CHAPTER 9: The Edge of Loyalty

Harrison rested against the courtyard's rim, cigarette burning low in his hand, its ember shining like the final reminder of authority he could hold onto. The cold night wind swirled against Blackwood Mansion's walls and brushed against him, but he did not tremble. He never did.

He rested and glared at the greenhouse.

She was in there.

Leya.

He had witnessed the light move from the soiled glass, observed her slip in like a phantom to its source. What did she read in Samuel's notebook? Which page had she turned that altered the very nature of her existence?

He could not have stopped her. Could have. Hadn't.

And that—that doubt—was what had Eleanor pursuing him like a wolf scenting weakness.

She was on one thing correct: Leya was dangerous.

But not that she had envisioned.

Not for defying.

For telling the truth. For not tiptoeing around their dictates like a static, proper puppet.

For regarding him tonight—like he wasn't a monster. But like she viewed right through him.

That