Bound by Obsession (Shadowed Souls #2)

30. Chapter Thirty

I lie with Axel until his chest is rising and falling steadily. Not a single tremor has passed through him, whether from exhaustion or my presence, I’m not sure.

Slipping out from beneath the cover, I tiptoe into the bathroom for the shower I’ve desperately needed since this morning’s run. I tidy as I go, straightening the crumpled bathmat and righting the stack of toilet rolls which was kicked over in our haste. Axel hid for a reason, so I do my best to cover up any remaining evidence of his panic attack and shower quickly. He’s still sound asleep by the time I creep back through the room, dressing in some of Huxley’s clothes and making a silent exit.

“Hey Peach, bad news,” Garrett’s voice explodes through the hallway. I spin to see him striding closer, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. “A rabid dog ate your omelet.”

“I assume you mean yourself.” I scowl, a sudden flash of resentment sparking within. “An apt description, Garrett, because you are a dog.” I stab my finger into his chest. Garrett’s eyes fly wide open at my tone and he allows me to push him back into the opposite wall.

“Peach, I’ll make you another one.” He blinks, giving me his best puppy expression. I don’t melt as he’s expecting, recent events at the forefront of my mind.

“I don’t want another omelet. I want you to stop hiding behind your ego and settle things with Axel once and for all.”

“Things are fine,” he scoffs, brushing my finger aside. Forget resentment, a flare of burning hot anger takes over. Things are the opposite of fine when I find Axel, his lover , collapsed on the bathroom floor. Something needs to change, to ease Axel’s mind and I have a funny feeling I’m staring into the dark eyes of his biggest insecurity.

“No, Garrett, they’re not. He’s unsettled. How can a man who is desperate for affection and the need to feel loved be fine with you playing hacky sack with his emotions?” I move to leave but Garrett is too fast, grabbing my wrist and tugging me back into his chest.

“Now hold up. I’ve never pretended to be anything other than an asshole. I’ve owned that shit. And I’ve actually been trying lately, giving extra snuggles and being at the bottom more often than not. What else do you want me to do? Propose? Would that make you happy?” My lips purse, drawing Garrett’s attention briefly to my lips. Bingo .

“You figure it out, Garrett. But just so you know, until things are smoothed out with you and Axel, I’m withholding sex.”

“ WHAT ?!” Garrett’s grip of my wrist loosens, as if touching me without the possibility of me dropping to my knees physically burns him.

I pat his cheek with a smug smirk of my own and turn away. I leave Garrett as a flustered mess banking incoherent sounds and struggling to piece a sentence together. Maybe withholding sex was a step too far. My intention was to back him into a corner, not break his brain.

Returning to my original mission, I slip into the mini library at the end of the hall. As an extension onto the building, possibly added much later on, the room is modern in its circular shape and holds no windows. Instead, a glass domed skylight floods the room with sunshine. Plush, leather armchairs face one another, situated beside floor-to-ceiling bookcases. To some, the rich mahogany and rows of dust-bound books might feel imposing. But to me, the thick scent of leather and paper just reminds me of Nixon. This would have been his design choice, his domain.

As a man of business, it makes perfect sense that the library heavily leans on the side of non-fiction, organized in perfect rows, books alphabetized by agenda. I imagine the times Nixon spent here without cell reception, he would stand here, stroking his chin, deciding which new venture he could pursue. I can almost hear the click of his polished dress shoes against the wooden floor.

But I’m not here for nostalgia. Axel needs help, and I need to find something, anything to guide him through these panic attacks which only seem to be getting worse. I should have noticed it sooner. The way his hazel eyes dart around as if searching for an escape, how the cracks are starting to show despite holding himself together for my sake.

I run my fingers over the spines as I browse. Self-help, psychology, mindfulness. Where would Nixon have stashed something like that? The shelves are packed with books based on smart investments, seizing business opportunities and reading the stock market for profit. Even on vacation, it seems my adoptive father never truly took a day off.

