He gestures for me to go ahead, and I slip off the side of the bed farthest from him and go into the bathroom. There’s no lock on the door, but I close it and switch on the light.
I run the water and look at my reflection. My hair is sticking up on one side so I finger-comb it down, then splash water on my face before brushing my teeth. I’m not wearing makeup. I don’t plan on trying to look pretty for my kidnapper.
I’ll feel better after I eat. Be able to think straight again. I need to call Liam. And I need to understand what Damian plans to do with me.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and step out into the bedroom. He’s at the window looking out into the woods.
I’m tempted to ask him if it was real, if he was out there last night. But it feels strange, almost too intimate that we saw each other like we did, so I remain silent.
“Ready,” I say.
He’s wearing a suit and has his hands in his pockets. I can see the five o’clock shadow along his jaw and wonder where he’s been all day. What he’s been doing while I’ve been cooped up in here.
“Change into an evening dress,” he says.
“What?”
“I want you in an evening dress. You have several to choose from.”
“Are we going somewhere?”
He smiles, then walks past me to the door.
“Wait!”
He turns back to me.
“Just give me a minute. I didn’t know.”
He nods, and I slip past him into the closet. Making sure he can’t see me from where he is, I pull the dress I’m wearing over my head and drop it on the floor. I pick the first dress I see hanging and slip it on. It’s a deep mauve sheath and a perfect fit, like everything else.
Reaching back, I zip it halfway up as I slip my feet into a pair of black patent-leather pumps. I’m hopping on one foot when Damian comes up behind me. He catches my elbow to steady me.
I would turn, but he stops me with his hands on the bare skin of my back.
He holds me like that for a moment. Big, warm hands on me, like he’s touching me for the first time. Like he’s curious.
I’m about to protest, but he zips the dress, then turns me to face him.
“Better,” he says, looking me over. “The color is good on you.”
Was that a compliment? I’m tempted to tell him this isn’t a date, but I don’t want to risk dinner. “It’s cold,” I say, slipping out of his grasp.
“You’ll warm up. Let’s go.”
Back in the bedroom, he opens the door and gestures for me to step out into the hallway.
You’d think I’d been imprisoned for weeks. Months maybe.
I take a tentative step out. The corridor is dimly lit and narrow, making me think of servants’ quarters or a servants’ staircase of the past. After I take a few steps, I wait for him, unsure what to do, where to go.
He closes the door and signals for me to continue. The corridor winds around several turns. I’m not sure I’ll find my way back to my room.
It’s not my room.
We take one short staircase that leads to another maze of halls and closed doors before reaching one that opens to a bigger part of the house. I think I’m right. I think my room must have been a servant’s room in the past because here, the ceilings are higher and the space wider and a little warmer.
Another long corridor disappears into shadows to my right and ahead of me is a grand staircase of wide, beautiful stone with an intricate iron railing that narrows in the middle then widens again at the bottom. A fire is lit in the large fireplace downstairs, and I see the double front doors. They’re huge.
I glance back to Damian.
“Downstairs.”
I head to the stairs, placing my hand on the cool iron railing as I descend the sixteen steps. I count as I go. The clicking of my heels echoes, and the only other sound as I near the ground floor is that of wood crackling in the fireplace.
I wonder if he and I are the only two here when I see a girl in uniform walk quickly past us. She doesn’t meet my eyes. I’m not even sure she meets Damian’s, but she nods in an almost curtsey at him. I glance at him, and if he noticed, I don’t know. His expression is impassive.
“This way,” he says, gesturing toward what looks like the living room.
He’s close, but he’s taking care not to touch me. I wonder if what happened yesterday after my forced shower was as weird for him as it was for me. I get the feeling he didn’t intend to do what he did or say what he said.
I smell food then and all other thoughts vanish. My mouth waters at the scent of some sort of meat and spices, something warm and hearty.
Damian passes me when we get into the living room. Another fire burns in a fireplace almost as big as the one in the foyer. It’s almost like a huge church with its stone walls, vaulted ceilings, and huge stained-glass windows.
“Would you like a drink before dinner?” he asks, pouring himself a whiskey from behind a bar.
“This isn’t a date,” I tell him before I can stop myself.
“A drink might make you better company.”
“If you don’t like my company, then let me leave.”
“If you’d like to be fed, then watch your mouth.”
I bite back my response because yes, I’d like to be fed.
He sips his drink and studies me as I take in the room. See the toys lined up along a wall near a basket that’s overflowing with them.
“Who lives here?” I ask him.
“My father, my sister, and her son. Servants and soldiers.”
“Soldiers?”
He doesn’t remark.
I want to ask more, but I see the table set for two in the dining room just beyond him, and a basket of steaming bread.
My hand moves to my stomach which I clench to keep from growling, refusing to ask his permission to eat.
He walks over to the dining room table and sets his drink down. I follow but stop when he turns to me, warm roll in hand. He picks off a piece and sticks it into his mouth, and I salivate.
