by Rina Kent
My eyes meet the steel-like gaze that I’ve grown used to in the last couple of months. Its grey is harsher and non-negotiable right now, only it doesn’t seem to be directed at me.
Jonathan runs his fingers through my hair, stroking it back, and I almost want to purr like a kitten.
I’m not in that grave. I’m not anywhere near it. There’s no black shadow after my life.
It’s…over.
The sense of relief hits me like a soothing wave and I fight the urge to close my eyes and sink into the feel of Jonathan’s touch.
It’s comforting and gentle, and I know for a fact that tenderness isn’t his thing at all, so I should soak in this moment as much as I can.
As I relax into the familiar mattress of my bed, I take in the rest of my room — the soft curtains and the large lamp on the side table. I try not to think much about the fact that he brought me to my room, not his. After all, he needs a punishment to let me step in there.
“Are you okay?” he asks in that no-nonsense tone of his. It takes everything in me not to scoff. Only Jonathan would ask if you’re okay while being authoritative.
Still not finding my voice, I nod.
“You don’t look okay.” The stroking stops, and I groan before I can catch myself.
Jonathan is sitting on my bed, his large body looming over my small one, both like a comfort and a threat. The mixed signals give me whiplash, but I don’t get to think about it as he retrieves a small first aid kit from the bedside table.
He touches his finger to my mouth and I wince as his skin connects with my cut. “I covered the scrapes on your knee and palms. I was going to apply ointment on your lip when you woke up.”
Sure enough, my palms have small bandages on them. Since the covers are pulled up to my neck, I take a peek under them. The first thing I notice, along with the bandage on my knee, is that I’m dressed in a nightgown.
“Did you…did you dress me?” My voice is a bit hoarse, a bit weak, but it’s nothing I wouldn’t have expected.
“Who else would have?” His expression is unchangeable as he applies the ointment on a cotton bud. “It’s not anything I haven’t seen before.”
I clamp my lips shut before I start arguing that I was unconscious, and I hate that I wasn’t awake to watch how he stripped me.
Damn it. There’s definitely something wrong with me.
Jonathan glides the ointment on my cut lip and I grimace at the sting of pain. Yet I stay completely still, afraid that any unwanted movement would ruin this moment.
Seeing Jonathan’s gentle side always strikes me deep. It’s like witnessing a passing unicorn and I need to soak it in. Maybe next time, I can film it and watch it secretly or something.
After he’s done, he traces his fingertips beneath the cut, so he’s almost touching my lips, but not really. I suck in a breath as goosebumps start a war on my skin, beneath the covers and under my clothes.
He retracts his hand faster than I want and organises the ointment and cotton back into the first aid kit. The sensation is weird. Not being touched by him, I mean.
Not that I’ve ever gotten used to being touched, but since he barged into my world, I’ve started to take it as a given. It feels weird that he’s beside me, his woodsy, spicy masculine scent enveloping me, but he’s not touching me.
I want to grab his hand and place it on my face again, or go back to sleep with that same hand around my waist.
However, there’s something at the back of my head that stops me. No idea what — it seems as if I’m missing something.
But what?
“Now.” He lifts his head, his merciless gaze zeroing in on me and holding me like a vice. “Tell me why the fuck you returned to Leeds.”
My lips tremble as the memories strike me in the hollow place of my heart.
The interview. Sarah’s attack. Alicia’s message…
My eyes widen as I stare at Jonathan with what I’m sure appears to be a horrified expression.
Jonathan has been poisoning me, Claire.
I jump up to a sitting position, and my shoulders hit the headboard as I draw my knees up and pull the sheet to my neck. I’m about ready to do anything to put some distance between me and him.
Oh, God.
That’s why I left. That’s why I shouldn’t have been found. Even the attack pales in comparison to the man sitting on my bed. The man whom I willingly gave my body to and was in the process of giving more than that. I fucking bargained for inserting myself into his armour.
At least the attack was straightforward. The black shadow was someone who felt wronged by my father and took it out on me.
This, though?
This man was giving me safety signals, and no matter how fucked up and wrong it felt, I started to believe in Jonathan King. I even started to believe that I could somehow unlock his emotional vault.
How naïve could I have been?
He killed my sister.
The realisation hits me like a thunderstorm, like that day I fell to my knees in the middle of the road, struggling to breathe through my tears.
But this time, I don’t bother to look up and ask for all of this to end. It won’t.
This is the reality I have to face. The fact that the man I’ve been giving myself to every day is my sister’s killer.
What’s stopping him from killing you, too?
A shudder snaps my shoulders together, and perspiration covers my skin, causing the nightgown to glue to my flesh.
