Page 5 of The Darkest Chase
I leap back with a little shriek, almost stumbling on the bottom step, but he catches my elbow smoothly and steadies me with a dry look.
“Are you well, Miss Grey?”
“Never been better,” I lie.
“Right this way then,” he says cordially.
“Thanks,” I answer faintly and follow him up the steps.
I’m just killing it today.
Please, shoot me now.
Although I’ve lived in Redhaven my entire life, I’ve never been up to the big house. The four Arrendell sons all went to fancy private schools and never really mingled with the little people. They weren’t the kind of kids to have playdates with the locals, invite them over for fancy tea parties, that kind of thing. So actually seeing this house up close is… wow.
Intimidating isn’t a big enough word.
It’s a mountain of a house.
Standing at the top of the stairs and looking up at the looming walls, it’s like it takes up the entire sky. The soaring front doors groan as the valet opens them with a grand flourish and leads me into a dim-lit stone foyer draped with red velvet all over the walls.
This is too much house for one family.
And it’s all so ostentatious, from the antique velvet furniture to the ornate gold wall sconces, the black-and-white checkered marble flooring, the vaulted ceilings.
Everything echoes here.
My heels chatter like ghosts in the high eaves with every clicking step, amping up my nerves.
I’m sweating as the valet leads me through the manor.
Thankfully, it’s not far.
We swing off to the right, mount a short flight of stairs, head down another hallway, and then he stops outside a dark-varnished oak door with carved insets.
It’s classical revival, a detail I can’t help noticing when it’s part of my job to know historic woodwork styles.
That’s also what makes Grandpa’s brand so unique. He partners old styles and forgotten techniques with modern craftsmanship to create vintage looks bordering on elegantly exotic.
I’m distracted with the details of the insets and varnishing as the valet raps lightly and then pushes the door open to a large office, opulently furnished in oak wood, black, and gold with subtle glassy accents.
A man stands behind the wide, mirror-polished wooden desk.
He’s very tall. Lean to the point that if his shoulders weren’t so broad, he’d be almost gaunt. There’s a dark accent to his saber-sharp features and the deep hollows of his stubble-dusted cheeks.
Handsome enough, but grim.
He’s almost posed in front of the window. The light coming through the sheer curtains gilds his razor edges and shines off the corners of a small silver box he holds up, inspecting it with laser focus. His icy-blond hair is short and swept back from his face. His pale jade-green eyes are sunken hollows that glow like embers in their shadowed sockets.
There’s also something unsettling about him.
Something heavy that instantly makes me think of a caged animal trapped inside the deep-grey gloss of his finely tailored suit. It ages him, years beyond a man who must not be any older than his thirties.
Xavier Arrendell needs no introduction, though.
“Um.” I open my mouth and stop.
I glance at the valet—but he’s gone.