CHAPTER 5: THE MAN WHO CAME BACK

Alistair locked down the mansion within an hour.

Guards on every door. Dogs in the garden. Marco on the phone, barking orders. Men with guns stood in places where I had never seen men with guns. I was told to stay in my room and to stay away from the windows.

I obeyed for exactly as long as it took the house to go still.

At two in the morning, I crept to the kitchen. My throat was dry, and the heat wouldn't stop. The only thing that ever helped me was a cup of tea, which I can't miss having.

I filled the kettle. And turned on the small light above the stove.

Behind me, the floor creaked.

"Don't scream." The voice came, it was low, rough, and calm. I spun around so fast that the kettle clattered against the counter.

A man stood in the doorway to the pantry.

He was tall, broad, with dark hair a little too long and a face I should have known. It was Alistair's face…in the bones and the jaw. But the eyes were grey, cold as winter water, and a thin white scar ran from his temple to his collar.

"Please, calm down," he said. "I won't hurt you."

"Who are you?" I asked, as my voice trembled.

"I wish you could guess."

I did. And my eyes dropped to his right hand, the one he held loosely at his side. No ring. Just a pale band where a ring used to sit.

"You're him." My voice came out a whisper.

"Leonard?"

"Yes."

"But you're dead?"

"So I've heard." He took one slow step into the light, hands visible. "I'm sorry to frighten you. This was the only way to reach you alone."

"Reach me?" I backed into the counter. "Why me?" I asked. Attempting to keep my voice light.

"Because you're the only person in this house who hates my brother as much as I do."

I stared at him. Then the kitchen clock ticked, as if counting for us.

"I don't—"

"Don't lie. Not to me." His gaze was steady. "I watched you break glass in the dining room last month because he told you not to speak at dinner. I watched you stare at him like you wanted to bury him. And that alone is not just not a servant's face or doing."

"You've been watching me?"

"For three weeks."

"That's insane."

"No. It's a careful plan." He said it without apology. "I had to know who you were before I asked you for anything."

My heart thudded. "But where have you been? Everyone said you died. Alistair said—"

"I know what Alistair said." His voice dropped. "Sit down, Amarah. I'll explain what I can."

"How do you know my name?"

"I know a great many things about this house." He pulled out a chair for me and stood behind another, not touching. "Please." He gestured towards the chair.

And I sat. Because at that moment, my legs weren't giving me much choice. 

"Five years ago," he began, "I was driven to a warehouse on the east docks. I was told my brother wanted to see me. When I walked in, there were six men with guns and not one of them would look me in the eye."

The kettle began to whistle. But neither of us moved.

"They shot me three times. And threw me in the water." He said it like a weather report, but I saw his hand curl into a fist on the chair back. "I lived because someone was watching…and wanted me to live."

"Who?" I asked. 

"That's my own secret." A flicker of something crossed his face. "At least for now."

"Alistair did that," I whispered.

"Alistair gave the order."

I immediately thought of his study. The broken glass. And his weak voice saying I'm sorry, Leo.

"He's been sorry," I heard myself say. "Since I've been here. He talks to your picture."

For a moment, Leonard's face changed. Something old and wounded moved behind his cold eyes. Then it shut, and he was a stranger again.

"Sorry doesn't bring back five years. Is an intentional act. And I wouldn't let that slide."

"What do you want from me then?"

He straightened. "A contract."

I laughed. Short and bitter. "Everyone wants a contract. First the Monroes', to your brother and now you. Why do you all want to get me entangled?"

"I don't want to get you entangled. And you've to hear me out." He crossed the kitchen and turned off the whistling kettle, so the silence fell around us. "My brother holds you under an agreement, doesn't he? Three years. You told that to Marta yourself. And I'm sorry, I've my way of hearing it. Now two more left."

"Don't." 

"I'm not mocking you. I'm telling you I can end it." He faced me again. "The oldest law in this family is simple. The wife of the first son is untouchable. No one lays a hand on her. Not Alistair. Not anyone. And not for any reason."

My mouth went dry. "Wife?"

