West

The throng of people returned to the area behind the house, where long tables had been overloaded with a feast of food. Bonfires blazed on either side for warmth, and the group sat around the tables, talking and eating.

Sticking close to Taylor so he cancelled out my empathic memory chip, I picked at my food, uncomfortable with Philip seated across the table from me and even less certain what I was supposed to do since Carter hadn't messaged me in half a day.

I had the urge to return to the cemetery once everyone else was gone, to listen to the whisper I'd heard.

It was close to midnight by the time the last guest left, and I made my way up the stairs to my bedroom, trailed by Nell. My nanny helped me change and laid out the slippers once more.

I eyed them. The other thought I hadn't dwelt on as much as I probably should have: what Taylor expected on our second night married. Instead, I was thinking about dead people.

I had slept with men whose names I didn't know the next morning, but something about Taylor was different, and it wasn't just Carter's assertion he was dangerous.

It was the sense of familiarity, the fact I didn't fear him, no matter how many times Carter told me he was a threat. It was almost like some part of me - whether instinct or magical chip - knew Taylor was what he claimed to be: someone who would help me.

The mischievous part of me looked forward to embarrassing him. I slid my feet into the slippers. Nell gave me an approving nod and led me out of the hallway and down John's wing. We passed his room, and I released a breath, relieved we weren't going to the chamber where he died.

Nell left me at the door of Taylor's room, and I hesitated a moment before knocking.

He answered it, dressed in his pajama bottoms and a loose shirt. Stepping aside, he motioned for me to enter.

His room was as large as mine, decorated in manly shades of dark blue and red, with a bed that was closer to a king size than my full bed. I faced him, curious in the tense silence between us. The butterflies were back, along with the distant reminder that Carter seemed to think Taylor was bad.

I just don't see it.

Taylor's eyes swept over me quickly, as if he was afraid to look too long, before he crossed to a carafe of amber liquid I assumed was whiskey. He poured a glass and offered it to me.