God. I want to kill him.
“So, are you going to eat the food from the man who drugged you?”
I glare at him, wishing he’d choke on that bread.
He raises his eyebrows, still chewing like it’s the most delicious thing on earth.
“It’s that or starvation, so yes,” I say, not attempting to hide my anger.
“Hunger is a good teacher.” He drops his roll onto a small plate and pulls out a chair. “Have a seat.”
I do as he says. At least I will for now.
He takes his place at the head of the table—shocker—and I’m tempted to grab a roll myself, but Damian picks up the bottle of wine on the table and pours me a glass. I force my hands to remain in my lap.
“Drink,” he says after setting the bottle down and sitting back in his seat.
“I need to eat before I drink anything unless you want me passing out.”
“You’re that weak, Cristina?”
I take a breath in, then out. Yes. I am that weak.
Picking up the glass, I take a sip. It feels warm running down my throat, but I stop because I realize he’s not drinking it.
“Is it drugged?” I ask, panicked.
He reaches over, fingers skimming mine as he takes the glass out of my hand, brings it to his lips, and swallows a healthy sip.
“I have no reason to drug you.” He puts the glass down.
I reach for a roll, half-expecting him to stop me, but he doesn’t. I spread a healthy amount of butter on it, and I think it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. He’s watching me, but I don’t even care as I finish it and reach for a second.
“Elise,” he calls out, sipping his whiskey.
The swinging door opens. I watch, chewing as Elise enters, that tinkling key ring on her belt, her expression as sour as yesterday. A man follows her, carrying two dishes. He sets them down in front of us, and it takes all I have not to pick up
“Thank you, Elise.”
“Sir.” They all disappear back into the kitchen, and I dip my roll into the sauce of the stewed meat before putting the last of it into my mouth.
“God, that’s good,” I say before I can stop myself.
He smiles, still only sipping his drink. “Go ahead.”
I give him a nasty look but pick up my fork and knife and eat the first bite of the most tender, most deliciously spiced meat I’ve ever tasted. I’m quick to follow it with the potatoes and vegetables, then dig into the meat again.
“Slow down, Cristina,” he says a few minutes later, and I realize I’m halfway through my plate. “I won’t take it from you.”
I glance over at his plate, which he’s hardly touched, and put my fork down to pick up my wine. It’s good. It goes well with the food.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
He picks up his fork and knife and slips a bite into his mouth.
I drink another sip of wine as I process his words. I won’t take it from you. He can take it from me, though.
My appetite wanes, and I finish my glass of wine.
He pours another.
It’s silent as I consider how to ask what I need to ask. He must be anticipating that I will. What’s normal in this situation?
What’s normal about this situation?
I force myself to eat some more, leaving just a few bites before I finally blurt out my question. “What’s going to happen to me?”
His expression darkens. “That depends on who you ask. Are you finished eating?”
I nod, push my plate back.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
Elise appears then and I wonder if she’s had her ear to the door. She starts to clear the table, but Damian stops her.
“Do it tomorrow. Go to bed,” he tells her.
“Yes, sir.”
I get the feeling he doesn’t like her.
When she’s gone, he gets up and goes to the bar, then returns with the bottle of whiskey. After he sits, he pours for himself, and I pick up my wine, taking a small sip.
“Where did you go last night?” I ask, not sure I’m ready to hear the answer to my other question.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You made everything about you my business when you kidnapped me.”
He grins. “Do you know why I waited until now to take you?”
“Because my father bought time. My father gave his life for it. For me.” Fuck. It hits me then, and my eyes fill with emotion.
He just watches me. “There’s a second reason.”
“What’s that?”
“Annabel was eighteen at the time of the crash.”
“Your sister.”
“She lived for a full year in that coma even though the doctors told us she’d never come out of it.”
I swallow, things falling into place. Impossible things.
“The next year of your life belongs to me, Cristina.”
“And what happens after that year?” My heart drums against my chest. Why did I ask that?
He studies me and I know he’s choosing his words. “She died a few days after her nineteenth birthday.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“She should have died in that car crash. We should have let her go. But she lived. Well, she breathed on her own, so I suppose medically speaking, she lived.”
“I was nine years old when that happened.” Does he really blame me? Hold me responsible?
“And you’re eighteen now. The same age as Annabel was then. She didn’t get much more time than that.”
“You play with words. Why don’t you just say it? Say what you mean?”
Damian’s eyes harden and shift away from me. His hand fists around the tumbler of whiskey. I realize why when I register the sound just beyond the living room. I think about that night in my father’s study. How I’d heard it then, too, except that wheels sound different on stone than they do on hardwood.
A large man pushing the wheelchair appears from around the corner.
Goose bumps rise along my arms and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I have to force myself to look at him. At the old man in the chair. And when I meet his eyes, the wine glass slips from my hand and shatters.
