Chapter 6 - Domestic Warfare in White Linen
“You’re either very brave, Carter, or entirely suicidal,” Gabriel’s voice purred from the edge of the kitchen.
Maeve didn't look up from her mop bucket. She pressed the lever of the wringer down with her foot, squeezing the dirty water from the cotton strands. “I’m neither, Mr. Falcone. I’m just trying to finish my shift so I can go home.”
Gabriel walked slowly into the kitchen, his leather loafers making barely a whisper against the slate. He circled the island, stopping on the other side of the counter where the muddy residue remained. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and lightly touched the rim of his coffee mug before setting it down.
“Declan doesn't forget,” Gabriel warned softly, though his tone remained light, almost playful. “He’s a simple creature. He runs on pride, testosterone, and an unfortunate amount of spite. You humiliated him twice in four hours. That’s a record in Blackwood Manor.”
Maeve began dragging the mop across the floor, erasing Declan’s wet boot prints with clean, practiced strokes. “If your brother’s ego can be shattered by a spray bottle and common sense, that’s not my problem.”
Gabriel laughed—a genuine, melodious sound that lacked Declan’s brutality, yet carried its own brand of chilling detachment. “You think wealth makes men soft, don't you? You think we’re just spoiled rich boys playing with imported toys.”
Maeve paused, resting both hands on the wooden mop handle, meeting Gabriel’s amused gaze. “I don't think about you at all. I think about my paycheck.”
Gabriel tilted his head, his dark eyes scanning her from her cheap canvas sneakers to the stray locks of hair falling around her collarbones. There was an unsettling intelligence behind his smile—a predatory calculation that felt far more dangerous than Declan’s hot-headed bluster.
“A pragmatist,” Gabriel mused. “How delightfully boring. Or perhaps... how clever.”
He picked up his coffee mug, turned on his heel, and walked toward the swinging doors. Just before pushing through, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “The master suites are on the third floor, Carter. Roman likes his linens changed by noon. Egyptian cotton, four-hundred thread count, corners tucked at a forty-five-degree angle. Don't disappoint him. My brother isn't quite as forgiving as Declan.”
The door swung shut behind him, leaving Maeve alone in the silent, humming kitchen.
Her hands tightened on the mop handle until her skin went white. Her heart, which she had fought so hard to keep steady, fluttered with a sudden spike of dread. Roman. The cold one. The one who had watched her in the foyer with eyes like stagnant winter ice.
She spent the next twenty minutes finishing the kitchen, then loaded a fresh basket of stark white, pressed bed linens onto her shoulder.
She ascended the service stairs—narrow, wooden steps hidden behind the paneled walls, built a century ago so that domestic staff could move through the mansion like invisible ghosts. Up here, on the third floor, the sounds of the coastal wind were louder, rattling the heavy brass window frames.
The master suite occupied the entire eastern wing. The double doors were open.
Maeve stepped inside, her sneakers sinking into a thick, charcoal-colored wool carpet. The room was massive, minimalist, and intimidatingly masculine. A king-sized platform bed dominated the center, flanked by dark walnut nightstands. Massive panoramic windows overlooked the rocky coastline below, where the grey waves of the Atlantic broke violently against the jagged cliffs.
The bed was unmade—the heavy dark quilt pulled back, the crisp white sheets slightly rumpled.
Maeve set her basket down on the floor. She stripped the pillowcases with rapid, efficient movements, balling up the used linens and tossing them into the hamper.
She unfolded the clean bottom sheet, snapping it across the mattress with a sharp *thwack*. She bent at the waist, reaching down to tuck the corner into a tight, military-grade fold, her mind focusing entirely on the mechanical rhythm of the work.
*Tuck. Pull. Smooth.*
Suddenly, the ambient sound of the wind outside seemed to vanish. The hairs on her forearms stood on end.
May you like
She wasn't alone.
***
