Closing the laptop, I take a deep breath. The image of Ama suffering pops into my head again, and I decide that it would be better to ask. If Dryas knows where she is, he might be able to allay my fears.
Climbing the staircase to his rooms feels strange. I’ve only been up here once. If I think about it, I don’t even know what all the rooms on his floor are for.
Following the hallway, I come to the third room and find the door open wide. Inside there is an office of a sort, the walls and all the furniture gleaming steel and smooth white injection-molded plastic. The whole room is lacking any kind of papers or files, the desk little more than a thin sheet of glass. He’s sitting at that desk, his feet propped up as he stares out into the starry nothingness of the night sky.
If it weren’t for his briefcase and a desktop computer, I would honestly think that this was just an odd white room. Releasing the breath, I didn’t know I was holding, I knock on the doorframe.
Dryas swivels around, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”
Feeling as though I had disturbed him, I clear my throat and step further into the office. “I was wondering if you had heard whether Amabel ended up returning to the convent or not.”
He arches a brow. “Why should you care? She never showed an ounce of interest in your well-being while I held her captive.”
That barb almost physically hurts. Casting my gaze down, I take a moment to come back from that. “I don’t know what you do in your family, but I wasn’t raised to abandon my sister no matter what.”
A second later, I remember what Dryas told me on the first day we met. He had a brother, but he killed him. Color flames in my cheeks as he gives me a look that says he hates me.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Stop,” he instructs me sharply. He swivels back to the window. “Your sister did return to the convent. She’s been seen in church, sitting right up front. Is that enough to sate your curiosity?”
All the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh. It sounds like not only is Ama back, but she is still close to Father Derrik. It’s not what I wanted to hear, but it rings true enough.
I turn to leave, my mind muddled with thoughts of what Father Derrik might be doing to Ama right this very second. A couple of steps away, Dryas calls to me.
“Rue!” I turn back, pulled into the doorway again.
“Yes?”
He’s still turned away, looking like a fallen prince surveying his kingdom disconsolately. “Did you find out why Derrik thinks that you are the Rebel King’s heir?”
I bite my bottom lip, making a flash decision. Shaking my head, I shrug. “Nothing concrete yet.”
“Hmm.” He seems to absorb that for a long moment. I wait for something further from him, but he just stares at the dark night sky.
After a minute, I leave on silent feet.
14
Rue
The next day when I come down for breakfast, with absolutely no warning, there is a letter waiting for me on the kitchen island. It’s in a long, cream-colored envelope, addressed in my sister’s elegantly looped cursive. I stand and stare at it for half a minute, not sure what I want it to say.
Do I want her to reassure me that she is okay? Or do I hope that the letter will tell me that she knows now that I was right?
My expression sours. When have I ever known Amabel to ask for forgiveness?
I tuck the envelope in one of the oversized pockets in my pale pink cardigan. Devouring the letter seems like something I should do in private. I set about making coffee, wondering if Dryas will surface at some point or not. He’s been absent ever since I found him in his office two days ago, and I haven’t heard a word from him in the interim.
Sipping my hot coffee, I step out onto the verandah. I shade my eyes as I look at the gorgeous green-blue ocean. Squinting, I can just make out a sliver of the private beach.
There is something calming about that. The fact that there will be a beach during the morning, and by sunset, it will have vanished. It’s all as steady as the tides themselves. There is some comfort in that.
I glance inside but find the kitchen as empty as ever. Taking another sip of my coffee, I set it down on the railing and reach in my pocket. The letter feels lighter than air as I open it, turning the letter over and prying the wax seal loose.
I close my eyes for just a moment, then I unfold the letter. It’s not short. I can see a page written, front and back, in Ama’s distinctive handwriting.
That makes me smile for a moment. When we first arrived at the convent, the nuns were horrified to find out that we were both essentially illiterate. Ama was more so than I, as I had the occasion to have some schooling. Our fortunes changed quickly, and poor Ama had none.
Ever the proud sort, we both practiced learning our letters, reading, and finally writing from sunup to sundown. Three months it took before we were declared to have passable handwriting. After all, what more did a woman need than to be able to read the bible?
Ama kept up her lessons for years after, though. As I run my fingers across the page, feeling the indention of every letter pressed into the paper, I can tell from the absence of mistakes that she drafted it a few times.
Rue —
Undoubtedly you will have heard of my escape by now. If you can call it that — the door was left open and the servant was not looking, the stupid oaf.
I am writing to tell you that I am carrying forward your plan to be the next Queen of Montenegro. My captivity, while horrible, is merely background in the great story of the love that Prince Henrik and I have found together. While you were clearly not the refined princess that Henrik thought you were, I am.
In order to remain pure and elegant, I must dictate that this be our last communication. Once I have the Prince’s children, I shall be too busy to correspond. I also believe that it is best not to have the children around lesser people, who can only fill their minds with impure thoughts.
Honestly, what with your hysteria involving the saintly Father Derrik, I think that this policy is best for both of us. Let us both think of the other as someone we once knew, perhaps in another life.
Farewell.
