Corrupted Union(6)
Author: Jill Ramsower

 

I stood for a second and glanced down at the outfit I’d spent too much time picking out. A forest-green cashmere sweater that accented my hazel eyes, cut short to hint at an exposed midriff above skinny jeans that were damn near painted on. Stetson hadn’t even noticed.

 

Sex wasn’t exactly the cornerstone of our relationship, but it had been a week, and I’d at least hoped to catch his eye. After my run-in with Keir the night before, I’d been so strangely turned on that I couldn’t sleep until I’d relieved the aching need pulsing between my thighs.

 

Adrenaline did funny things to the body, or so I told myself. It was the only logical explanation.

 

I shook myself out of the memory and followed Stetson to the swanky TV room. The three-story home, plus the basement, was opulent in every way. My parents’ house was just as old as this one, but they’d updated to a modern design that was light, open, and inviting. Stetson’s father insisted on keeping the austere feel of the traditional decor in his home. Black-and-white checkerboard marble floors ran throughout the main level with wainscoting, dark paneled wood, or richly colored fabric lining the walls. The crown molding was ornate, the fixtures an ostentatious gold, and the furnishings could have come straight from a palace. Not exactly my idea of homey.

 

At least the second floor was a bit more updated since that was Stetson’s domain. He had the entire west end of the second floor to himself, which was why he frequently came home. His place wasn’t bad, but he definitely preferred the lush Upper East Side to campus.

 

I was surprised to see several soda cans on the coffee table and the normally neatly folded blanket wadded into a ball instead. The house was always immaculate, which meant that even a few out-of-place items seemed odd.

 

Stetson saw me eyeing the uncharacteristic disorder. “Dad told Hannah not to mess with my wing. Something about her getting older and me being too spoiled.”

 

“You do something to piss him off?” I teased.

 

“Who knows with that man,” he grumbled playfully, settling into the large gray sectional.

 

We watched the start of preseason basketball for a half hour before I had to get up and relieve my boredom with a trip to the bathroom.

 

“While you’re up, can you grab me a beer?” Stetson asked, eyes trained on the TV.

 

A frown tugged my mouth. “Yeah, sure.”

 

This was not how I’d envisioned spending my evening. At least dinner would be soon, and then we could spend a little time together.

 

“Hold up,” Stetson called. “I forgot that the bathroom in here is having issues. Use mine or the one off the guest room.”

 

I rerouted to the hallway, rolling my eyes as Stetson whooped at the television. The guest room was closest, so I let myself inside. The drawn drapes and the navy-themed decor made the room feel eerily solemn, like one of those old Victorian-era movies when a room was boarded up after its occupant had died of some contagious disease. I couldn’t imagine why his father didn’t update things, except that the place sort of suited his personality. I’d never felt comfortable around Lawrence Wellington. I didn’t know what it was, but my skin itched with the need to escape when he was nearby.

 

That was how I should have felt when Keir held that knife to my throat.

 

Your intuition told you he wouldn’t hurt you, and he didn’t. That’s not so strange.

 

I rolled my eyes. Right. And you’re not remotely biased.

 

Crossing the room to the en suite bathroom, I turned on the light and paused in front of the gilded mirror for half a second—just the briefest glance. That was all I ever allowed. Only long enough to check that my heavy cat-eye liner was on point, black mascara fully coated my blond lashes, and a flawless layer of foundation made every last freckle invisible. I performed the spot-check in a blink but otherwise avoided mirrors whenever I encountered them. I didn’t like to see what stared back at me. Who stared back at me.

 

While I couldn’t totally escape the truth, I could avoid summoning the resulting dark emotions by removing mirrors from the equation. I wasn’t a fan of emotions in general. I’d always been able to keep mine in check, which was the reason my response to Keir had been so unsettling. What kind of person was aroused by a man holding a knife to their throat? It was a question I didn’t want to answer.

 

I shook my head to clear the intrusive thoughts and finished doing my business. After washing my hands, I reached for the door when an odd sound caught my ear. Was that … crying?

 

I looked up and studied the antique vent cover on the ceiling as another feminine wail drifted down, no mistaking it. No animal or inanimate object made sounds so saturated with emotion. The soul-crushing despair reached inside my chest and clutched my heart with rabid desperation until I could hardly breathe.

 

Who could the sounds be coming from? Stetson’s parents were divorced. No other woman lived in the house, though the housekeeper, Hannah, worked at the house full-time. The old row-style homes were built without space between them, but I didn’t think it was possible to hear the neighbors. Could it be a television?

 

I listened for another solid minute. The sobbing continued without interruption, and my gut told me this was real. Someone was in horrible distress, and every fiber of my being ached with the need to help.

 

I left the bathroom and returned to Stetson, making sure to grab him a beer from the mini fridge on my way.

 

“Thanks, babe.” He popped the top and continued watching the game.

 

“Your dad’s housekeeper isn’t a live-in, is she?”

 

“No, why?”

 

“Does she work on the weekends?” Hannah would be the most logical answer, though I couldn’t imagine the demur older woman making such sounds.

 

“Nope.” He finally turned to look at me. “What’s up?”

 

“I know this sounds strange, but I could have sworn I heard crying from upstairs.”

 

His brow furrowed. “Crying? Like a baby crying?”

 

“No, it was a woman.”

 

“That’s strange.” He shrugged. “There’s no one here except Dad and us. Last I saw, he was in his office, but he’s been up on the third floor a bunch lately working on some project. It could be him or even just the old pipes whining or something. You know how ancient this place is.”

 

I thought of Stetson’s father and internally shivered. I might have been sparring with my emotions, but that man was a machine. Could he have a woman up there? Maybe he’d had a date that had gone badly. But why would she be upstairs? None of it seemed to fit, but I felt awkward pressing Stetson about it. His father was a sensitive subject. I could understand. If Lawrence Wellington were my father, I’d have issues too.