“What is wrong with you?” Jonathan’s brow creases. His beautiful face twisting in disapproval. That face is the devil’s. Just like Dad’s.
“N-nothing.” If he knows what’s going on in my head, he’ll finish me off sooner rather than later. I need to be as smart about my survival as I always have.
“It doesn’t look like nothing, Aurora.”
“It is.”
He grips me by the ankle and I yelp when I fall, my back meeting the soft mattress. I’m splayed in front of his savage eyes as he plants a hand at the side of my face and speaks in a low, chilling tone, “Better opponents have tried to fool me, and it’s always failed. So how about you tell me why the fuck you scooted away from me just now?”
The need to fight him pulses into me like second nature. The survival instinct that’s been my modus operandi since I was sixteen claws its way to the surface. However, I don’t act on it for two simple reasons. One: Jonathan will easily overpower me. Two: I’m injured and fighting would be the dumbest move.
Smart. I have to be smart.
“I…I just need to rest.”
“Try again, wild one.” He sounds clipped and fierce. He knows I’m lying to him, and honestly, I have no clue how to fool someone like Jonathan or if it’s possible to do so.
All I know is that I need him the fuck away. I will not end up like Alicia. I will not let him suck the life out of me, then eventually kill me.
I escaped one of the most notorious serial killers, and I can escape him, too.
Smoothing my tone, I say, “I really just want to sleep. I’m exhausted.”
His knuckles touch my forehead and I suck in a breath through my teeth and release it through my nose.
To my dismay, it’s not because of fear. Far from it. My body hasn’t gotten the memo that Jonathan is a real danger to my life and I need to stay the fuck away from him. My stupid skin is still tingling like it does every time he touches me. I’m still getting caught in his orbit as if it’s the only place to be.
A line slowly forms between his brows. Whether it’s because of worry or that he doesn’t approve of my expression, I don’t know. It could be both.
“You’re a little warm, but the pill will take effect soon.”
“W-what pill?” Oh my God. Did he already start poisoning me?
“Painkillers. The family doctor came to look at you earlier and prescribed it. He also said the bruise at the back of your head isn’t serious and will eventually disappear.”
Now that he’s mentioned it, something tingles beneath my hair at my nape. It’s from when I was hit, but I’ve forgotten about all of that. Compared to the real danger hovering over me, that one doesn’t even register.
Is it sad that I consider an attack less dangerous than this situation? Probably, but my brain has been trained for survival, so immediate danger always gets my attention first.
“Can I sleep? It must be late, right?”
“Three in the morning.”
“You brought the doctor over this late?”
“It’s his job, and he knew my demands when he agreed to become the family doctor.”
“Is there anyone you consider a human instead of something you buy?” I don’t know why I asked the question when my main focus should be to get him the hell out of here.
“You.” The word, although calmly spoken, sets every part of me on fire. Not only my cheeks and my chest, but also the thing that’s thumping loudly inside said chest.
“You already bought me,” I murmur.
“That’s what I thought, too. Turns out, it’s far from the truth.” He straightens, and I hate how I mourn the loss of his proximity and the way I cling to his airy, sensual scent.
It’ll all go away with time. I have to believe that.
“Go to sleep.” His voice is soothing, warm. Probably the warmest I’ve heard from him. “I’ll be here.”
“No, you don’t have to —”
“I’ll stay. No negotiations,” he cuts me off. “Besides, you will tell me why the fuck you went back there.”
“I just want to be alone.”
“We all know what happened the last time you were left alone, so the answer to that is no.” His features harden, darkening by the second. He shoves a hand in his pocket and when he speaks again, his voice is on the verge of breaking all hell loose, “The thought of what that fucker could’ve done if we hadn’t come in time…”
He trails off as if the words fail him to describe that possibility.
A shiver grabs me by the throat at the thought of what could’ve happened. Would I even be sleeping here if that black shadow had gotten what it wanted? They tried to bury me alive in the past, so maybe they wanted to finish what they started this time.
Jonathan drops onto the chair. “I’m staying.”
Shit.
He really is, and I really need to go. I don’t know where, but I’ll figure it out as soon as I’m out of here.
I always do.
My mind goes into overdrive trying to think of ways to get him to leave. Water and a covered bowl of what I assume is soup sit on the bedside table, so I can’t ask for either of those.
Think, Aurora, think!
“My pillow,” I blurt.
Jonathan is still watching me with that unnerving focus that makes me feel like I’m under a researcher’s microscope. “What’s wrong with your pillow?”
“I want the one from your room. This one isn’t soft.”
