughly dashes them. She's determined to play along, no matter the cost.

And yet, I still can't force myself to raise the razor blade.

"I'm fine," I choke out, instead.

"Good," she says weakly before taking my free hand. "Good."

We leave the church and approach a van driven by an unfamiliar man in black. There, I realize the first of many precautions my father is willing to take to keep me in line.

And to keep Daze and his cohorts from even dreaming of a rescue.

My guard goes up even before Catherine uses her narrow body to block my view while she lifts something from the seat.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice breaking, as she turns to me while holding the item in question—a long, thin strip of black fabric. "He insisted. I'm so sorry. I don't even know how to—" She bites off her words and tries again. "I'm so sorry. I won't tie it too tight. I promise."

As Catherine ties the blindfold around the back of my head, blocking out the gray daylight, I'm too exhausted to feel dread or even hopelessness. If I've learned nothing during the past few weeks, it's that there's no use in crying over spilled milk or dwelling on the seemingly inevitable future. All I can do is focus on the present and be ready for the next chance to seize my freedom.

Speaking of… I remember the razor blade still in my palm. As Catherine ushers me inside, I have no choice. I can't tuck it into my skirt while blinded, and I certainly can't risk her seeing it out in the open. As I sense her enter behind me, I do the only thing I can.

I pretend to cough and shove it into my mouth, narrowly avoiding slicing my tongue. Powered by adrenaline, I manage to sit while concealing the weapon against the inside of my cheek.

Unfortunately, Catherine, not one for chatty conversation normally, seems determined to fill the silence now. "I'm sure you'll love the dress," she chirps once she's seated beside me, and the van starts moving beneath me. "It's lace and has a beautiful design, and I know the veil will be very special to you. It was your mother's," she says hesitantly. "I badgered Michael until he let me take it out of storage. I know she would have wanted you to wear it, even if he insisted that it be dyed?—"

"How do you know what she would have wanted?" Even with the razor precariously pressed against my inner cheek, I can't help the vitriol that spills out of me—as a harsh snarl, I barely recognize. Burning hot tears spill from my eyes, wetting the fabric obscuring my vision. I'm clenching my jaw, recklessly ignoring the sharpened strip of metal pressed against tender, sensitive flesh. "You didn't know her. You didn't know the first damn thing about her!"

"You're right," Catherine says softly after a few moments of silence. "I'm sorry for mentioning it. I had no right. You deserve to be angry with me. I really am so sorry."

Instead of responding, I turn my attention to the drive. Whenever we are, it's out of the city. I can feel the road switch from smooth asphalt to the rough, rugged country roads that line the outskirts of the city limits. As far as I know, there's nothing out this way for miles. Certainly not a church.

Just where is my father planning to hold this wedding? At least one of his aims is clear—he wants it somewhere that Daze could never find.

To calm my nerves, I count down the passing minutes. Then, the hours. One. Two…

Any hope I had of a last-minute Daze rescue vanishes. Without allies, I'm alone.

While it feels like a cold comfort, I can't deny that there is nothing more reassuring than having a weapon on me. When I swallow, the telltale scrape reminds me of the danger I'm in and what's really at stake. Colton seemed to be envisioning a future far different than the one my father had in store. Sooner or later, they are in for a collision, and I need to make sure that I am far, far away when their fragile alliance finally crumbles.

Suddenly, Catherine shifts beside me, alluding to a change in the monotony. "Finally," she mutters. "We're almost there. It won't be very long now."

There is a pause, as if the property we're entering is blocked by some kind of gate or path, requiring the driver to stop. I swear I can hear old, metal hinges creaking as I strain my ears. There aren't many places near Westpoint City that have such an approach. But where? Abruptly, the van lurches forward again, and all my focus goes to staying upright in my seat.

Beneath us, the road becomes coarse and riddled with what must be rocks that jostle me and Catherine from side to side. I can barely keep my balance. As the van suddenly pitches to the right, I'm thrown directly into Catherine.

As my cheek bounces off her shoulder, my stomach sinks through the floor. Dear God, no. Fiery pain lances through my jaw, and warm, hot liquid floods my mouth in a seemingly never-ending stream. Don't panic , I tell myself. Just breathe. Swallow. Don't panic.

