Aidan Hughes places the landline into the receiver, the backdrop of billowing fire behind him. We're back in the sweltering room, and even though it looks like the end of the world outside, I haven't set down my things.

"What did the sheriff say?"

"They advised everyone to remain indoors." He presses his satin lips together, tucking his hands into his pants. "It's too dangerous to drive through the terrain."

Being a journalist, I should be glad for this opportunistic timing. Being trapped here with mystery man only means I can press harder, try to get him to open up to me. However, I miss the noise of the city, the crowds of people always around. In this place, the walls roar, the pipes creak by the force of the storm. The nervous woman who greeted me has departed in an attempt to get back to her home, which she divulged to me before she left is the small cottage at the forefront of the grounds. Her husband braved the weather and climbed the driveway in his car just to ensure he got her, leaving me completely and utterly alone with my interviewee.

"It won't...last long, will it?"

"It's a winter storm. I'm really not sure. He said it may be a few days of snowfall."

"Days?" I breathe, horrified.

"Yes," he replies, softly. "And typically in these storms, there's a few more until they can get the roads cleared up here."

All I can do is stare at him blankly, completely stupefied.

A nervous tick, he glances at the phone again, shuffling on his feet. "Look, I'm sorry. I thought it wasn't landing until tonight. I never would have asked you to come out here if I'd have known."

"Is that the truth?" I snap, too worked up to control my rising panic.

"Yes," he replies instantly, forcefully. "What do you think I am? You honestly think I lured you up here intending to trap you in a rickety old mansion for the holidays? You think I actually want the company of a reporter watching my every move? Really?"

"I am a goddamn journalist, Hughes. Not a reporter. And hell if I know what's going on in your mind. But I intend to leave. I have plans, plans that I can't miss."

"You can't go out in this, especially not knowing the roads."

"I'll be fine."

I'm exiting the room when like déjà vu, he's storming up behind me. "Are you crazy?"

"I'm a good driver. I can do it."

"I don't care if you're a goddamn professional driver, those roads are dangerous, more dangerous than you know." He slides in front of me, and takes hold of my arm, stopping me. "And I'll be damned if you go out there and get yourself killed. That'll be on me, and I don't need any more of that."

Although his words are clipped and slip through tight lips, his voice is stiff with guilt, and the last part of his sentence drops upon me like a weight. That'll be on me...

"The snow is coming down hard. A few more hours and my car won't be able to get through it," I say. "As much as I want to hear your story, everything I have is in the hotel room in town. Thank you for the concern, but I-I can't just stay here."

I skirt around him and as I bar open the massive door, I'm pounded by the weather. He doesn't call out to me, letting me leave. The heels of my boots have already disappeared into inches of snow. I fish through the pocket of my bag, and retrieve my keys, while the storm batters my back, nearly sending me into the window.

I climb inside, seeing my own breath in front of my face, and fumble with the key. When the ignition starts, I swallow and test out the windshield wipers, turning the heat on full blast. The front door is in sight, which is still ajar. Aidan is holding it open, his face pale with concern. I only catch a glimpse of him before the wipers are covered again, the speed no match for the tumulus weather.

"Come on, baby," I whisper to myself, pulling out of the space, turning. My heart instantly drops when I can't see a foot in front of me, only swirling wild white wind. I stop the car, squinting, knowing there's a cliff just behind the turn, with only a single plank of wood for a barrier. I play with the pedal, trying to see, refusing to believe that it's of no use. The car is slowly rolling over the crunching snow, my wipers swinging back and forth as fast as possible.

My side windows provide me no relief. I see forest, but no road. The farther I attempt this game of roulette, the harder it becomes to breathe. I grip the wheel tightly, growling to myself.

"Come on, damn it!"

I slam on the breaks just inches away from the wood gate, too stunned to scream and almost instantly, my door is thrown open. I look up at Aidan being pelleted by snow and gasp as he tells me to turn off the car, his face pale white.

I do as he says, removing my keys and retreat from the safety inside into his arms, allowing him to bring me back into the manor.

                                                                                ***

"That was stupid," I confess, shamefully, warmed now by the roaring fireplace.

Aidan's pouring tea from a kettle into a delicate piece of china, oddly quiet, so quiet I can't help but ramble on.

"I didn't mean to be so reckless. I just...this place...I don't know why but I feel strange here."

An answer to that doesn't come. Instead, he asks how I'd like my tea. I'd have thought he was ignoring me completely until now, if it weren't for the same look of disapproval simmering in his gaze that's been there since he rescued me from my vehicle. 

"Milk and sugar, please."

The set of china is deep silver, notably genuine. He pours a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar, stirring slowly. I'm still stuck on my ramblings, wondering if he's not answering me because I've offended him.

"I don't mean to say that I don't think your home is beautiful, it's just..."

"Believe me, it was the same for me for many years. Victoria can't stand to be here at night."

"Why?"

"Because this place turns into a fortress. The lighting hasn't been changed since 1964, only modified. So, this place is a maze of dark corners. The fireplaces help."

"1964? And you never thought to update it all?"

"No," he says, frowning, walking over to hand me my tea. "I've nothing to be afraid of in this house."

The way he talks of his home is odd. Everything about this man is odd. Why would anyone be afraid of their home? Why would anyone feel the need to say that?

"Thank you," I say graciously, taking the steaming cup from him. I'm trembling, my achy bones still recovering from the harshness of the storm, and from the shock of this day. Even blanketed by a quilt Aidan set around me when he brought me back inside, the cup rattles in my hands. Our gazes meet, momentarily.

