Chapter 7
The silence in the glass-roofed conservatory was absolute, save for the wet, rattling gasps coming from Chase beneath the shattered ceramic pots. The bright, natural light exposed every detail of the destruction—the dark soil staining the white tiles, the crushed green leaves, and the stark, paralyzing fear radiating from Tove Mercer.
Tove stumbled backward, her high heels catching on the edge of the carpet. Her fair skin, usually flushed with arrogant confidence, had drained to a sickly, ashen white. She looked at her brother, who was not moving, and then looked back at the man she had planned to marry.
"Chase!" Tove shrieked, her American accent cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched wail. She took another step back, realizing with horrific clarity that her brother could not protect her.
Cullen did not rush. He took a slow, deliberate step forward. His polished shoes crunched softly over a broken piece of terracotta. The steady, measured pace was far more terrifying than a sprint. It was the walk of an executioner who knew his victim had nowhere to run.
"Cullen, wait!" Tove stammered, raising her hands defensively. "You're overreacting! He's your partner! We are supposed to be family!"
"We... are nothing," Cullen whispered. His voice was a low, vibrating hum that seemed to chill the sunlit air. "You... are a disease."
Panic finally overtook Tove’s rational thought. She looked frantically around the room for an escape. Her eyes landed on Margaret’s handbag, which still sat on the wicker chair where the elderly woman had dropped it. In a blind, desperate bid for leverage, Tove lunged toward the chair and grabbed the heavy leather bag.
"Don't come any closer!" Tove screamed, clutching the handbag to her chest as if it were a shield. She began backing rapidly toward the grand double doors leading to the main hallway. "I will call my father! I will tell him you assaulted us! The Mercer family will burn this estate to the ground!"
"Let them... try," Cullen murmured softly.
Tove turned to run, her heels clicking desperately against the tiles. She intended to flee through the doors, run to the perimeter guards, and demand extraction.
She didn't make it three steps.
Cullen moved with blinding, terrifying speed. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, his large, tattooed hand shooting out to intercept her. He grabbed the thick leather strap of Margaret’s handbag, his grip like a steel vise.
"Let me go!" Tove shrieked, yanking wildly on the bag, trying to break his hold.
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"You aren't... going anywhere," Cullen stated, his eyes locking onto hers with absolute, terrifying emptiness.
With a sudden, violent jerk, Cullen tore the handbag completely out of her grip, tossing it carelessly aside. Tove stumbled forward, entirely defenseless, trapped in the bright, cinematic light with the monster she had awakened.