"I hate this drive," Catherine exclaims, oblivious to my injury. "I can't wait until I can show you inside. I'm sure you'll love it, and even if it isn't the wedding you envisioned, I've worked hard to make it as beautiful as possible. You'll see."

All I can do is nod as my cheek sears, on fire. I can feel part of the razor still embedded in the skin. Damn it. There is no other choice but for me to manually free it. As blood threatens to dribble down my chin, I panic and press my hand to my mouth in a pathetic bid to buy more time.

"Are you okay?" Catherine asks, sounding closer. Her voice shakes, but I can't tell if her unease is due to nerves or shock.

"No," I say thickly. "I think I bit my tongue." Speaking at all is excruciating, and I can only pray that I don't somehow swallow the razor entirely before I can free it.

Though, in a sick, morbid twist of irony, that would certainly end my ordeal and thwart my father's plans in one fell swoop.

Daze wouldn't approve, though. Thinking of him must change my entire demeanor, because Catherine exclaims in alarm.

"Oh no! Let's get you to a bathroom." She takes my free hand and guides me forward, presumably from the van. I struggle to interpret my surroundings as my feet contact what feels like a gravel-strewn path. The air here is cool, devoid of any sounds that serve as hallmarks of Westpoint City. Chirping birds sing to each other, and lonely wind rustles what sounds like swaying trees. Despite the flood of information, I still have no idea where we are as I'm hastened up a set of rickety steps that squeal with every movement, but I can tell the second we enter yet another enclosed space. A house, maybe? The air itself changes, becoming thick and suffocating. Under the blindfold, sweat slicks my forehead, weighing down my matted hair.

"It's this way," Catherine explains while hurriedly guiding me along what seems like winding corridors. After pulling me to a stop, she gently unties my blindfold. As I blink to make sense of my surroundings, her constricted expression comes into focus first. "Oh dear."

Her horrified gasp adds a new concern to my rapidly worsening bleeding—though I could hemorrhage to death for all I care. Above all, I can't let her see the razor.

"Open your mouth," she says, turning to a porcelain sink in what I quickly realize is a spacious, if old-fashioned, bathroom. "Oh dear. I hope you didn't bite too deeply?—"

"No!" I push past her and crouch over a clawfoot bathtub. Under the guise of testing my tongue, I press the tip of my finger against the side of the blade. Holy crap. It's in deeper than I thought. My fingers shake as I attempt to use two to pry it free. Wet with blood, they slide uselessly along the sharpened surface. When I finally pull it out, I barely manage to crush it in a fist as Catherine comes up beside me.

"Oh, what a mess," she says, tsking her tongue. "You poor thing. Maybe we should call a doctor or something?—"

"I'm fine," I say, swiping at my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt. It comes away red.

"You're not," Catherine insists, her tone unusually firm. "I wish Michael would postpone. I don't even know why he's insisting that it happen tonight…" She trails off, and I turn to find her staring into space, her jaw clenched. In an instant, she transforms from the ideal trophy wife to a woman more suitable of her age. Woefully young and out of her element.

I leave her to it and press a rag to my mouth while scanning the room we're in. It's well-maintained but obviously disused. The silver fixtures and hand-painted wallpaper resemble the kind of finery on display in the prestigious family manors of my father's wealthier patrons, Colton's family, the Abernathys, included. In fact, I wonder if we're on one of their properties. From what I remember, they had several, spread throughout the nearby countryside. The only catch is that I have no idea which ones may be located several hours outside of the city.

"Where are we?" I ask Catherine directly, taking a risk.

She whips around to face me as if she's forgotten I was even there. One look at her wary expression, and I'm sure she'll refuse to answer. Instead, she glances at the closed door and then twitches in my direction as if she has to stop herself from whispering directly into my ear.

"The old Abernathy estate," she murmurs, confirming my suspicion. "It's been in their family for generations. Michael thought it might be fitting to have the wedding here, but…" She bites her bottom lip, and her slender shoulders seem to deflate beneath the unspoken secret of what my father truly has in store. "I think I would have preferred it at home, at least. Where you could be comfortable and have your friends."

