CHAPTER 2: THE REFUGE IN THE CASTLE
CHAPTER 2: THE REFUGE IN THE CASTLE
The interior of the long black limousine was warmer than anywhere Ruby had been in three months. The leather seats were soft and smelled of expensive cedar and rain, a stark contrast to the damp, garbage-scented brick of the alleyway she had just left behind.
She sat huddled in the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest, her bare, red feet tucked protectively beneath the hem of her oversized coat. She kept her fingers clamped tightly around the little silver button in her pocket. It was her anchor. Her rule of invisibility had been violently broken the moment she stepped onto that sidewalk, and every survival instinct she possessed was screaming at her to find a door and run.
But she couldn't. Because the boy was still holding her other hand.
Theo sat right next to her. He hadn't retreated into his porcelain-doll state, nor was he screaming. His dark eyes, so similar to his father’s, were fixed entirely on Ruby’s face. His grip on her fingers was remarkably tight for an eight-year-old, as if he believed that if he let go, the dark, roaring vortex of his memories would swallow him whole again.
Across from them sat Zachary Blackwood.
He didn't look like Vincent—the man Ruby had spent three months running from. Vincent was loud, sloppy, and smelled of cheap whiskey and sour sweat. Zachary was different. He was immaculately clean, his dark charcoal overcoat tailored perfectly to his broad shoulders, his black hair combed back from a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite. He didn't yell. He didn't move aggressively. But the sheer aura of authority radiating from him made the air in the limousine feel thick, heavy, and compressed.
Zachary watched the two children in silence as the limousine glided smoothly through the snow-dusted streets of Chicago. He looked at the way his son, who had rejected the touch of top-tier child psychologists and his own flesh and blood for half a year, was clinging to a dirty, malnourished street urchin.
"What is your name?" Zachary asked. His voice was a deep, quiet rumble, controlled and precise.
Ruby flinched slightly at the sound, her green eyes darting toward the heavily tinted windows before snapping back to his face. She hesitated, calculating the risk of giving away her identity. But she knew that a man with three giant SUVs and bodyguards who carried hidden firearms under their jackets could find out whatever he wanted anyway.
"Ruby," she whispered, her voice cracking slightly from the cold and disuse. "Ruby Miller."
"Where are your parents, Ruby?"
"Gone," she said shortly. She didn't elaborate. She didn't tell him about the fire that took her mother, or about Vincent, her stepfather, who had taken her mother's insurance money, drank it away, and turned his heavy fists toward a seven-year-old girl who had no one left to protect her.
Zachary’s gray eyes narrowed slightly, noting the guarded expression on her young face, the defensive posture, and the way her eyes constantly mapped out the vehicle's locks and handles. He had spent his entire life reading people—liars, thieves, assassins, and crooked politicians. He knew the signs of trauma. He knew the look of a child who had learned too early that the world was an apex predator.
"You're freezing," Zachary noted. He reached over, taking a thick, plush cashmere blanket from the seat beside him, and extended it toward her.
Ruby shied back, pressing her spine hard against the leather door. "I don't want it."
"It's a blanket, Ruby, not a trap," Zachary said, his tone softening by a fraction of a millimeter. When she still didn't reach for it, he didn't force her. Instead, he laid it gently over Theo’s lap, knowing his son would naturally share it with the girl he refused to let go of. Sure enough, Theo immediately pulled half of the thick fabric over Ruby’s frozen legs.
The limousine eventually bypassed the glittering skyscrapers of downtown Chicago, heading north toward a private, heavily guarded estate tucked behind massive iron gates and a towering stone wall. This was Blackwood Manor, a fortress of brick, slate, and bulletproof glass perched on the edge of Lake Michigan.
When the car stopped, the doors were opened by men in matching black suits. Zachary stepped out first, then reached back inside to lift Theo. But the moment Zachary tried to separate them, Theo’s chest heaved, a sharp, panicky gasp escaping his throat.
"Let her walk beside him," Zachary ordered his men, stepping back.
Ruby climbed out of the vehicle, her bare feet flinching as they touched the icy stone of the driveway. She walked rhythmically beside Theo, their hands still linked, as they entered the grand foyer of the manor. The house was colossal, featuring high arched ceilings, marble floors, and massive oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors. It was beautiful, but to Ruby, it felt like a gilded cage.
"Bring Dr. Cole back," Zachary commanded a butler who appeared from the shadows. "And have Mrs. Higgins prepare the guest suite next to Theo’s room. Draw a hot bath, find clothes that will fit a seven-year-old girl, and have the kitchen prepare something warm. Nothing too heavy. Her stomach won't handle it."