Then, a glimmer of gold trimming catches my eye. Wedged between two thick tomes of philosophy is a slim book with no title on its spine, but the faint sheen of its leather cover suggests it’s been well-used. I grip the aged cover gently and try to remove it from its dusty spot. Albeit stiffly, I manage to wiggle the book a quarter of the way out before it jams. A faint click echoes through the quiet room. I freeze, still gripping the book, unsure of what just happened. My nerve-endings jolt into hyper awareness, the room suddenly seeming too cold, too quiet.

Then, with a low mechanical whir, one of the mahogany panels across the far side begins to shift. My heart jumps into my throat as the panel slides smoothly to the side, revealing a dark room behind the bookcase. I step back, blinking, unable to process what I’m seeing. This is a joke, right? Some sort of trick to freak me out? Well, mission accomplished.

But sure as shit, the panel stops moving. Dim, recessed lights flicker on within, illuminating a high-tech safe room. The walls are lined with reinforced steel, thick and imposing. The floor is made of polished concrete, smooth and gray underfoot. Against one wall is a large metal table with a few sleek monitors on top, their screens black and a bank of servers hums quietly underneath. I already know what the rest of the room will look like because I’ve seen it before. It’s an exact replica of the one in Hughes Manor.

I glance around the library, half-expecting someone to have felt the gentle tremor of the wood shifting over the floor. When no one comes, I flick my focus back to the passageway, forgetting how to breathe.

I should step away, should call for someone. I do neither of those things because lo and behold, I have a freaking death wish. I step cautiously into the room, seeing the small bunk beds and plastic drawers that I knew would be there. Shelves hold food provisions and lined along the floor underneath are stacks of bottled water. There are no windows, no hint of the world outside. Everything is controlled, precise, and impenetrable. It’s Nixon down to a tee.

On one wall, I notice a series of locked cabinets, their surfaces smooth and featureless. Above them, what looks like an advanced ventilation system silently whirs, keeping the room cool. A faint chemical scent hangs in the air, sterile and clean, like a hospital or a lab.

“You sneaky bastard,” I shake my head at myself. He came here, that night after he’d dropped the bombshell that Meg is my twin. He went upstairs to ‘prepare’ for the journey back home, but he checked on his well-kept secret instead. Did he expect me to find it, knowing that I would spend hours curled up in the library at the manor?

I stop to close the door, concealing myself inside. Something tells me this room isn’t meant for public knowledge. Moving further inside, I stop beside the cot-style bunk beds, neatly made up with crispy, white sheets. A small nightstand sits to the side, with a lamp and a few personal items—a framed photograph of Nixon, Cathy and I, a well-worn black book with a button clasp. Inside, I find jotted coding and a list of passwords I presume will gain me access to the computer.

Holy shit, the computer! I rush across the room, my mind suddenly catching up. Is there reception in here? Could I check in on Meg? My fingers hover over the touchpad, hesitating. I’ve stumbled into another one of Nixon’s secrets, and that hasn’t worked out well for me so far. Taking a long and loud inhale, I press the touchpad and the monitors blink to life. At first, they display a series of codes, lines of text scrolling too quickly for me to make out. I type in the passwords when prompted, working my way through layers of security. Then, slowly, the screens shift, revealing a grid of security camera feeds.

My heart drops out of my vagina.

Each screen shows a different room of the beach house—the kitchen, the living room, the bedrooms, even the bathrooms. There are cameras everywhere, hidden so discreetly I never would have noticed. My skin prickles with unease. Did Nixon turn these on that night too? Is he watching remotely and if so…oh god. My eyes dart to each room, each surface where I’ve screwed around with the guys. I had Huxley on that kitchen island, Garrett pinned me against a wall in the laundry room, I may or may not have gone down on Axel on the sofa and Dax has been my bed partner more often than not.

I glance at another one of the screens and see myself—standing there in the safe room, staring up at the very cameras I’m watching now. I quickly look away, feeling exposed despite being completely alone in here. My pulse quickens as I flick through the various camera angles. The guys are lounging around, Axel and Wyatt are lumpy mounds hidden within their bed covers, Dax is reclined in a clawfoot bathtub. Huxley is in the kitchen speaking with a dejected Garrett.

