Chapter 6 - The Salt-Stained Marble
The heavy oak doors closed behind us with a soft, expensive click that echoed off the vaulted ceiling of the grand foyer. The morning light filtered through the arched stained-glass windows, casting long, distorted panes of crimson and amber across the white marble floor where my lace train dragged like a discarded bandage. My bare feet felt the brutal chill of the stone instantly, sending a fresh shiver up my spine. My legs trembled, not just from the adrenaline crash of the morning’s desperate flight down the cliffside, but from the realization that every grand marble pillar and sweeping staircase in this estate was merely another tier of the same inescapable cell.
Gabriel walked ahead of me without looking back, his tailored black suit jacket catching the dim light. He didn’t need to look. He knew I was following because there was nowhere else on this desolate stretch of coastline to go. Two guards in identical black suits stood at attention near the base of the central staircase, their faces impassive as we approached. They didn't blink, didn't offer a glance of pity or surprise at my ruined gown, which was now stained with gray mud, torn at the hem, and smelling sharply of salt and dead kelp. They simply stepped aside, granting us passage into the quiet, stifling heart of the house.
"Take her to the west suite," Gabriel said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion as he stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He finally turned his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting mine over the thick line of his beard. "Have Sarah bring fresh clothes and hot water. She looks like a ghost that crawled out of the surf."
May you like
"I am a ghost," I murmured, my voice cracking from hours of cold wind and saltwater. I didn't care if the guards heard me. I was past the point of protecting his fragile public illusion. "You buried me in this dress the moment you put it on me."
Gabriel didn't raise his voice or blink. He stepped closer, the faint scent of expensive scotch and cedarwood washing over me, and reached out to brush a stray, salt-crusted lock of blonde hair away from my forehead. His tattooed fingers were heavy and warm against my cold skin. "Ghosts don't bleed when they scrape their feet on shale, yet yours are covered in cuts," he whispered softly, his breath brushing my cheek. "You're very much alive, and you're going to stay that way. Go clean yourself up."