"I have a shirt and some pants I could give you to wear...so you're not in wet clothes?"

"I'm okay, thanks."

"You're going to get sick if you sit in that. The blanket can only do so much." 

He sits down in the chair opposite mine, warmed by the fireplace. My tea is much less intimidating, so I focus on that, trying to contemplate what the next couple days will be like, how we'll get through them.

"Look, Ms. Taylor—"

"We're going to be snowed in for days, Aidan. Call me Jo."

"That seems so informal," he says, his voice dripping like smooth honey. He's stiff as a board, his fingers laced together on his lap.

"Well, by the time I leave this place, we probably won't be strangers anymore."

"What I said still stands, about the interview, Josephine." He clears his throat. "I won't change my mind about my family."

Knowing no good will come from blind persistence, I decide not to push. Aidan Hughes isn't a closed book—he's sealed, complete with lock and key. No stranger will break those barriers. I have days to get used to this, to settle in my discomfort and figure out a way to unpeel him, page by page.

"Does the offer to see your 'so called' mediocre work still stand?"

"They'll only warrant a bad review, but if you'd like to, sure."

"I doubt that," I reply. He's humbled, and uncomfortable with the subject of himself, and even more uncomfortable by my confidence in him. He nicks his chin in the direction of my tea, which is in my lap.

"Is it all right? Do you need more sugar?"

"This is great. Thank you."

Pleasantries can only last for so long, especially between a pair such as us, who have spent the greater part of the afternoon either deceiving or barking at each other.

"As odd as this may sound," he starts, "I can show you to a room now...so you can call whoever you have to, have some privacy."

I'm almost positive it's he who needs the privacy but I accept the offer anyway, needing to let Samantha know the news. We stand together, both chuckling under our breath while we exit the parlor. The higher we get, taking stone stairs upwards into the manor, the colder it becomes and the more uneasy I get.

"I'm sorry you have to...to entertain me. I-I didn't expect this would be the outcome of today."

"I'm sure not. It's no trouble, this is big place."

"Yeah, but it's the holidays..."

"I don't celebrate them, so December 25th is a normal day for me usually. Although I suspect you do? Celebrate, I mean?"

"Yeah, well don't worry about me, Scrooge," I reply, and he glances back at me. I'm stunned to see the trace of a smile.

"I have the fixings for a decent meal, so I think I can conjure something up for the day."

"You don't have to go through the trouble, really."

"It's no trouble, Ms. Taylor."

"Jo."

He smirks. "Josephine."

We're stopped in front of a door. His features are finally displaying something other than indifference, a flashing, brief moment of socialization, and possibly even flirtation. I attempt to conceal how greatly the change affects me, but am positive I fail. My throat has dried, my muscles gone stiff.

To be attractive is one thing, and Aidan Hughes has it ten-fold. Tacked on are also mystery, intrigue, and an underlying projection of danger. He's like a wolf, clearly designed to protect, but has lost his pack. His reaction to my doomed escape proved that clearly enough. He was by the door before my vehicle had even stopped, which meant that he ran out to get me before I even saw the gate and slammed on the breaks. He offered me hot drinks, blankets, even offered to remove my boots, and all the while, his face was ridged with anger.

He was clearly angry at me for putting myself at risk, and knowing about his family the way I do, I can understand why he'd want to be surrounded by caution, not recklessness.

But even now, one step forward seems like three steps back. His smile disappears, almost like he's forbidden from doing it, and the wall is bound even tighter. All I do is watch, watch with wonder as he molds himself with coverings.

"Victoria won't be back until the storms lightened, which means you'll have to cope with my cooking skills for the time being. Do you have any food allergies?"

Despite the stillness of the hallway, the consuming emptiness that suddenly becomes apparent, reminding me that we are alone in this huge place, a smile forms on my face.

"I don't."

"All right."

He's moving to turn and I'm stuck on his face, my mind unable to comprehend how he's managed to affect me like this. A few hours, and he's unraveled me, trapped me in this prison with him with no way out.

He's painstakingly darker than any man I've ever met, and the exact opposite of what I'd find attractive in a human being. He's clearly fucked-up, and temperamental, and secretive. While his beauty remains unmatched in my memory of men, his secrets seem endless, and his motives even more so.

The fact that I'm standing here, already coaxed in by his attraction, his unmarred appeal, is worry enough.

Aidan Hughes is a means to an end.

When this is all over, I will go back to my life. My job, my friends, my solitude.

He will gain no control over me.

I've been too busy studying him to catch his eyes pierce my bag in his departing. Something has caught his eye, and when I notice what, my heart stops.

He's right in front of me within seconds, close enough for me to hold my breath, mind whirling at inhuman speed. "Aidan—"

He lifts the dirty sign that'd been poking out of the top and reads the word, his eyes crawling slowly over the malicious letters.

MURDERER

"I found it outside," I breathe, close enough to his face to feel the heat radiating from his skin. His face is turned to the side, his profile sharp and traced with unease. Bouncing off of him are the same smells as before, burnt wood and pine, more potent from sitting by the fire.

He doesn't say a word. His gaze gives no answers, no weakness when reaching mine again. He hands me back the sign, with no outburst of anger or distrust. He could be furious, probably is, but he won't allow me to see that.

Instead, he leaves me with nothing but questions, alone, and frightened by what I've gotten myself into.