Until Next Time

* Contains themes of captivity, coercive control, and implied medical threat involving a minor. *

I swipe the paper doily off the floor, placing it neatly back on the side table.

Rowan hates when everything is out of place. According to him, there is an order in everything. From people, places, and even these paper doilies for tea. Otherwise it’s pure chaos.

On second thought, I shift the stack of doilies so it spirals up. Not a square. Not a circle. It’s both. Pure and utter chaos. Rowan will likely have palpitations at the sight, and the thought brings out a little giggle.

The housemaid, Candace, eyes me as she strides up to me. She arches a brow, her gaze swinging from the side table then to me. “Mind your manners, Miss Christeson. And put that stack in order.” She huffs, walking off with a basket of freshly dried linens.

I don’t.

Anything to add a little bit of color to this mundane grey world.

It’s been 384 days since I was made to call this home. On the first day here the mauve in the carpet faded into a desert of sorts. No longer pink, but not exactly grey. By the second week, I realized the only thing left of my old life was a distant memory. Like the baby blue skies shifted into stormy grey. And now?

Boring. Lifeless. Ordinary.

Every morning at six the crows caw, pecking at my window, ensuring I’m up before the sun. I’m sure he trained them to do that. By seven, breakfast is on the table. The same breakfast. Eggs, hash, and a biscuit. Never coffee. Never juice. Always tea.

When it’s seven thirty, I’m forced to attend a home schooling lesson by him. No one else. No one is ever allowed to visit, to teach, or to… breathe, really, without his knowledge. Heaven forbid if I gasp. The walls quiver at the idea.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The front door groans at the intrusion.

But I welcome it. So much so, I skip towards the knocking. Skip. I haven’t done that in a decade, when Grandma Lene and I were at the strawberry patch for my sixth birthday. The side mirror catches my eye. I freeze at the sight. How did a dryer sheet end up in my hair?

I shoot a glare at Candace as she cracks a laugh and shakes her head.

“Who’s coming by?” I whisper toward her.

She shuts the linen closet with a shrug. “Only one way to find out.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I pull the door open. A rush of cedar and jasmine hits me, nearly knocking me back. But what does knock? The person’s fist as he softly taps my nose three times before wincing, snapping his hand back.

“Oh. I—”

A soft iridescent glimmer lines the figure. It solidifies, as I lift my hand above my eyes to block the sun’s rays. My heart flutters at the sight. A young man, late teens most likely, stands in overalls stained with oil, and… blood? Navy blue shirt underneath, torn at the sleeves. Short raven-black hair, with a soft sheen that winks in the sunlight.

He’s beautiful. No. Colorful. From the confused expression on his face down to his shoes with purple paint splattered across the top.

“Watch what you’re doing!”

“I-I’m sorry, mam,” he glances down.

I fold my arms across my chest. “Who are you?”

He meets my gaze, eyes flicking upward then back. “Do you know you have a dryer sheet in your hair?”

My soul extracts itself from this timeline, leaping into the void. Damn you Candace.

I swipe the sheet, crumbling it into my hand, tossing it behind me. Redness creeps up my neck, settling into my cheeks.

“It’s all the rage in fashion.”

He nods, his raven hair moves with it. “Just like the one on your leg?”

What in the actual fuck.

I shoot a glare at Candace, who’s currently dying from laughter.

“I’m Chase. And you are?”

He offers his hand with a genuine smile.

Splotches of yellow coat his left hand. Pink on his other. What in the world is this guy involved in? And how do I get in it? But there is something else about him that’s off. It’s in his amber eyes. They hold a depth I’ve only ever seen in me. Haunted. Lonely. Weighted.

It hurts to smile, but the pain subsides as one widens across my face.

“Olivia.”

“Olivia?” His brows furrow. “Have we met before?”

“I think I’ll remember someone like you. You’re a human canvas.”

He grins, tilting his head. “Is that your way of saying you want to paint on me?”

“Hmm… I’ll definitely make sure to add your oversized ego.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t respond—thank god. My nerves are tangled in knots. That was fun. Whatever that was.

“I’m looking for Hawke Hawthorne. Is he here?”

“Oh,” I breathily say. One of those guys. “He’s in a meeting with Rowan.”

“I’m his son. My mom wanted these,” he waves rolled up papers in the air, “dropped off. She insisted I hand them to him in person. I stopped at his—”

“He has sons?”

“And a daughter.”

His response baffles me. He doesn’t seem shocked at the question, in fact, he rolled right through it as if it’s a normal thing that people wouldn’t know his father has children. I’m forced to sit in meetings with him, listen while he discusses family affairs with his colleagues, and never once has he mentioned anything about having sons—only a daughter, Lylah.

“Lylah hasn’t ever mentioned a brother.”

“Brothers. Me. Oscar. Ethan. Nate. Well, Nathanial, Hawke’s middle name.”

