Chapter 1: The Marble Floor Under My Knees
I saw his legs first. Blurred at the edge of my vision, black pants and black shoes cutting fast across the white marble, the sound sharp and hard against the floor. I was already on my knees and I couldn't get up. The window behind me was too big, too bright, daylight falling through all those wooden panes and making the room feel exposed, like there was nowhere to hide. My pajamas had ridden up and my hands were locked around the collar, holding it closed.
He filled my whole field of view when he leaned in. Buzz cut, stubble, the black leather of his jacket catching the warm light, zipper glinting. He was close enough I could see the teeth behind his snarl. He didn't hesitate.
"Bitch, you dare hit me? By the time we're done, you won't even be able to close your legs."
My name is Chloe Lancaster and that night I learned what my own house wouldn't protect.
The grip on my shoulders came from behind. I hadn't even felt him move there. The second man, the one with dark wavy hair and the beard and the leather vest, had his hands clamped over my shoulders, fingers digging in, holding me in place on the floor. I tried to jerk forward and couldn't. The shaved-head man had his hand fisted in the front of my pajamas, in that light fabric with the little dark pattern and the blue piping along the collar, and he was pulling. I pulled back. The stitching strained.
I could hear my own breathing. It was too loud. I stared up at the man in the jacket and the smile on the man behind me, and I understood they thought this was already decided.
I had hit him. That was true. He'd come too close in the hall outside the guest wing, reached for my wrist, and I'd slapped him hard across the face. The red mark was still on his cheek. He kept grinning like it excited him.
His hand twisted tighter in my top. The other man's thumbs pressed harder into the bone of my shoulders. The marble was cold through the thin pajamas, cold against my knees and the backs of my legs. I kept my fists knotted in the fabric at my throat, knuckles white, and I made myself look straight at the one in front of me when I said it.
"If you dare touch me, House Lancaster will tear you limb from limb."
My voice didn't break. It was quiet. I said it like it was a fact, like it was a law of nature, because my whole life that name had been a wall around me. Lancaster. The foundation, the house, the donors who showed up to the galas and shook my father's hand. I thought saying it would make them let go.
The man with the buzz cut laughed. It wasn't a real laugh. He leaned in even closer, his leather jacket creaking, and his eyes never left mine. His grin went wide, teeth bared, and his breath was hot against my face.
"If I get to have the lunar" — the last word cut off, unfinished, [unclear] —
His hand gave a hard yank on my pajama top and I felt the collar pull against my throat. I gasped and held tighter, my arms shaking from the effort. Behind me, the other man chuckled and shifted his grip, one hand sliding to my upper arm to keep me from twisting away. They had me boxed in on that marble floor, the window light hard behind them, and neither of them looked toward the door.
I thought no one was coming. House Lancaster felt very far away then, just words I'd said to empty air. The hallway outside had been silent since they'd pushed me down. My phone was on the dresser, too far to reach. My chest was heaving and I couldn't tell if the pounding I heard was my heart or their shoes still moving on the marble.
Then I heard it.
May you like
Behind them, across the room, the doorknob turned. A slow, metallic click that didn't belong to either of them. The brass handle moved.
The man in front of me didn't let go. His grip tightened. He was still inches from my face, grinning. The man behind me kept holding my shoulders. My hands stayed fisted around my collar, holding it closed, and all three of us froze on that cold marble floor and stared toward the sound of the door about to open.
