Chapter 12: Corridors of the Dead

“How does it taste?”

Elliott’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. I lifted my eyes and found him seated across from me at the far end of the long marble dining table, chewing leisurely as though the world had not shifted off its axis for me less than a day ago.

I looked down at the food in front of me.

The table was filled to excess. Different dishes occupied nearly every available space, from roasted meats to seafood, soups, vegetables, fruits, pastries, and rice arranged in polished serving bowls that reflected the chandelier above us. The entire dining hall was as grand as every other section of the mansion, with a three-tier crystal pendant light hanging over the table, a sparkling wall mirror stretching along one side, and a carved sideboard displaying silverware that probably cost more than my college tuition.

Everything looked prepared for a banquet.

There were only two of us eating.

“I do not know,” I answered honestly before spooning a small amount of rice onto my plate.

Elliott stared at me in disbelief. “How can you not know? This is excellent.”

I gave a vague shrug and took a bite, though I barely tasted anything.

The food truly was delicious, but appetite required a mind free enough to enjoy. Mine was nowhere near that state. Every minute inside this house only fed the same restless calculations circling in my head. I was thinking of hallways, locked doors, windows, servants’ routines, the direction of the sun, the distance between rooms, and the stretch of ocean outside the glass wall. Even while chewing, I was trying to estimate how far this island might be from the mainland and whether small boats existed somewhere beyond the visible shore.

Who could enjoy lunch while planning how not to remain a prisoner?

Elliott eventually gave up trying to convince me and continued eating on his own, occasionally humming in satisfaction over one dish or another. His ability to exist so casually inside this mansion irritated me, though I reminded myself that unlike me, he had probably grown up surrounded by marble floors and people who bowed when spoken to.

My eyes drifted around the dining hall.

Everything here screamed possession.

Not wealth alone, but ownership. The sort of ownership that expected every object, every servant, and every person under this roof to remain exactly where they were placed. It made me think again of Reign and the maddening instructions he had left behind. Treat her as the woman of this house. Do not let her call outside. Do not let her leave.

The more I replayed those orders in my mind, the less I understood what game he was playing.

Had he bought me simply because he could?

Did he think spending that amount gave him the right to decide my place?

Or had he truly convinced himself that dragging me here somehow counted as rescuing me?

I almost laughed bitterly at the thought.

Whatever version of logic existed inside his head, it had nothing to do with my consent.

Yes, he had taken me away from that auction, and yes, I would have been sold to someone else if he had not intervened, but replacing one cage with another did not make him a savior. It only made him a richer captor.

I lowered my fork.

Across from me, Elliott was watching.

“You are not eating,” he said.

“I am.”

“You are moving food around.”

I glanced at my plate and realized he was right.

He leaned back in his chair. “You are thinking too loudly.”

I frowned. “Thinking has sound now?”

“With your face, yes.”

I ignored him and forced myself to swallow another bite.

If I let him keep prying, he would only continue trying to read my mind, and I had no desire to discuss my plans with someone carrying the same bloodline as Reign.

Lunch dragged on longer than I wanted. Elliott seemed in no hurry, while I wanted the afternoon to move faster so night would arrive sooner. Night meant servants would grow tired, lights would dim, and routines would loosen. Night meant opportunities.

By the time he finally pushed his chair back, I almost sighed in relief.

“Come on,” he said as he stood.

Before I could ask where, he had already reached across the table, caught my right hand, and pulled me up with him.

I stumbled after him.

“Elliott, where are we going?”

“You have spent enough time glaring at walls. I am giving you a tour.”

“A tour of my prison?”

“A very expensive prison,” he corrected cheerfully.

He did not release my hand.

We left the dining hall through a different set of double doors than the ones we had used earlier, and two maids stationed by the entrance moved instantly to open them for us. The moment we stepped outside, I slowed in surprise.

Towering in front of us on both sides of the corridor stood two giant statues, one of a man and one of a woman, both carved in gleaming stone and mounted on black marble pedestals trimmed with gold. They looked regal even in silence, their expressions stern and dignified, their details preserved with unsettling perfection.

I had not seen them when we entered.

Then I remembered the dining hall had more than one entrance, which only deepened my growing suspicion that this mansion was built less like a home and more like a labyrinth.

Elliott continued walking, still pulling me along, but I kept twisting my head to look back at the statues. There were engraved names at the bottom, though I could not read them properly from the angle.

We had already put several feet between us and the sculptures when Elliott abruptly stopped.

Because I had not expected it, my face bumped into his back.

He turned slightly.

“It is the statues, isn’t it?” he asked.

I rubbed my forehead and glared. “You enjoy reading people too much.”

He smiled faintly, but it was a quieter smile than usual.

“They are the late old masters.”

I blinked. “Old masters?”

For some reason I immediately thought of Reign’s parents. “You mean his mother and father?”

Elliott shook his head.

“No. Our grandparents.”

There was something in the way he said it that made me look at him more carefully.

The humor that usually clung to him had thinned. His eyes were still soft with that familiar easygoing look, but underneath it sat a sadness that had not been there at lunch.

He released my hand.

“Come,” he said more quietly this time. “There is more for you to see.”

I followed without speaking.

Questions crowded the tip of my tongue, but I kept them there. Even I could tell that whatever story belonged to those statues was not one Elliott would laugh through. And for the first time since meeting him, I noticed that behind the ridiculous clothes, behind the endless jokes, behind the maddening grin, he carried something heavy enough to dim him when memory touched it.

If Elliott carried that look when speaking of their grandparents, then I could only imagine what sort of ghosts Reign walked with in this house.