"Yes. I want you to marry me."

"Are you out of your mind?" I asked, frozen in disbelief.

"Possibly." He didn't smile. "It would be a contract marriage. One year. At the end, you walk away free…with money, a new name if you want it, and a life nobody can touch. Alistair loses his claim on you the day you sign."

"And what do you get?"

"I want my name back." He met my eyes. "A dead man has no seat at Kensington's table. A married man does. A wife who stands beside me tells the families I'm not a ghost. I'm the heir who came home."

"So I'm a prop?"

"You're a partner." He paused. "I won't pretend it's kind, because I'm not a kind man anymore. But I won't treat you the way he does. You'd have your own room. Your own rules. And a door that locks from the inside."

I stared at the table. A door that locks from the inside. I had not known how badly I wanted one until he said it.

"Why should I trust you?" I voiced. Looking him in the eyes, studying his face carefully.

"You shouldn't." He said plainly. "Trust is for people who haven't been buried alive. I'm offering a trade, and you're clever enough to know the difference."

"You're a Kensington, remember?"

"So is he."

"That's my point. Because I have began to hate Kensington."

"Then think of what you owe a Kensington." His voice sharpened. "Think of your mother."

My breath stopped. "What do you know about my mother?"

"Nothing yet." He held my gaze. "But I will. Marriage opens doors. Doors in this family have been closed a long time, Amarah. Behind some of them are answers you may want."

I thought of Stephen's warm hand, his gentle question. And his word…Things have a way of turning up.

I thought of Elise at my door. And I thought of the bed upstairs, and the way my body had betrayed me every single night for a year. And the word mine, with the rule that my skin belonged to a man who apologized to his brother's photograph instead of to me.

"And what if I say no?" I asked firmly, crossing my arms. 

"Then I leave. You will never see me again. And in the morning you forget I was here."

"And if I say yes?"

"Then tomorrow you stop being his."

I looked at him, this ghost with Alistair's face and none of his heart…this man who spoke like each word was a bullet he'd counted out in advance.

"I don't love anyone," I said. "I want that clear. Not you. Not him. Nobody."

"I'm not asking you to."

"And I'm doing this for me."

"Good." A flicker of approval crossed his face. "Then we understand each other."

He took a folded paper from inside his jacket and a pen from his pocket. He laid both on the table without a word.

I read the first page. It was short. Cleaner than Alistair's. One year. A named exit. And a single clause at the bottom that reads…in the same neat hand, Mrs. Kensington shall be protected under the first son's name.

My hand hovered over the line.

Somewhere above us, a floorboard creaked.

Marco's voice murmured in the hall.

"Time's running out," Leonard said quietly.

I signed.

Then he took the paper, read my name. And for half a second his composure slipped. Something almost like regret crossed his face, and then it was gone, so quickly I thought I'd imagined it.

"Good," he said. "Now come with me."

"Now? It's two in the morning."

"Alistair's at the dining table with my uncle. They've been up since the box arrived." He held out his hand. "I want him to see me before he has time to build another lie. And I want you standing beside me when he does."

I stared at that hand. A scarred palm. Steady fingers.

"He'll kill us both." I murmured but enough for him to hear.

"He might try." Leonard's grey eyes held mine. "Just stay close to me."

I took his hand. It was warm, which surprised me.

We walked down the corridor together. The marble floor echoed on every step.

Outside the dining room doors, he stopped, drew a breath that I felt more than heard, and pushed both doors open.

Alistair sat at the head of the long table with a glass in his fist. Stephen sat on his right, in his cardigan…a map of worry across his kind face. Marco stood against the wall, his gun tightly in his hand.

Alistair looked up.

The glass fell from his hand and exploded on the floor.

"No," he said. His face had gone the color of ash.

"No. You're dead."

Beside him, Stephen did not move. He had gone completely still, like a man turned to stone. Only his eyes moved, flicking from Leonard's face to my hand in Leonard's, and for one terrifying second…I saw something in them that was not kindness at all.

"Hello, little brother," Leonard said. His fingers tightened around mine.

"Did you miss me?”