The stables smelled of hay and leather, a sharp contrast to the marble and perfume of the house. Ella stood at the entrance, her riding boots sinking into the straw, and stared at the row of stalls—each housing a horse that looked more expensive than her father's workshop.
"Nervous?"
Sebastian appeared beside her, wearing riding breeches and a fitted jacket that emphasized the lean muscle of his shoulders. In the morning light, the silver in his hair gleamed, softening the harsh line of his jaw. For a second, he didn't look like a captor—just a man who knew his way around horses.
"No," Ella lied. She'd ridden once, at a county fair, on a plump pony named Daisy. These horses—tall, sleek, with eyes that seemed to judge her—were a different breed entirely.
He nodded toward a chestnut mare with a white blaze. "Lira. She's gentle. For beginners."
A stable hand led her forward, his calloused hands guiding her to mount. Ella's foot slipped in the stirrup, and she stumbled, her elbow grazing the mare's flank. Lira nickered, shifting away.
"Easy," Sebastian said, his hand closing around her waist to steady her. His touch was warm through her riding coat, a jolt that made her skin prickle. "Put your weight in the stirrup. Lift, don't pull."
She followed his instructions, swinging her leg over the saddle. The mare shifted again, and Ella grabbed the reins, her knuckles white. "She doesn't like me."
"She doesn't like hesitation." He mounted his own horse—a black stallion with a temper, if its flattened ears were any indication. "Relax. Horses feel fear like a bad smell."
They rode out into the estate grounds, the stable hand trailing at a distance. The land stretched for miles: rolling green hills, a forest at the edge, and in the distance, the spires of the main house, glinting like a crown.
"Lady Black's hunt is a tradition," Sebastian said, his voice carrying over the clip-clop of hooves. "Everyone who matters will be there. You'll need to ride well enough not to embarrass me."
"Embarrass you." Ella repeated, her tone flat. "Right. That's all I'm good for."
He glanced at her, his gray-blue eyes narrowing. "You're good for more than you think. But until you learn to play by the rules, that's all anyone will see."
"Your rules."
"Survival rules." He reined in his stallion, bringing them to a halt in a meadow dotted with wildflowers. "In my world, weakness is blood in the water. The hunt isn't just about horses—it's about power. Who leads, who follows, who gets left in the mud."
Ella thought of her father, of the workshop, of the contract that felt like a noose. "My world's simpler. Fix what's broken. Keep your promises. Don't use people like tools."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. He dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, and held out a hand for her. "Get down."
She hesitated, then took it. He lifted her easily, her feet hitting the grass with a soft thud. For a moment, they stood close, the scent of his cologne—cedar and something sharper—mixing with the hay on her clothes.
"You think I want this?" he said, his voice lower than usual. "The lies, the games? I was seven when my mother died. Ten when my father locked the West Wing and told me never to ask about Clara. This house isn't a home. It's a tomb."
Ella stepped back, surprised by the raw edge in his voice. "Then why keep it? Why trap yourself here?"
"Because it's mine." He turned away, staring at the forest. "And because some secrets deserve to stay buried."
Before she could ask what secrets, Lira whinnied, her ears pricked. A figure emerged from the trees—a girl, around sixteen, with wild red hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, leading a scrawny gray pony.
"Who's that?" Ella asked.
Sebastian's expression hardened. "No one. A stable hand's daughter."
But the girl's eyes met his, and she lifted her chin in a silent challenge before vanishing back into the trees.
"Let's go back." Sebastian mounted his horse, his mood shifted—closed off, like a door slamming shut.
The ride back was silent. Ella clung to Lira's reins, replaying Sebastian's words: This house isn't a home. It's a tomb. And the girl in the woods—there was something familiar about her, something in the set of her shoulders that echoed… Clara's photo, maybe?
In the stable yard, Mrs. Poole waited, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Mr. Black, a message from Lady Black. She'll arrive day after tomorrow, not next week."
Sebastian's jaw tightened. "Tell her I'm busy."
"She said it's urgent. About the vault."
Ella's ears perked up. The vault—again.
"Fine." Sebastian dismounted, handing his reins to a stable hand. "Prepare the east wing." He glanced at Ella. "You'll join us for dinner when she arrives. Be on your best behavior."
"Your sister hates me already, doesn't she?"
He didn't deny it. "She hates everyone. Especially people who don't belong."
Ouch. Ella handed Lira's reins to the stable hand, brushing straw from her coat. "Good to know where I stand."
Inside the house, she climbed the stairs to her room, but paused at the top. The West Wing corridor was just ahead, its door ajar—probably left open by a maid.
Against her better judgment, she walked toward it.
The air grew colder as she stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under her boots. Dust motes danced in a shaft of light from a high window. At the end of the corridor, a door stood open: Clara's room, she guessed.
She peeked inside. It was smaller than she'd imagined, with a four-poster bed draped in faded blue silk, a vanity cluttered with empty perfume bottles, and a bookshelf filled with novels—romances, mostly, their spines worn from use.
On the vanity, a small wooden box. Ella lifted the lid. Inside, a stack of letters, tied with blue ribbon, and a tiny portrait: a girl with Clara's chestnut hair, laughing, her arm around a boy who looked like a younger Sebastian.
She pulled out a letter, the paper brittle with age.
"Dearest Seb," it began, in Clara's looping handwriting. "Mother found the letters. She knows about Ethan. I told her he's safe, with Eleanor's family—she'll keep him hidden, I swear. But Father's furious. He says the Black name can't survive a scandal. You have to promise me—if anything happens to me, protect him. Don't let them find him. The vault has proof, if you need it—Arthur's books, the ones he thinks I burned. The key is the pendant. Eleanor has it now. She'll know when to use it."
Ella's breath caught. Ethan—Clara's son. Her grandmother, Eleanor, had hidden him. And the vault… it held Arthur's secrets, not just family fortune.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She spun. Sebastian stood in the doorway, his face dark.
" I told you not to come here."
Ella held up the letter. "Why didn't you tell me? About Ethan. About your sister knowing about the vault."
"Because it's none of your business." He stepped forward, snatching the letter from her hand. "This changes nothing. You're still bound by the contract."
"Bound by lies, you mean." Ella's voice rose. "Your sister's coming to find the vault, isn't she? To get Arthur's books? And you're letting her, because you're scared of your own family."
He grabbed her arm, his grip tight enough to hurt. "You have no idea what you're talking about. My sister is dangerous. If she finds out you have the pendant—"
"What? She'll hurt me? Like you're hurting me now?"
For a second, his eyes flickered—regret? Guilt? Then it was gone, replaced by cold anger. "Get out. Before I forget you're not just another pest to be swatted."
Ella wrenched her arm free, storming out of the room. But as she reached the corridor, she heard him mutter, "I'm trying to keep you alive, you stubborn fool."
Her steps slowed.
Trying to keep her alive? Or trying to keep the pendant—and its secrets—safe?
She touched the nightingale at her throat, its metal warm again, as if it knew something she didn't.
Downstairs, a clock chimed. Three o'clock. Three days until Lady Black arrived. Three days to figure out who to trust.
If anyone.