Wretched (Never After Series)(9)

Closing my notebook, I push to stand, fury pulsing through my veins. Moving out from behind the large kitchen island, I press past Zeke, walking so quickly my legs burn. I don’t stop until I’m at the front entrance, the black-and-white checkered marble gleaming beneath the crystal chandelier, a large princess staircase splitting either side. My feet stomp as I make my way up the steps, and I focus on counting while I head toward my room.

Anything to keep my mind off the simmering feelings bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.

Little splashes of muted sunshine splay across the glossy wood floor and I purposely step around them as I walk down the hall. This house is too big. Too bright, with all the abstract paintings hanging on the walls and the light peeking in through the windowpanes.

Pushing open the door to my room, I rush toward the end table and slip my notebook into the drawer before heading to the vanity and sighing as I look at myself in the mirror.

My face looks drawn. Tired. I reach my fingers up and press them underneath my eyes, the dark circles making the muddy brown of my irises look like pits of black. I push firmly until pressure bleats across my sockets and I drag my nails down my cheeks, the rings that adorn each of my fingers clacking when they touch.

Get it together.

Reaching for the oversized scrunchie on the table, I throw my dyed-black hair into a messy bun and grab a hoodie, heading out of my room and back downstairs to make sure Zeke and Dorothy are really gone.

They are.

Zeke doesn’t technically live here, but most of his time is spent at the estate. My father prefers to keep his inner circle as close as possible, which is why it doesn’t extend far beyond his actual family and a few of his closest associates. Fortunately, the mansion is over ten thousand square feet, one of the nicest properties in Kinland and has plenty of room for me to disappear entirely without much fanfare.

Me and people don’t really get along.

I walk down the small hallway off the back of the main kitchen and leave the house through a side door, making sure to pull my hoodie tighter and keep to the edges of the premises, out of the line of sight of the numerous security cameras installed.

Eventually, I make it to the trees protecting the property and head into the thick of them, fallen leaves crunching beneath my feet. I’ve never been much for summer—something about the cool weather and the smell of autumn brings a type of peace that I sink into, and as the September breeze whips across my face, making my nose tingle and my ears burn, a sense of contentment warms the center of my chest. For the first time since talking to my sister, the anger fades away, focus dropping into its place as I hit the clearing in the trees. I make my way to the small cottage sitting in the center, walking down the faded and chipped yellow brick pathway, half overrun with vegetation and weeds, until I reach the wooden porch. Reaching into my pocket, the metal prongs of a key dig into my fingers and I pull it out, unlocking the front door and moving inside.

There’s a tiny living room with a green velvet couch, a small oak coffee table that rarely gets used, and just off to the side is a kitchenette with a white stove and a mini-fridge.

It’s nothing special. But it’s mine.

I walk straight by it all, heading to the back bedroom and flinging open the door to the walk-in closet.

With a deep breath, I push apart the racks of clothing and sink to my knees, brushing my hand over the small indent in the drywall. It’s faint, made specifically to blend in with the scuffed-up paint. You’d hardly notice it’s there unless you knew where to look.

My fingers fit beneath the small notch and pull, allowing the hidden door to unlatch and swing open, revealing the dark room and concrete steps that lead deep underground. My knees crack when I stand, sending a dull throb of pain through my leg, and I wince as I walk into the blackened space, pulling on the string light before spinning around and closing up the secret entrance behind me.

I make my way down the steps and along the narrow concrete hallway. Goose bumps prickle along the back of my neck and scatter across my arms. I quicken my pace, the sounds of each step ricocheting off the walls and bouncing back into my ears.

There’s a certain chill that happens when you’re beneath sea level and surrounded by cement. The kind that soaks into your bones and sends a shiver ghosting up your spine, and no matter how many times I make this trek, I never quite get used to it.

Finally, I hit the end of the hall, stopping in front of a large steel door with an illuminated screen to its left. Lifting up my fingers, I press my hand to it, watching as it scans my prints and triggers the lock to unlatch.

I pull the door open, hundreds of metal halide lights shining so brightly they make my eyes flinch. There’s a faint click of the lock reengaging behind me, but I’m already allowing my gaze to focus on what’s in front of me.

Satisfaction settles deep in my chest as I make my way down the long rows of garden beds, heading toward the center of the room where the digital thermostat sits, then leaning over to look at the numbers.

Seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. Perfect.

I note the time. Two hours until it adjusts to thirty degrees, just after the sun drops beneath the horizon.

These plants are a temperamental breed.

This isn’t the only thermostat I’ll need to check. This underground area spans across two acres and is separated into smaller rooms for easier containment. Smiling to myself, I imagine what Nessa would think about the enhancements our father made to the cottage she gifted me.