(P.S. Sister Anne wishes me to bid you well.)
My mouth pressing into a bitter line, I raise my gaze from the page. I knew it. I should’ve expected it.
But the way that Amabel packed me away into a neat, tidy box burns me alive — especially after I ran away from Prince Henrick! She acknowledges it only by saying, while you were clearly not the refined princess that Henrik thought you were, I am.
It makes me feel violent. It makes the acid rise in my stomach, the bitter taste of bile tangy in my mouth. I want to crumple the letter, or set it on fire, or toss it into the sea. Better yet, do all those things.
But I don’t. Instead, I wedge the letter back in its envelope, shaking with rage. Slipping the envelope back into my pocket, I turn to the eerily calm sea, its surface like glass.
Who is to say, though, that the sea is actually as unperturbed as it looks? Maybe it is like me, churning and chaotic just beneath the surface. I turn my eye to my quickly cooling coffee, but I find that I’ve lost that taste for it.
Carrying it back inside, I dump it in the sink on my way upstairs to my room. My bare feet make almost no sound as I hurry up the solid stone steps. The usual spot on my floor is bare, calling to me like a siren. I drop the envelope onto the bed, gathering my supplies.
Once there, I spread out a blanket, splaying my drawing things out. I settle in and try to draw the sparrow I was working on yesterday, but I can’t.
I keep going back to the letter.
Saintly Father Derrik.
The love that Henrick and I have found.
Flipping to a blank page in my notepad, I start drawing the sea during stormy weather, rainy and overcast. I remember that Dryas taught me a word to represent that type of weather. Squalling.
If my drawings had titles, that would be the title of this one. To get the sea like I want
it, I use lots of different colors, drawn in heavy, short strokes. Lots of black goes in the middle, with deep purple and hunter green and midnight blue to back it up.
My mind wanders as I draw, going back to Ama’s words time and time again. I scowl at my sketchpad as I wonder whether Ama remembers our time living as vagrants in London. I did my level best to keep her in clothes and shoes, but there were definitely some times that we went without showering.
There were more than a few times that we went without food, too.
In order to remain pure and elegant…
My fist tightens around my colored pencil. To hear Ama, you would think that her past was privileged.
Maybe that’s what her letter really meant. I know that we come from the poorest of the poor, the worst of the wretched. Maybe Ama can’t live with being reminded of that over and over again, not while she lives in whatever dream world she has planned for herself.
It’s not lost on me that I cry a little bit as I work. I try to color over the wet splotches, but my pencil creates a tear. Then another, then another. Frustrated, I end up trashing the entire drawing, ripping it into pieces.
When I stand up, pieces of the drawing clutched in my hand, I wander over to the huge picture window. It’s wide open, the fading, sunlit air moving slowly. Feeling vindictive and lost at the same time, I fling the pieces out, watching as they flutter slowly down toward the rocks.
The sea is in the background, always present. Sometimes it’s soothing but just now it incites my tears. Collapsing onto my bed, I let the sobs wrack my body, filling all the space inside me with my rage and sadness.
Eventually, I cry myself out and sleep for a while. When I wake up, it’s dark. I have a prickling sense of being watched. Turning groggily toward my doorway, I find Dryas filling up that space, all brooding eyes and dark good looks.
Silence reigns as we make eye contact. Neither of us says a word, but there is something magnetic in the air. He strides toward me, and I throw back the blankets.
I surge up toward him as he comes down onto me, spearing his hand in my hair. We tumble backward and land on the bed, knocking the wind out of me. He affixes his lips to mine, nibbling and searching, his tongue finding my own.
This time I’m the one that is in a hurry. Trying not to bump my injured hand, I pull at his shirt, trying to rip it free from his jeans. Without pausing, he lifts his shirt over his own head, his lips barely leaving mine. He fumbles with the button of his jeans, leaving me to pull up my white nightdress.
Taking advantage of my newly exposed skin, he kicks off his jeans and uses his mouth on my nipples. I gasp, encouraging him by arching my back and thrusting my breasts further into his face.
His hot flesh presses against mine. I grab his hip, pulling him into the right position to penetrate me. The blunt head of his cock nudges my entrance, and I wrap my legs around his body, forcing us together.
He startles me by flipping me over, nudging my knees apart and repositioning himself there.
When he thrusts his cock inside me, I hiss. He pauses to make sure that he didn’t hurt me, but already I’m driving him onward, moving my body in time with his. I meet him thrust for thrust, not caring that he hasn’t said the words ‘I’m sorry’ yet.
All I care about is the here and now, Dryas’ breathing hard while his muscles ripple, pumping his body in and out. I’m right there with him the whole way, working my hips against his, crying out when he teases my nipple, tweaking it hard.
“Harder,” I moan. And Dryas obliges, not just thrusting his hips harder but twisting my nipple with a fierce expression on his face.
It’s so good, but it’s not quite enough. Dragging his big hand over my throat, I press it down while moaning loudly. Without hesitation, Dryas squeezes my throat, throttling me so that I can’t breathe properly. He pulls my head back so that he can kiss my neck and nibble at my ear, all the while keeping up an insatiable, driving rhythm.