I tuck all of this to the back of my mind. I’m not nearly as surprised as I should be by finding this out. Hawke has a way of withholding information like water in a desert. He uses only enough to quench the thirst of others—always being the one holding the canister, never the other way around.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Not as much as standing outside being questioned by a child.”

“I’m not a child.” I shoot him a glare.

“Would Mr. Elm want his guest to stand outside?”

“Yes.” No.

He deadpans. And waits.

The silence stretches until Candace walks up behind me, shattering the tension. “Come in, Chase. You can wait in the tea room.”

I huff, rolling my eyes, and stand aside.

He passes by, facing me with a grin and a nod that pulls at my heartstrings.

“You know him?” I whisper to her as we escort him to the room.

She hums, ignoring my question.

I cram my nerves down into a box, shoving it away before I do something stupid. Just be cool, Olivia. Just breathe. I’ve been around other boys before, he’s no different. Aside from being a son to a psychopath. A walking paint board. And has an iridescent sheen in his hair. It’s normal. It’s all going to be fine.

The oven timer sounds from the kitchen. She waves him inside, then looks to me. “Offer him tea and keep him company until they’re done with their meeting. Try not to cause any fights.”

I pull back, gasping. “Why I—”

“You punched the carpenter last time he was here.”

“He looked at me weird.”

They all do. With their lingering gaze, sneering remarks. I should have jabbed him in the balls.

“Well, he’s Hawke’s son. Hitting him will cause more problems for him, than you.”

“So… I should hit him? You’re not being clear.”

“Olivia.”

Oh. There’s the tone again. The tone that says I’ll be punished if I push this, likely end up watching twelve hours of soap operas with her. I nearly died from the nine hour marathon last time.

“It won’t be soap operas this time, young lady. Twelve hours of crime scene investigations.”

I scoff, walking into the room. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Miss Candace Taylor.”

She believes those are the real torture. But I devour them like an addict needing a hit to survive this grey world. The good guys get the monsters, and I get valuable lessons on how to stand in rooms and spot them.

Stepping into the room I’ve been in countless of times never felt so liminal. The walls are the only thing holding us together, and everything beyond has fallen away. He sits beside the tea table, staring up at the ceiling.

The air thickens as I head over to the tea table. His stare presses down on me and I nearly fold. How can someone have such… presence? It’s terrifying, and intriguing, all at the same time.

My hand trembles as I grab a doily, placing it down, then a cup. The tea kettle remains on a heating plate to keep it at the right temperature at all times. Rowan says there should always be tea ready for anytime there are guests—which is rare. Just like today for Hawke to be here. We usually meet in a back office at church.

“Crime scene investigations? Sounds fun. Is that what you do all day?”

“I read psychology books in Rowan’s library.”

“For… fun?”

“Is that not fun?” I say over my shoulder.

“That sounds terrifying. You don’t read anything else?”

“How to dismantle—”

“Never mind.”

I bite back the laugh threatening to expose me and focus on pouring the steaming hot water over the tea blend. I’d normally make a special blend. It gives them diarrhea for the rest of the day. A little welcoming gift by Rowan Elm, all fresh herbs from my garden.

I love watching them run out of the room, trotting to the closest bathroom.

But Chase doesn’t seem like those other men. He doesn’t trail his words along my skin, as if to see if there are cracks. He stares, but for reasons that aren’t like the other ones. They stare out of annoyance I’m sitting at the same table as them.

So he gets my favorite blend.

Blackberries, sage, and a pinch of lemon balm to brighten his day—because he’s definitely brightened mine.

I turn, carefully walk toward him, focusing on the tea. With each step, my hands tremble more, tea sloshing just below the rim.

Rowan says spilling tea is a cardinal sin. Not because of wasted herbs, but because of his rug. It’s been passed down the generations in his family from the 1800s.

My feet drag along the carpet, ensuring I haven’t reached the odd hump. I think there’s a trap door under the mat. Candace ensures it’s a wood plank lifting up.

My heart leaps into my throat as my foot gets snagged on a ripple in the carpet. The tea cup flies up into the air, and I fall flat onto the floor with a loud thud.

The tea cup lands abruptly onto Chase, sending tea searing down the front of his legs.

Oops.

Chase hisses, pulling his pants off his leg. “Herbal baths are all the rage, too?”

I blink up at him.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!”

Tea slowly drips onto the carpet and sheer panic rises.

I leap into the air. “I’m so sorry! Please don’t tell him. Please. Please.” I run out of the room before he could respond looking for a towel. Crime scenes and soap operas are nothing compared to what Rowan will do.

Lock me in my bedroom. Force me into more meetings with old men deciding people’s fate one stroke of a pen at a time. Dr. Lancaster discussing ideas on what he’d like to do to me.

The thought sends a chill down my spine.

I fly past Candace, waving her off. “Nothing happening here, keep moving.”

“Child—what did you do?”

I ignore her, swinging open the linen closet, swiping a towel and run back.

