Captive and Crowned: The Torvan Trilogy Book I (Sample Chapters)

Chapter 2: Into the Belly of the Beast

The wooden paneling and trim lent the foyer a deceitfully warm ambience. A red rug streamed from the stairs to the entrance like a lolling tongue, and a chandelier dangled above, its crystals pointed like fangs.

Evelyn scrubbed her thumbnail along her purse's handle. Thanks to this particular habit, she'd scratched long streaks of the faux pink leather off over the course of several months. She shifted from one foot to the other. The balls of her feet were already beginning to ache from the heels. As soon as this was over, she was going to fling those things off and drop into bed.

The door to her father's study squeaked as it swung open.

Ice flashed across her skin as her heart jolted. "Tuteno," she muttered. Cursing in her secret language was always fun, since no one knew what she was saying. Except for Mason. He'd known her long enough that he would have understood tuteno roughly translated to crap.

She swallowed, shoving the ache back into her heart, and looked toward the door. The rail-thin butler stepped forward, his woolly white beard so long it nearly swayed. If he were jollier, he could have been Santa Claus on a diet.

"Miss Evelyn Smith," he said. "Mister Smith wishes to see you."

A chill settled over her shoulders, trailing its frigid fingers down her bare arms and leaving goosebumps in its wake. It was just a tiny chat with her dad. Only a few more weeks of this, and she'd be out of here. She pushed her shoulders back before striding into the study.

A fire sparked behind the desk, turning her father into an inky silhouette. She squinted against the brightness of the flames. Her father was leaning back in his red leather chair, lined with golden piping. The silver chain he always wore around his neck glinted in the firelight, its end dipping beneath the collar of his shirt. The chairs, desk, and even bookshelves were large, seemingly built to suit his frame.

The study's walls would have been bare if not for the red and gold art-noveau-patterned wallpaper. There wasn't a single painting or picture to be found—even in the rest of the house. She imagined most mansions this stately would have had pictures of great-great-great grandfathers adorning the walls and lining the hallways. Despite her extensive online research, the other members of her family seemed to be nonexistent. Maybe they were all in hiding, staying as far from her father as possible. She didn't blame them.

Her father's arm was folded across his chest. With his other arm, he pressed his index finger against his chin. An outsider might think he was deep in thought, but she saw through his calm veneer. Whenever she came face-to-face with him, it was like a cloud had suddenly smothered the sun, dimming the blue-green in his eyes.

Despite the fire, shudders wracked her body. She held her purse in front of her with both hands, keeping her thumbs stiff so she wouldn't fidget.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed in silence before he spoke.

"You stole Kimberly's invitation." His words were crisp and calculated, as if he'd measured them with precision before speaking. If he'd ever had a southern accent, it'd long been purged from his lips. "Along with her car." He tilted his head, as if he were studying bacteria in a petri dish. "All for a boy."

His words hung suspended in the air between them before evaporating into silence.

His chuckle was gentle, like a summer breeze ruffling grass. "To think such a daughter could be raised in my household, without loyalty, dignity, honor." He shook his head and settled back in his chair. "What a disappointment."

Each syllable felt like a metal fist slamming into her gut. She held her shoulders back and her spine straight, refusing him the satisfaction of seeing the damage he'd inflicted. She took a deep breath and plunged deep inside of herself, into her hidden Room. The deeper she retreated, the less her father could hurt her.