Within an hour, Ruby found herself sitting on the edge of a massive four-poster bed in a room that was larger than the entire apartment she had shared with Vincent. She had been bathed, her tangled brown hair washed and brushed until it fell in soft waves past her shoulders. She wore a pair of oversized, incredibly soft flannel pajamas that smelled of lavender. A bowl of warm chicken broth and a plate of toasted bread sat on a silver tray on the nightstand.
Theo sat on the rug at the foot of her bed. He hadn't left her side for a single second. He refused to eat his own dinner unless Ruby took a bite of hers first. It was a silent, bizarre negotiation between two children who had both been broken by the world in entirely different ways.
A soft knock rattled the door, and Zachary walked in, followed by an elderly man with kind eyes and a leather medical bag—Dr. Cole.
"Good evening, little one," Dr. Cole said gently, stepping toward the bed.
Ruby instantly retreated toward the headboard, her green eyes flashing with defensive wildness. "Don't touch me."
"I won't," Dr. Cole promised, holding his hands up openly. He sat in a chair a few feet away, observing the interaction between Ruby and Theo. "Mr. Blackwood tells me you sang to Theo tonight on the sidewalk. You brought him out of a very dark place."
Ruby didn't answer. She took a small, careful sip of her broth, her eyes tracking Zachary, who stood by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her like a hawk.
"That song," Dr. Cole continued softly. "Where did you learn it, Ruby?"
"My mom," Ruby whispered, her fingers drifting back to the silver button tucked safely into the pocket of her new pajamas. "She used to sing it when the storms came. She said the notes were like a shield. If you sing them right, the bad things can't hear you."
Dr. Cole exchanged a profound, heavy look with Zachary. "Theo’s trauma is rooted in a storm, Ruby. The night his mother died, it was raining very hard. There was a terrible crash. He has buried the memory of that night deep inside his mind because it terrifies him. But your voice... your song... it acted like a key. It bypassed his fear."
The doctor stood up, turning to Zachary as they moved slightly out of the children's earshot near the doorway. "It's unprecedented, Zachary. Theo’s mind has chosen her as his anchor. If you separate them now, Theo will likely relapse into a permanent catatonic state. Her presence is a psychological necessity for his recovery."
Zachary looked back at the bed. Theo had climbed up onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged opposite Ruby, watching her with a quiet, desperate intensity.
"She stays," Zachary said simply. "I'll have my people run a background check on her. If there's family, I'll buy them off. If she's an orphan, I'll adopt her. She belongs to Blackwood Manor now."
Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway burst open, and the sound of confident, rapid footsteps echoed into the suite. Marcus Blackwood, Zachary’s younger brother, walked into the room. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand, his expensive silk tie slightly loosened, his handsome face flushed with a charming smile.
"Zach! I heard what happened on the Coast!" Marcus said, his voice loud and boisterous as he stepped into the bedroom. "The guards said a little street rat literally talked Theo out of a panic attack? I had to see it to believe it—"
The moment Marcus’s voice cut through the room, something catastrophic happened.
Theo didn't scream. He didn't cry. Instead, his entire body went completely rigid, his eyes widening into pools of absolute, pure horror. He looked at Marcus, his lips trembling, a terrible, choking sound escaping his throat as he grabbed Ruby’s arm so hard his knuckles turned white.
But it wasn't just Theo.
Ruby looked up at Marcus Blackwood. She looked at his sharp jawline, his dark hair, and the distinct, expensive cologne that drifted off his clothes—a scent of rich tobacco, heavy vanilla, and a metallic undertone of gun oil.
A memory—a terrifying, buried memory from three months ago—slammed into Ruby’s brain like a freight train.
Before she had run away from Vincent, before she had climbed out of that window, Vincent had been visited by a man in a dark, expensive suit. A man who paid Vincent thousands of dollars in cash to keep a secret. Ruby had been hiding under the kitchen sink, peeking through the cabinet crack, terrified of her stepfather’s temper. She hadn't seen the man's face clearly in the dark, but she had heard his voice.
“The wife is dead,” the man had told Vincent that night, his voice dropping to a smooth, arrogant purr. “The kid survived the crash, but he’s silent. If he stays quiet, we’re golden. Just make sure the police don't trace the cut brake lines back to my garage, Vincent. You get your money, I get the Blackwood empire. Do we have a deal?”
It was the same voice.
May you like
The exact same smooth, arrogant purr.
Ruby stared at Marcus Blackwood, the chicken broth slipping from her hands and clattering onto the silver tray, her small body shaking with a sudden, overwhelming terror as she realized that the monster who had murdered the mafia boss’s wife was standing right in front of her.
