Chapter 21 · Both Hands

The gates were still ringing when Owen Hale shoved me through the study door.

Not the iron. Helen’s voice. It bounced off the limestone foyer like shrapnel.

*Check her hands, Owen. She watched you bleed at Pier 4.*

He didn't grab me by the throat. He didn't have to. Two flat fingers in the small of my back, heavy and hot through my cotton shirt, steering me like a stray dog he was debating whether to keep or shoot.

"Study. Now."

The staff had already vanished. Nine days under this roof and I knew the drill: when Owen Hale dropped his voice, people disappeared in four seconds flat. Out front, the double oak doors slammed shut with the boom of a bank vault sealing for the night.

Then the study door clicked. The deadbolt slid home.

Dark green walls. Heavy mahogany. Rain slashing the floor-to-ceiling glass, smearing the black harbor into grease.

He walked right past me. Leaned back against the desk, folded his arms over his chest, and looked at me. Not angry. Worse.