Obsidian. (Book 1)

Chapter 13

Starving, hand cramping, exhaustion clawing at every bit of me.

I drop the pen. Screw this. Perhaps I should take Torin on his offer. With that, I leave the bedroom, peeking my head out first to check if it's clear. The entire hallway is carpeted with royal red coverlets and bejewelled chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Only one side is lit, so naturally, I go down the right. At some point, I reach a stairway that connects the dual curved staircases. Three landings. I'm on the second. I move to stand in the gallery, overlooking the ground floor. A gauntlet of guards are positioned within the spaced intervals of human-size sculptures and marble busts.

Unease grows in my gut, drawing in a long breath. I descend. And when I'm at the bottom, the guards don't even flinch or look my way. It's like they know I can't or won't try anything. Not knowing my intention is to watch them. I travel down the high-ceilinged foyer strategically, mapping out the layout of the manor. Torin wasn't lying. Guards and cameras everywhere.

I pass a succession of floor-to-ceiling windows, moonlight drenching the glazed wooden floor. I slow to a stop, looking out the window that has a view of the interior courtyard. Darkness shrouds everything beyond—glimpses of moving shadows—more guards. I continue, then I reach a second set of stairs, linking all three levels. I go back up to the third landing. Cameras in every corner.

How the hell am I even going to escape this place? But what stokes my dread is not escaping. It's what happens if I do. After what just happened, they're not going to let me go. And they know if I turn up dead, it would rouse too much suspicion. Even if I escaped, I have a target on my back, a literal bounty on my head. Either way, I'm screwed. At least this way my mom and Calum are safe and that's all I care about. But for how long? When I finish rewriting that book, my value quickly diminishes. They will find some way and some cover story to get rid of me. Then who protects my mama then? 

I perk up at the sound of hushed tones. Down the dimly lit passage, only one door has golden light seeping underneath. I creep towards it, nearing the frame. I flatten myself against the wall.

"My guess would be the Yakuza." Torin.

"They've had it out for Orian since he broke away to start his own... organisation."

The door ajar, I peer into the crack, sneaking a peek. He flashes by—I dart back—the carpet muffling my steps.

"It's the only thing that makes sense. They're well connected, well-funded and very much feared. They're the only ones that would be brave enough to strike at him and risk Gaza's ire."

I inch closer.

"No...just the largest supplier in carfentanil. Not an alliance they would want to lose. And we benefit greatly from since we're the broker. We can iron out the details at the fundraiser. I'm not signing off on anything without his word. Orian himself will be there. And he has a prize, something to appease the media with and have them focus on something else."

Prize? What the hell is he talking about?

"Those cocksuckers just want a good story. So, we'll give it to them."

Sudden alarm floods me from tip to point, instinct pulls me back and I comply. I've learned my lesson of what happens when I don't. I return, retracing my steps back to the foyer, then to the second landing, and back to my designated bedroom. I close the door with excessive gentleness, even though it seems like there's no one for miles.

The Yakuza. They've had it out for Orian since he broke away to start his own organisation. Why am I not surprised that Mr CEO got his start from working for the Japanese Triad? That is engaged in a cesspool of crimes, from fraud, extortion and money laundering to trafficking and prostitution.

I slog over to the modern upholstery couch, adjacent to the ensuite. I plop down, fingers running through my unkempt hair. The one time I should have listened to Calum.

The moment I lean back, sleep captures me. Lights out.

***

The doors open.

I gather myself, swiping away at long locks. 

Torin strides inside, holding a black garment bag.

"Didn't sleep well, black beauty?" He looks over his shoulder dramatically. "There was a whole king size bed available. I'm sure it beats a cold cell."

I move upright, setting my hands on my thighs, glaring up at him.

He sways the garment bag in his hand. "Just came by to do an impromptu fitting for the gala tonight. The makeup and hair stylist will come over later to—" his other hand lifts to make a gesture to my face,"—fix that black jungle on top of your head. And in the meantime, feel free to shower or bath even. You smell mouldy."

My face screws up into a tight expression. "Are you serious? Are you really planning to parade your slave around like it's the 1500s?"

His eyes sparkle with mirth, nodding. "Dark, but funny," he notes. "No, Miss Moor. You are going to be a representative of Zenith tonight. Orian's plus one. He never attends these events and when he does, he's always alone. So this will definitely turn heads." He flutters the garment bag again. "Might as well give them something to look at."

I snap to my feet—the world spinning sickly. "You're insane if you think I'm just gonna dress up and—"

"Like everyone beneath him, you will do whatever Orian tells you to," Torin says, frivolousness draining from his tone. His face hardening into an austere look. "I shouldn't have to remind you that there is a gun on both you and your mother. What you do or fail to do will determine the direction of the barrel. Whether it's keeping her safe or the reason she joins your daddy in the cemetery."

Grief, like a fist, clenches my heart in a merciless grip.

He ambles toward me with a sickening grin. "Pretty please," he says with a mock pout. "I can always help you in the dress if you encounter any trouble." His eyes raking down my body with shameless leisure. "Then help you right out of it."

I hold his gaze, everything inside of me refusing to yield.

"You can imagine, the corporate hunter herself, who was believed to be targeting Orian Moon." He looks away, feigning surprise. "Shows up arm-in-arm with him." He frees a low whistle. "Now that will make for a good story."