Oh to be loved

6

The next few days passed in a blur, the suffocating tension between Amara and Cillian lingering like an unsaid threat. Ever since that dinner, where Cillian had so bluntly hinted at his intentions, Amara had been on edge. Every room felt like a trap, every word spoken was another layer to a puzzle she wasn't sure she wanted to solve.

She avoided him as much as she could. Declan had given her some freedom to explore the estate-always under his or one of Cillian's men's watchful eyes, of course. But the mansion itself felt like a maze, a beautifully gilded prison with no way out.

She couldn't stop thinking about their last conversation-the possessive, almost predatory way Cillian had claimed she belonged in his world. Amara had come here to protect Malik, but now she was beginning to wonder if that was even possible.

If she didn't find a way to escape Cillian's clutches, she would lose herself in his twisted game.

---

That evening, Amara found herself once again wandering the halls of the mansion, seeking some kind of clarity. Every turn revealed more of the same-the grandeur of wealth and power, the polished wood and luxurious tapestries, but it all felt hollow. This place wasn't meant for her.

She had been careful not to return to the library. Cillian seemed to have a strange attachment to that room, and she didn't want to risk drawing any more of his attention. But tonight, she found herself drawn to a part of the house she hadn't explored yet-a narrow hallway that led to a set of stairs spiraling downwards.

Curiosity gnawed at her. Declan hadn't mentioned any basement, and in the days she had been here, she hadn't seen anyone else venture down. Was it off-limits? That only made her want to see it more.

She hesitated at the top of the stairs, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. It was late, and the house seemed quiet, as if even the walls were holding their breath. With a deep inhale, she started down the stairs, her footsteps light on the stone steps.

The air grew colder as she descended, the scent of earth and dampness thickening. By the time she reached the bottom, the hallways had narrowed, the polished grandeur of the mansion replaced by rough stone walls. The basement was darker, more utilitarian, and it felt distinctly different from the rest of the house.

Amara shivered, not just from the cold but from the oppressive silence that surrounded her.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy wooden door stood ajar. Cautiously, Amara approached, the sound of her breathing loud in her ears. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was nothing like the rest of the mansion. It was sparsely furnished, with stone walls and dim lighting. But what immediately caught her attention were the shelves lining the far wall-rows and rows of old books, maps, and what looked like documents. Papers were scattered across a large wooden desk in the center of the room.

Amara's pulse quickened. This wasn't just some forgotten corner of the estate-this was a workspace. Someone had been here recently.

She moved toward the desk, her eyes scanning the scattered documents. Some were in Gaelic, some in English, and some in languages she couldn't recognize. There were maps of various cities-London, Dublin, Paris-all marked with symbols and annotations that made no sense to her.

And then, something caught her eye-a folder that was partially hidden under a stack of papers. It was thick, worn at the edges, as if it had been handled many times. Amara's hands trembled slightly as she pulled it free.

When she opened the folder, her breath caught in her throat.

There were photographs-dozens of them. Some of Malik, some of men she didn't recognize. But what sent a chill down her spine were the photos of her. Some were recent, taken outside her apartment in New York. Others were older, from years ago. She saw herself at a café, at work, even at home, unaware that someone had been watching her for God knows how long.