Somehow in all the mess, I gain a strange kind of clarity. My focus narrows down to what feels good: his thick cock filling up my pussy, stretching me out with every brutal stroke. The way the smooth cotton of the sheets rubs against my nipples, adding another layer of sensation to my overstimulated body.
My eyes roll up in the back of my head and I lose all connection with the world. There is nothing but sensation, no sound but my own labored breaths.
When I come, it feels like the orgasm is almost pulled out of my body, more an exorcism than anything else. And Dryas seems more than fine with it, pumping his own release into my body soon after mine.
We both collapse right there, Dryas moving a little to the side so that he doesn’t crush me. His cock pulls out of my pussy slowly as we catch our breath. The sensation of his juices dripping from my body is uncomfortable, but I just burrow my head down, not ready to move just yet.
The heat from his body is a welcome thing. I close my eyes for just a second, drifting.
When I wake again, it is still dark, but his side of the bed is cold.
15
Dryas
I sit at my desk, my feet resting on the broad glass surface. Tenting my fingers, I try not to lose my patience with Ari, who is finally calling in from Liechtenstein. I lean down to the phone, which is on speakerphone mode.
“What did you find out?” I ask, trying not to sound as frustrated as I am.
There is a crackle on the other end. There isn’t any cellphone service where the convent is; Ari has to backtrack almost fifty miles to an actual town where the service is spotty at best.
“Ama is still residing in the convent and attending church at regular intervals,” Ari answers.
“I don’t care about her. What did you find out about Derrik? Were you able to contact any of the boys he keeps around?”
I hear Ari sigh on the other end. “I did. I isolated one named Jerome, and paid him handsomely for answering some questions.”
“You were careful about what questions, I assume?”
“Yes. As instructed, I was careful to make it seem like I am more interested in the convent than the leader of the church.”
I take a moment to absorb that. “Very well. What did he tell you?”
“As far as he knows, there are no current—” The line goes staticky for a few seconds before his voice cuts back in. “So, if there was something happening, he would know. Their brotherhood is pretty small.”
“So Derrik isn’t planning to try to get Rue back?”
“No, it seems like now that Ama is here, they’ve essentially replaced Rue. The prince of Montenegro—”
“Prince Henrick?”
“Yes. Jerome says that he and Amabel are engaged to wed.”
My mouth thins. “I see.”
His voice sounds tinny coming through the line. “Do you wish for me to stay here?”
I consider that. “Yes, for another week at least. Keep tabs on Derrik and Henrick.”
“Very well. Au revoir.”
The line disconnects. Sitting back in my chair, I try to figure out what to do next. After all, I never planned for a scenario in which Derrik was not trying to reach the girl I’ve spent so much time and energy to acquire.
Is it really the case that I now have a hostage that Derrik no longer wants? Surely, he is more vindictive than that.
Sighing, I get to my feet and go stand at the massive window. Looking out over the sea as it crashes against the rocks, I try to think of what I ought to do to remind Derrik that his quarry is here, and she’s waiting.
Somewhere far in the back of my mind, I feel a pang for using Rue as bait. Her moans, her whispers as I run my hands up her bare ribcage… she is real. She’s worth more than that.
At the same time, this is what my life has come down to. I want revenge for the past. I want Derrik to pay with his life. I want a quick, clean death for myself.
Where that leaves Rue, I don’t know. But it’s important to remember my mission, every time I suffer from moments of doubt like thi
s.
Derrik killed Aurelia.
Derrik must die.
The rest will fall where it may.
Turning from the window, I run my hand through my hair. Usually, I would be having this moment with a tumbler of whiskey in my hand. I made a promise to myself though, and a silent one to Rue, though she doesn’t know it. I swore that I will try to be reliable and reachable for the duration of my life, as little as I have left to live.
And after, those I leave behind — namely Rue and Damen — will carry on without me. The world will be a much better place without me, that much I know for sure.
Something in that thought catches my attention. I narrow my eyes, pacing back to my desk.
Damen.
I haven’t heard from him since I stabbed Arsen. Not that I made it easy to find me. But Damen could have, if he wanted to. Of course, no one could blame him.
After all, I fled as Damen tried to save Arsen’s life. There is really no coming back from that, is there?
There is one relatively easy method of checking in, though. When the internet was invented, the dark web blossomed, deep and seedy and practically built for people like the Aétos brothers. We used to use the dark web to keep in contact with men from the Cypriot organization, back before we were the ones in charge.
We kept a site alive from that time, just in case any of us was unable to contact the others. A boring-looking Greek patriotic site, with a clickable link buried deep in a side page.
If Damen doesn’t hate me, that is the way to find him.
The question is, why would I need him? Most people could contact their brother just because, but I’m not most people. I need a reason. A reason that is connected to Derrik and Rue.
My heart starts beating faster. I could reach out to him for a solution with Father Derrik. After all, Damen took some very religious girl as his bride. Maybe Damen will have some idea that hasn’t occurred to me yet.
Possess: Protect Book 3 Page 7