There’s one feed that catches my eye—a shot out the front, facing the dirt path beyond Huxley’s SUV. Someone’s standing there.

A small shriek escapes me. The figure is tall, disguised in a black hoodie and shadowed by the late afternoon light. Even without the hood pulled up, I doubt I would be able to make out their face through the grainy resolution of the camera. My heart thuds wildly in my chest, an uneasy rhythm syncing with the sudden surge of panic.

Who the hell is that? My mind races. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen, every instinct in me screaming to lock myself in the safe room and never leave. But I can’t leave my boys out there. Preparing to run through the house screaming, I watch as the figure shifts slightly, stepping closer to the SUV. Their posture is tense, deliberate, like they’re scouting for something—or someone. The minutes stretch out in painful silence. I watch through tremors of panic as they touch Huxley’s car, doing something at the back, and then turn and walk away. I track them all the way down the path until they’re out of view, but there’s no sense of relief.

I sit down heavily in the chair at the desk, my mind racing. I grip the edges of the metal in an attempt to steel myself, although my knees are knocking together. Think, Avery, and breathe. Breathing is good.

I’m in a replica of the safe room Cathy used to take me to. A place she wanted me to be familiar with and comfortable staying in. She’s been conditioning me to hide for so long, preparing me for the day Fredrick was released from prison. And she was right to be concerned, given that she was killed not even six weeks later. I cast my mind back to just before that dark time.

Cathy had been traveling more, apparently needing to fulfill a work contract on a deadline. Nixon was present in her absence, spending as much quality time with me as possible but whenever she was due back, he would leave. I remember thinking it was odd but it wasn’t unheard of. I frown, wondering why I hadn’t picked up on there being heightened security around the grounds. They knew. They all knew and as always, kept me sheltered. Kept me naive.

I’m not naive anymore. I’ve learnt that darkness thrives when we mistake loneliness for strength, allowing it to root itself in the cracks of our hearts, unseen but ever present. The Hughes conditioned me to be a fragile princess, hiding away in a tower. They told me that’s where I’m happiest. But they’re wrong.

I’ve broken free, spread my wings and flown into the love of four incredibly damaged men. Their traumas are as raw as my own, and somewhere between patching each other up, past wounds have started to heal. The Shadowed Souls don’t treat me as something weak and breakable. They’ve taught me that I’m headstrong. That I’m their Little Swan.

Switching off the monitors, I leave the safe room and push the panel closed with a click. I don’t pass anyone as I descend the stairs, hearing Garrett and Huxley still speaking in low, hushed tones. Avoiding the kitchen, I remain close to the wall, silently putting one socked foot in front of the other. Somehow without raising suspicion, I need to get outside.

What if it was one of Fredrick’s men putting a bug on the car, or even worse, a bomb ? I can’t let the guys use the truck until I’m certain but equally, I’ve decided against sharing the safe room’s existence for the time being. Should there be an attack on the house, I can’t depend on Wyatt not blabbing its location. He’d do whatever it takes to return to Rachel, even if that means getting rid of me.

“Fine!” Garrett growls, smacking his hand against the corner. I’m silent beside the Christmas tree, gradually slinking behind it. The back door is thrown wide open, punctuated by Huxley’s sigh.

“You can’t run from this forever, Gare.” Following Garrett outside, I take my chance at dashing out the front door and down the steps. Reckless, I know, ending up alone when I know there’s a stranger somewhere in these woods. In my defense, I vowed no one else would get hurt because of me so in theory, if there is a bomb on the back of the SUV, the guys will just have to hate my chargrilled corpse.

I feel every small stone through the socks, the dirt part unforgiving as I hobble closer. Briefly pausing myself by the headlight, I all but throw myself around the corner, already winced for an inevitable boom . Instead, I just look like an idiot, cracking one eyelid to see an envelope tucked into the rear wiper. My name is written in a familiar cursive and my heart judders for a whole different reason. It’s him. He was here.