Page 116 of Bound By Crimson
She felt her stomach turn. That wasn’t a child climbing into his mother’s bed.
That was something else entirely.
The older woman didn’t notice—or pretended not to.
“He hated wearing pajamas,” she continued. “Even back then. He said they felt like they were choking him. Isn’t that funny? Even as a boy, he needed to feel free.”
Lyric’s stomach twisted. She placed her spoon down, quietly.
Mrs. Thornwick sipped her wine, then glanced up. “Still doesn’t wear them, does he?”
Lyric swallowed hard. “Umm... No, he doesn’t.”
The room felt too warm. Too still.
“He used to tell me he’d never leave me,” she said, her smile thin and unreadable. “Said no woman would ever love him the way I did.”
The words landed like a slap that no one else saw.
Lyric blinked quickly, forcing another smile. “He’s a good man. I’m lucky.”
“He is a good man. But then, I raised him well.”
She sipped her water to hide the strange nausea rising in her throat.
The rest of dinner dragged. Mrs. Thornwick spoke of flower arrangements and winter linens. But every word was shadowedby that lingering feeling—like Lyric had been shown something she wasn’t supposed to see.
After dessert, she excused herself early.
“You seem tired,” Mrs. Thornwick said as she stood. “Rest well. It’s important—for the baby.”
Lyric nodded. “Goodnight.”
She walked back to her room with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, the echo of footsteps never quite aligning with her own. Once inside, she locked the door.
It wasn’t fear exactly. It wasn’t even jealousy.
But it was something.
Something wrong. And it was growing.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ghosts in the Garden
Lyric had never realized how different the house felt at night—until she had to sleep alone in her own room.
Every night since they’d arrived, she had slipped quietly down the hallway and into Kai’s bed, where warmth and whispered promises softened the estate’s sharp edges.
But now he was gone.
And this was the first time she’d stayed in her room all night.
Alone.
The moment the door closed behind her, a strange stillness settled over the space. It was beautifully appointed—like everything in Thornwick Estate—but it felt like a stage set dressed for a ghost story. The wallpaper, an elegant floral, seemed to move if she stared too long. The shadows curled into the corners like they belonged there. The ornate chandelier overhead didn’t sway, but the crystal accents caught the moonlight in a way that mimicked flickering movement.
The window whistled with every gust of wind. Not just a breeze—something thin and high-pitched, like the sound of someone humming through their teeth.
