Chapter 3 - The Coldest Bed in the Coldest Mansion and the Rules Written in Steel
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My legs felt hollow as I descended the curved marble staircase. Each step sounded like a death march in the vast, echoing foyer. Vincent and the other guards had already dispersed with professional silence, leaving only Damen standing at the foot of the stairs, watching me like a hawk studying a bird that had flown too close to the fire.
I clutched the lapels of his heavy cashmere coat tightly against my chest, desperately trying to keep the fabric closed over my underwear. My hair was disheveled, my bare feet cold against the polished stone.
When I reached the bottom landing, I stopped four feet short of him, keeping my head bowed. "Are you going to shoot him?"
Damen didn't answer immediately. He took a slow breath, folded his stained handkerchief, and tossed it into a silver waste receptacle near the pillar.
"Death is too quick for Richard Hastings," he finally answered, his voice deep and raspy. "A bullet gives a man peace. Your father doesn't deserve peace. He deserves to watch his empire rot while he suffocates on his own insignificance."
He stepped closer. I instinctively braced myself to take a step back, but my heel struck the wooden riser of the bottom stair. I was trapped.
Damen noticed the flinch. A dark flicker of frustration passed over his sharp features, but he didn't raise his voice. He reached out slowly, giving me every opportunity to see his movement, and lifted his fingers to the lapel of the coat I was wearing. He gently pulled it higher over my shoulders, tucking the collar close around my neck to shield me from the draft leaking in from the doorway.
"In this house, Clara, you don't flinch," he said softly. "The people who made you afraid cannot cross those gates. You understand me?"
I looked up into his dark, brooding eyes. "You brought me here to punish me. You told me at the altar that I would pay for Leo’s death."
"I thought I was taking a spoiled heiress who lived on blood money while my brother bled out on concrete," Damen said, his jaw tightening. "I thought you were complicit in his games. I didn't know your father had been using you as a punching bag to burn off his gambling debts."
He turned on his heel and gestured toward the wide hallway leading toward the east wing of the estate. "Come with me."
I followed him in silence. We passed towering oil paintings of Rossi ancestors, dark mahogany wainscoting, and floor-to-ceiling windows showing the relentless storm battering the Hudson valley. We ended up in a massive, warm library lit by amber lamps and a crackling stone fireplace.
On the center mahogany table sat an antique silver tray with a pot of hot chamomile tea, two porcelain cups, and a heavy crystal decanter of amber bourbon.
Damen didn't pour himself a drink. Instead, he pulled out one of the leather armchairs nearest the fire. "Sit."
I sank into the deep leather. The radiant heat from the fireplace washed over my freezing toes, sending an involuntary shiver of relief through my limbs.
Damen poured a cup of tea, placed it on a small saucer, and set it on the small end table beside my chair. Then he leaned against the edge of his massive desk, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his dark eyes never leaving my face.
"Here are the rules of this house," Damen began, his tone businesslike, clear, and devoid of cruelty. "Rule number one: You do not leave the estate grounds without Vincent or myself. Not because you are a prisoner, but because every vulture in Manhattan knows my brother is dead and that Richard Hastings owes forty million across town. You are a target now. If you step outside these gates unprotected, you will be taken."
I nodded slowly, holding the warm teacup in both hands. "I understand."
"Rule number two," Damen continued, holding up a finger. "You eat three meals a day. Real meals. You look like a gust of wind could snap your collarbone in half. The kitchen staff reports directly to me. If you skip a meal, I will sit at the table and watch you until the plate is clear."
A strange lump formed in my throat. For seven years, my father had restricted my meals whenever my weight shifted even two pounds, claiming that a sloppy daughter was an embarrassment to his fund's public image.
"And rule number three," Damen said, his voice dropping into a register that made my chest tighten. "Nobody touches you. Not the staff, not my men, not your father, and not me. This marriage is real on paper to protect the Rossi claim over Hastings' assets. But behind these doors, you have your own suite in the west wing. It connects to my bedroom through a locked interior door. The key will stay on your side."
I stared at him over the rim of the porcelain cup, stunned into utter silence. "You... you aren't going to claim your marital rights?"
Damen let out a cold, humorless chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "I am a killer, Clara. I run shipping docks that smuggle untaxed steel, I break union leaders who try to extort my warehouses, and I put men in the ground when they cross my family. But I have never, in my thirty-two years on this earth, taken a woman against her will. And I certainly do not prey on broken birds."
The words stung, but there was a fierce, protective honesty in them that I had never encountered in any man.
"My suite is ready?" I whispered.
"It has been ready since this morning," Damen replied. He stood up straight, his imposing height casting a long shadow across the polished wooden floorboards. "Drink your tea. When you are finished, Vincent will show you to your room. There are clothes in the wardrobe. Everything you need. Sleep late tomorrow. You look like you haven't slept in three years."
He walked toward the double doors of the library, but just before turning the bronze brass handle, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"One more thing, Clara."
"Yes?"
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"Tomorrow morning, the board of Hastings Capital meets at eleven in Midtown," Damen said, his eyes glittering with cold malice. "You will be wearing a bespoke tailored suit. You will be sitting at the head of the boardroom table as the majority shareholder under the Rossi umbrella. And you will watch your father lose everything he ever cared about."
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