When I returned, he’s standing beside the opened window—that wasn’t opened before. Why didn’t the security alarm trigger?

I offer the towel with a sheepish smile. He mirrors me, grabbing it.

“It’s okay, Olivia. Nothing like a third degree burn to awaken the senses. The tea is great, by the way, from what I could taste before it landed in my lap.”

“Thank you. How did you open that window?”

“With my hands.”

My smile falls, eyes narrowing down on him—even though he’s taller. “They’re painted shut. There’s a security alarm on all the windows.”

“Seems excessive. His land must be 300 acres. I swear his driveway crossed into a different county.”

“It does, actually. A part of the road crosses into Lansdowne. Bianca and him argue over the bushes in that area. They’re planted on her land, but grow on his. Did you notice all the hidden security cameras? There’s twelve.”

“You notice that but not the crease in the rug?” He gestures behind him to the tea soaked rug.

I press my lips together, refusing to give up the laugh he deserves.

“Do you read other books?”

My shoulders slump. “No. All he has are those—Apparently, that makes him the life of the party.” For a funeral. “What do you read?”

Telling him I enjoy reading them stays behind locked teeth. Most people stare at me like I have two heads when I tell them what I’ve learned. “You’re a little girl, don’t you have dolls to play with?” they questioned. As if I had frivolous things like dolls or toys to play with.

“Lots. Sci-fi, fantasy, fiction. My favorite is mythologies—historical and retellings.”

“Oh. Never heard of those.”

His brows shoot up.

“He really does keep you locked up.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a confirmation.

He shifts away from the window, walking over to the tea table, and pours another cup of my favorite blend. From there, we fall into a rhythm I never felt before. We stood for twenty minutes fully engulfed into the books he reads, living here, and even what he does on his free time.

He drank all the tea, smiled, and laughed as if he had all the time in the world. Did he forget about the papers, currently on the floor drenched in tea?

“Mom wanted to repurpose a dresser she found at the good will. I replaced the hinges and painted the insides.” He lifts one paint-splattered shoe. “Painting isn’t my specialty.”

“She didn’t paint the outsides?”

He shakes his head.

“Odd.”

He shrugs. “Aren’t we all? Like pretending you’re not into his books or Candace’s shows?”

I open my mouth, but snap shut. Damnit.

“Did you want to read them?” He spits out, cheeks turning red.

“What?”

“I mean, I can bring some books for you.”

I release a heavy breath, unaware I was holding it in for so long. He’s not like anybody I’ve met. Most people shut me up before I could finish a sentence.

He wanted more.

He asked so many questions. I half expected him to start taking notes like he’s studying for a test. How could someone want to know so much about me?

It’s exhilarating.

The hallway stirs, the chatter from two men I know all too well grows louder as they reach the door.

My heart leaps out of my chest. The rug.

The doors swing open and Rowan enters, halting when his eyes land on me, then the rug, and finally Chase.

He storms over to me, ignoring Chase all together. “What have you done?”

Chase steps in between us. His composure completely shifted. No longer a young man casually offering books to read, but someone that’s sat in rooms with men like these and knows how to maneuver around them with such ease there’s an odd flutter in my stomach.

Shit. Did I drink the wrong tea?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Elm. I stumbled over this,” he points to the crease. “I wasn’t aware how unsafe this place is. Surely, someone taking care of Olivia would be a bit more cautious?”

Rowan’s hardened expression softens, glancing behind him before regaining his composure. “Yes, you’re right.” He steps back, smoothing his jacket.

The air stirs, dropping into blizzard conditions. Hawke steps in, his voice booms through the room.

“What is the purpose of this, Chase?”

My body stills as he stalks in, eyes piercing through me. Chase doesn’t flinch, instead he shrugs him off. “Mom wanted me to give you these.” He reaches for the papers, tea dripping from his hand as he tosses at him.

He doesn’t bother catching it. It slaps up against his jacket, plopping back onto the floor.

“You’re forbidden to come here, and you know that.”

“Must’ve forgotten. Anyway,” he pivots toward Rowan. “I have some ideas that’ll help for your safety issues. If you don’t mind—”

“Yes, he does mind.” Hawke interjects.

“If you don’t mind, Rowan. I’ll take care of the cleaning, it’s my mistake for not noticing it. Clumsy feet and all,” he glances behind me with a smirk. “I’ll see to it that it’s in pristine condition. The Missing Sock does quality work.”

Rowan slicks his hair back into its natural setting. “We can discuss it when you return the rug, how does that sound?”

Hawke grumbles, but doesn’t say anything.

Chase’s smile widens from ear to ear. “Perfect.”

I don’t know what just happened, but I want more of it.

He faces me, whispering, “Until next time.”

And he does something that hitches my breath.

He winks.

He makes his way out the door, slowing his steps beside his father. They both exchange looks without saying a word and then he’s gone, taking away the color that splashed into the grey ever so briefly.

I sulk towards the dining room. It is four and dinner is always served at four.