"He said it would be tonight," I say, wincing as the inside of my cheek stings. "Do you know what time?"

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure. After the others arrive, I'm sure."

"The others?" I tense at the wording, even more worried, when she glances away. "Who? What do you mean?"

"We should get you cleaned up." She gently takes the rag from me and attempts to dab at my damp jaw.

I evade her reach. "Look at me," I demand.

"Frances, let's not waste any more time than we already have. Please." Through another pretty, strained smile, I can clearly see the fear she can't hide. Her hands shake as she wrings them together over her ill-fitting dress. With every slight sound to come from the hall, she jumps. It's as though she's convinced my father is lurking behind the door, listening to every word she says.

She isn't merely worried—she's terrified.

"Who?" I ask again, my voice softer. "Who are the others?"

"Frances, please." She fiddles with the rag as if blind to the blood already staining it. "I can't. I can't?—"

"I need to know what's happening."

She shakes her head and tries to shrug me off. "No. We should go see your dress. You're going to love?—"

"Stop it!" While concealing the blade in my other hand, I grab her wrist firmly, and I don't bother to sound gentle anymore. "Listen to me! You know what this is, don't you?"

She flinches and shakes her head more earnestly. "Frances, I think we should?—"

"Don't you? Answer me!"

"I…"

"I don't want to be here," I snarl, wrenching away from her. "You can see that. This isn't what I want. My father is forcing me to marry Colton, and I need to know why. Or are you willing to just stand aside and watch me be destroyed the same way you failed Hale?"

"Don't." Her face pales, and a coldness falls over her gaze that I've never seen before. Suddenly, she seems years older. Decades.

"You think I wanted that to happen?" she asks hoarsely. "You think I wanted Hale to die? I tried to warn him! I tried. Much like you, he wouldn't listen. What happened to him wasn't my fault!"

"I need your help now," I say. "Please. Tell me what's going on so that I'm not walking in there blind like some lamb to the slaughter."

She grimaces and holds out the rag. "Please, just let me help you clean up first. Please."

I submit to having her wipe my face of blood, all the while, the razor is biting into my palm. The thought of using it crosses my mind fleetingly, but I don't even entertain the idea seriously. Once my face is cleaned to her liking, Catherine moves to sit on the rim of the bathtub. Dressed in a pale-blue sundress, with her hair hanging loosely down her shoulders, it strikes me just how well she's played her role all these years. Michael Heywood's pure, doting wife who possessed none of the flaws that my mother did.

Deep down, I always resented her for that. She made it look so easy, standing in my father's shadow. The truth is, I never paid close enough attention to see just how much of a toll the ruse was taking on her. She's a shadow of a woman, weighed down by her neat costume. For the first time in years, as I settle onto the floor, I finally catch glimpses of the real woman lurking beneath the mask. Even from this angle, she seems pitifully small.

"You think that this is all to punish you, I'm sure," she says, her voice barely audible. "It's not. We are but pawns in a much larger game. I'm sure that Michael wouldn't even acknowledge our existence unless he was forced to."

"Forced," I echo, tasting the word. "How do you mean?"

For the umpteenth time, her eyes dart to the doorway, but when they return to me, I notice a steely resolve that wasn't there before. It gives her the strength to sit straighter with her head held high, and further fractures the mask of Michael Heywood's wife.

"You know what I mean," she says. "You aren't the only one here under duress, and I know it's hard for you, Frances. I do." She slips from the rim of the tub to her knees and cradles both of my hands against her lap. I barely manage to tighten my fist to ensure the blade is hidden from view—though it is the least alarming detail regarding my fingers. They're still coated in fresh blood, as is the once pristine skirt of Catherine's pretty dress. There is no indication that she cares or even notices.

"You think you're the only one forced to conform to his wishes? You aren't. You think I stood aside and let Hale die with a simpering smile on my face, but it is far from the truth…" Her voice breaks and her fingers grip mine tightly as she draws in a steadying breath. "You may not believe me, but I tried to help him. In my own way, I did ."

I give one of her hands a reassuring squeeze. "Then help me. You can do that right now. Just help me get out of here."

