Should I knock on his door and act like I was any other servant coming because he rang?

I looked back down the long, dark hallway, contemplating running back and trying to disappear among the cooks, when a crreak startled me. I took a sharp step back, my personal items falling from my grasp.

Grayson Crowne was sandwiched in the doorway, leaning against one unopened door. Shirtless.

Carved.

The paparazzi photos don’t do him justice.

I quickly scrambled to gather all my things, holding them tight to my chest.

“Let me go back to Abigail,” I said, trying again. “I’m nothing. I’m nobody—”

“Get inside,” he said, cutting me off.

He didn’t move from the doorway as I scurried inside, and I brushed his bare golden chest with my shoulder. I swallowed, trying to get my heart under control.

Once inside, I stopped between the arms of two black leather couches. For a second, I forgot to be afraid.

This was Grayson Crowne’s bedroom.

No one save close family and my uncle had ever been inside. It was the stuff of legends. Tumblr and Pinterest overflowed with the imagination of his fans, how they assumed a boy like Grayson lived.

And those pictures…all wrong.

Black and wood, iron and gold. I was reminded of Shelley and Poe, Byron and Brontë, all my favorites. My eyes wandered from the empty walls and emptier room, just like the hallway had been, nothing save bare necessities.

Everyone imagined Grayson as a prince living in a castle with warmth and laughter, friends and family. In reality, this place is dark, haunted, hollow, the only light from the chandelier.

“Get on your knees, Snitch.”

I jumped when Grayson spoke. His command didn’t hold any heat or lasciviousness; his words were burdened, bored, annoyed, as if scolding a toddler, like I was a chore. Don’t forget to remind the servant of her place.

I fell to my knees a second later.

A boy I once knew, Grim, told me if I was ever kidnapped to keep my eyes shut, because there was only one reason they’d let you see them, and it wasn’t good.

This was Gray Crowne’s bedroom. It’s not a fairy tale, Gray isn’t a prince, and I can’t think of any good reason someone like me is being allowed to see what many prettier, richer, more powerful women have never seen before.

“What are you going to do to me?” I whispered.

“Tell me who sent you and I might let you live.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Gray still in the doorway. As a servant, you got good at watching the Crownes without actually looking at them. One leg was propped behind the other, one hand up. Maybe looking at his nails? I wasn’t sure.

I could never be sure.