I look down at it. Wine, red like blood, spills down my legs, staining my dress, seeping into the stone beneath my feet.
I’m not sure who scares me more, the decrepit old man in the chair or the giant pushing it.
The noise doesn’t interrupt or startle Damian. I’m not sure the man’s entrance does either.
The wheelchair comes to a stop across the table and I push my chair back, scraping the stone, needing to get away from him.
“Old man,” Damian says, rising to his feet, hands fisted at his sides. “I told you I’d bring her when I was ready.”
The man in the chair—I know it’s Damian’s father—drags his stony gaze from me to his son. His expression doesn’t change. It doesn’t warm. That hate, it’s still there.
“The year has begun,” he says, shifting watery eyes back to me. “I’m ready.”
13
Damian
I stare at him. I don’t spare a glance for Johnny who will do my father’s bidding without question. I think something’s wrong with him anyway. Has been since he was a kid. Maybe that’s why my father took him and groomed him. He’s stupid enough to do as he’s told without question. I can’t imagine it was guilt he felt over the death of Johnny’s father. A concept like guilt is foreign to men like Benedict Di Santo.
“Well, now that you’re here,” I say, gripping the neck of the whiskey bottle and moving toward the bar to get a glass. “I’ll pour you a drink.” I’d much rather smash the bottle over his head but it’d be a waste of good whiskey.
He watches Cristina. He’s only taken his eyes off her for an instant since he entered.
I don’t look at her. I won’t give anything away.
Pouring a whiskey for my father and refreshing mine because I’m going to need it, I hand one to him, cross into the living room, and have a seat on the couch. My father is now situated between me and Cristina, who is still safely behind the dining table. Although is anyone safe when it comes to him?
I look at her now and what I see in her eyes is terror.
Did she see him that night in her father’s study? I stepped out into the hallway quickly, blocking her view as they wrapped the noose around her father’s neck. But maybe she caught a glimpse of the old man in the wheelchair.
“Stand up,” my father demands of her.
I sip my whiskey, my grip so hard I’m surprised the crystal doesn’t shatter in my hand.
Cristina’s gaze searches for mine which I find curious. Maybe it was my warning about the other monster in this house.
“I said get up,” my father repeats, not even giving her a chance to obey before he summons his goon. “Johnny!” It’s a bark, and Johnny jumps like the dog he is.
“Cristina,” I say from my seat. “Up.”
She swallows. I see it from here. See how her hands tremble as she sets them on the table to support herself. I almost feel sorry for her right now, but she needs to move. Now.
I hear the legs of the chair scrape the stone floor and watch as her expression changes. Her face reddens, eyes darkening to a deep indigo.
She stands, too afraid to disobey.
“Come here where I can see you,” my father demands.
She shifts her gaze to me, and I see the little girl again. But this Cristina is more vulnerable than that little girl was.
“Is she hard of hearing?” my father asks me.
“It must be your charming manner,” I tell him, finishing my whiskey and going to her. I don’t want Johnny’s hands anywhere on her. I will kill him before I allow that.
“Cristina,” I say. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, and she shifts her gaze to mine, not resisting my hold on her. The opposite. Almost melting into it.
The devil you know.
“Let me introduce you to my father, Benedict Di Santo.” I walk her around the table but not close enough that he could touch her, not that I think he would. “And this is Johnny, my father’s lapdog.”
Johnny gives me an enraged look, hands fisting at his sides.
I smile at the buffoon.
“You were there,” Cristina says.
I look at her, watch as anger battles that fear.
She remembers.
My father grows more curious, leaning forward a little.
“You were in my father’s study the night he was murdered.”
He grins, eyes narrowing as he looks her over from head to toe, returning his gaze to hers, studying her. I know that look he just got on his decrepit face. He’s about to rub salt into the wound.
“He begged in the end. Cried like a fucking baby when I gave the order to pull the rope and lift him into the air.”
Her hands fist, and I tighten my grip around the back of her neck. I feel her begin to shake.
“Easy,” I say low enough for only her to hear, but when my father studies us both for a beat too long, I wonder if it was quiet enough.
“It lasts longer that way,” he continues. “He strangled. For a good long time. But Johnny here, he caught him before the end.”
Cristina swallows.
“We put him on the chair then. After he calmed down, thinking I changed my mind, the idiot, that’s when I had the chair kicked out from under him. I swear to this day I can still hear his neck snap.”
She slips out of my gasp and lunges.
I grab her around the middle, lift her off her feet and drag her backward as my father grins, having gotten exactly what he wanted. He signals to Johnny to wheel him away.
“I’m going to kill you! I’m going to snap your goddamned neck!” Cristina screams as I press her to me, my arms solid around her chest and middle as she screams for me to let her go.
My father stops then. He turns to look at us and rolls himself just a little closer.
“Will you welcome her like you did your sister?” he asks me.
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