His Fathers's Ring, His Son's Touch

Amara's Pov The first thing I felt was the silence. I opened my eyes, my lashes heavy. The ceiling above me was adorned with delicate crown molding, and the bed beneath me was so soft it felt like it might swallow me whole. I sat up abruptly, a sharp ache throbbing in my temples. The last thing I remembered was the blinding white of headlights and the cold sting of rain. I looked down. I was still in my clothes from yesterday, though they had been dried and pressed. My shoes sat neatly by the foot of a wardrobe. "Where am I?" I whispered, my voice raspy. I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and moved toward the door. It opened without a sound. The hallway was a gallery of polished wood and oil paintings. As I reached the top of the grand staircase, my breath hitched. The house was a temple of dark luxury, every corner dripping with elegance. I descended the stairs, my hand gripping the cold rail. In the foyer, a massive portrait hung above the fireplace. I stopped, my heart skipping a beat. The man in the painting was... haunting. He looked like sin given a human form. He had dark, thick hair swept back from a forehead that suggested a sharp, calculating intellect. His jawline was a jagged edge, and his shoulders were broad. But it was his eyes, a piercing grey eyes that made my skin crawl and heat up at the same time. He looked familiar. I turned to look at the rest of the room, and that was when I saw it. On a side table sat a smaller, silver-framed photograph. Lucas. My knees nearly buckled. This was Lucas's house. What was I doing in his house? "You're finally awake," I spun around, my back hitting the wall. Standing in the arched doorway was the man from the portrait. But the painting hadn't done him justice. He wasn't wearing a suit now. He wore a black, sleeveless cotton shirt that clung to his hard chest and exposed his arms that were corded with muscle. He was in grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, that made me look away. He must be the one that saved me. "I... I should go," I stammered, my pulse racing. "You slept for nearly twelve hours, Amara," he said, his voice deep. He walked toward me. "I'm Victor. And you're in no state to be running off into the city on an empty stomach." "No. T-thank you. For everything," I said quickly. I couldn't be here. Not especially in front of Lucas's father. "I have to go." I didn't wait for his permission. I hurried toward the front doors. I felt his gaze on my back, a hot, prickling sensation that didn't fade even when I pushed through the doors and into the crisp morning air. I hurried down the long, gated driveway. At the iron gates, I couldn't help myself. I turned back. Victor was standing in front of the mansion, his grey eyes fixed on me, watching me, as if he were memorizing the way I ran. I didn't have where to go, but back to Mr. Handerson to beg for another chance. This was the only means to hide and survive. By the time I reached, I saw him near the entrance-Mr. Henderson. He was on his cell phone, pacing around. He hung up his phone when he saw me, and looked at me with a sneer of pure disgust. "I thought you were fired. What are you doing here? " "Mr. Handerson, I apologize for the trouble. I really need this job." I pleaded, my voice breaking. "It's all I have. I'll do anything. Please." He didn't reply. He turned to go, but I held him back pleading for a second chance. He was known as a rude and mean man, but I didn't care at this point. I thought he would be angry, but he stared at me from head to toe, before his gaze reaching my eyes. "Anything? Meet me back here at ten tonight. The cleaning crew will be gone. We'll see if you're truly dedicated to keeping your position." Finally, a flicker of hope. I nodded. I had to stay hidden. I needed this job. My last job at Saint Jude's had ended in blood and shadows. I had seen a file-of a private patient that should have stayed buried. They had tried to kill me for it, and I had barely escaped the city with my life. This job was my only shield. Ten o'clock came too fast. The office was dark, the only light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. I entered Mr. Henderson's private office. He was sitting behind his mahogany desk, a glass of scotch in his hand. "Sit down, Amara," he murmured. I walked forward sitting opposite him. "Amara," He stood up, his face flushed. He walked toward me, and before I could react, he had gripped my upper arms, his fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. "You said you'd do anything. Let's see how much you mean it." He shoved me back against the leather sofa, his weight heavy and suffocating. He smelled of cheap cologne and expensive booze. "Stop," I gasped, pushing against his chest. "Mr. Henderson, stop!" "Don't play coy now," he hissed, his hand reaching down to hike up my skirt, his other hand pinning my wrists above my head. His lips on the side of my neck, planting dangerous and disgusting kisses on them. Panic, sharp and blinding, exploded in my chest. I didn't expect this to happen. He had never looked at me with such lust before. My hand failed out, searching for anything, and my fingers closed around a heavy, sharp object on the side table-his "Architect of the Year" glass award. I didn't think. I swung. The glass dug deep into the side of his head with a sickening *thud*. He groaned, his grip loosening as he slumped to the side. Blood began to spill across the white leather of the sofa. I scrambled back, the award falling from my nerveless fingers and hitting the floor with a hard thud, shattering into pieces. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely breathe. "Oh, God," I whispered, staring at the red pooling around his head. "Oh, God, what have I done?"