"I can't," she insists. "I mean it. The place is surrounded. If I speak too loudly, Michael's men will be here in a heartbeat. You have no idea the pressure he's been under. The things he's been into to secure his election… I saw them in the barn, and God, I didn't want to believe that he could?—"

"What?" I press as she trails off. "Tell me."

She sighs. "You know I can't."

I don't know why I'm so disappointed—but I am. "Fine," I snap, rising to my feet. "Then just take me to my cell until the wedding?—"

"But I can show you," she whispers as if I'd never spoken. Tilting her head back, she watches me silently before lurching upright. As she approaches the door, she whispers over her shoulder, "Follow my lead and keep your eyes downcast. We have an hour before Michael and the others arrive. Just… Stay close to me."

She tosses the used rag aside and pries open the door, peeking beyond it for one of my father's men. I assume a guard is nearby because I hear her cheerfully say, "The poor thing bit her tongue on the ride over and got blood all over herself. We need to use the big sink in the kitchen to get her cleaned up. Is that okay?"

The guard must give her the go-ahead because she reaches for my hand and pulls me along.

"This way."

I do my best to keep my head down while taking in every inch of the place that I can. As far as figurative prisons go, it's a step up from the windowless back room of the church, but far less inviting. From the faded décor and dated furniture we pass, it's obvious that Catherine hadn't been lying about where we are, at least. It looks like the sort of dusty museum to old money that a family as wealthy as Colton's would maintain long after its heyday if only for the status symbol of it all.

Surprisingly, that doesn't narrow down any potential locations. It never occurred to me to pay attention when he waxed poetic about his family's many estates. Focusing on where I am won't do any good either way. My sole concern now should be finding a way out.

The place is huge, and I note a large guard presence. Catherine was right. I can feel several pairs of watchful eyes tracking our every movement past a dusty drawing room and into a narrow kitchen. There, Catherine rushes to close the door, muttering something sweetly about privacy. The second the door slams shut, she takes my hand in a bruising grip, her voice low.

"We only have a few minutes. Listen to every word I say, and don't question."

The unusual sternness in her gaze convinces me to nod.

"Good. Now get on your knees and crawl." She points to the far wall of the space, past a large fridge.

"W-What?"

"Please, hurry!" She tugs on my wrist, urging me to my knees over the polished, though worn, marble tile beneath us. "That way," she whispers. "Don't make any noise. Just do it." At the same time, she flips on the water faucet and raises her voice, her tone jovial. "Oh, you've sure made a mess. We'll have to wash your hair, you poor thing—" From over her shoulder, she once again glances at the wall.

Taking care to make as little noise as I can over the creaking floor, I inch in that direction, still clutching the razor blade against my palm. It feels like an eternity before I finally reach the row of cupboards. At a glance I don't find anything even remotely worth the secrecy.

Peeking my way again, Catherine motions for me to open the nearest cupboard. I do and find what must have been an old laundry chute with a latch in the floor. When I look back at Catherine, she mimes lifting the lid, and mouths, "Slowly."

I obey, struggling to move the heavy lid without making too much noise. Beneath it is a dark void that must extend all the way to the lower level. I can't make out anything in the pitch darkness.

But I can smell. Is that…

Sweat, musk, and unmentionable substances that could only come from human beings crammed into one place for an extended amount of time. A chill runs down my spine and I have to consciously remember to lower the lid quietly. Still, I'm sure I make more noise than necessary as I leap to my feet and back away from that cupboard as quickly as I can.

"Oh dear, these stains just don't want to budge," Catherine says, still babbling to herself. "Let me try some soap."

Taking a handful, she smears it on my dress, then washes off the remaining stains with water. As a knock rattles the door, her hands shake.

"Just a minute!"

"Mr. Heywood requests your presence, Miss."

"Oh, of course. We'll be out soon!" Her eyes frantically meet mine as she rushes to make it appear as if all this time, we'd been cleaning me up. By the time Catherine finally pulls the door open, my hair is dripping wet, and my dress is soaked.

The guard standing on the other end looks me over before beckoning us both toward the end of the hall with a nod. "He's waiting for you in the drawing room, Miss."

"Okay, I'll be right there after I show Frances to her room?—"

"He wants to see you both," the guard says. "This way."