“You used to sleep on it just fine.”
“That was a long time ago. I’m not used to it anymore.” Then I speak in a slightly bratty tone, going for the low blow, “My head hurts.”
That works.
He stands, but instead of leaving, he leans over and brushes his lips against my forehead. A shock wave grips my limbs and it takes everything in me not to melt. That’s…that’s the first time he’s ever done something like that.
There’s an unrivalled intimacy about a forehead kiss — the feeling of his lips on my skin, the care in it.
God. Why is he doing that now of all times?
“I’m glad I was there before you were hurt badly. Doesn’t mean I’m letting it go, though.” He straightens, expression blank. “I’ll be right back.”
I watch his retreating form, even after the door closes behind him. The skin where he kissed me still tingles, burning and sending me all the wrong signals.
Shaking my head, I jump up. The world starts tilting, but I plant my feet wide apart until the dizziness slowly retreats.
I don’t have time to waste. Jonathan will return soon, and I can’t be around when he does.
Since the door doesn’t have a lock, courtesy of the tyrant, I push the coffee table against it. My palms sting and blood soaks the bandages, but I don’t stop until it’s firmly fixed against the door.
I shove my feet into the first pair of shoes I see and quickly make a rope out of any sheets I can find.
Using the front door is out. Jonathan is the type of freak who has cameras in the hallways, and since I’m sure there’s someone who’s watching them at all times, there’s no doubt they’ll catch me.
My balcony, however, overlooks the garden from where the staff’s back entrance is visible. During my snooping sessions, I didn’t find any blinking cameras around here.
After securing the rope to the foot of the bed and testing that it can carry my weight, I throw it down. It doesn’t reach the ground, but it’s close enough. I’ll take anything that shortens the distance of my fall.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. I escaped this way from many motels in Scotland. Oftentimes, I had no money to pay for the night, and there was no way in hell I was going to sleep on the streets or in parks where anyone could find and attack me.
After I grew up, I sent those motels cheques, but at the time, jumping from second and third floors were part of my everyday life. I’m a bit out of practice, but I can make it.
The doorknob moves, and I stiffen.
He’s back.
Not that I didn’t suspect he would be, but shit, it’s too soon. I have to do it now.
“Aurora. Open up!” His voice booms from the other side and then a bang sounds at the door from his attempt to shove it open.
My spine snaps upright as if it’s about to break.
It’s now or never.
I grab the end of the rope and just like that, I jump.
My hands and legs wrap around the sheet in a lethal grip as I slowly slip towards the ground. I don’t look down, because that will fill me with fear worse than what’s already whirling inside me.
It takes me longer than I’m used to in my mission to slide down the rope. Part because Jonathan’s freaking mansion is too high and part because it’s been a long time since I last did this.
My palms scream in pain, blood soaks the sheets, and my knees burn as the early morning cold air hits me in my bones.
By the time I reach the end of the sheets, my legs dangling down and my hands gripping it tightly, I know I have no choice but to jump.
It’s a steep one, and my legs will fucking hurt. But if I do it right, I won’t break any bones. Hopefully.
Though a broken bone would be worth it if it means I’ll be out of here.
Inhaling a deep breath, I close my eyes and let go.
This is it.
I’m free and alive and no one will take those from me.
I’ve fought so, so hard to get here, and if I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.
Then, instead of feeling the sharp sting of my legs hitting the ground, I’m enveloped in steel-like arms.
The sense of failure seeps straight under my ribcage and squeezes my heart.
My breathing hitches as I meet Jonathan’s raging grey eyes. “Fascinating, Aurora. Fascinating indeed.”
7
Aurora
For the first time in my life, my escape plan fails before it even starts.
As I stare at the fury emanating off Jonathan’s features, I know, I just know that there’s no way in hell I’ll ever be able to escape.
I’ll end up like Alicia.
Roaming the halls. Hallucinating. Poisoned.
Dead.
A rush of life shoots through my bubbling veins and I push at his chest with my bloodied palms, my limbs flailing about. I’m acting straight out of irrational anger and the need to stay alive. Gone is my logical, strategic side — it was killed when I didn’t hit the ground and fell back into Jonatha
n’s cage. “Let me go!”
My fight is futile. It’s like he doesn’t feel my fists against his shirt or my scratches against the skin of his collarbone. It’s almost as if he’s waiting for my fit of anger to subside and for me to go slack.
I don’t.
I squirm and wiggle and push and punch. I use every trick under the sun to get away from his merciless grip.
The silent treatment greets me as he walks me back to the house.
No, no…
My energy heightens and I kick my feet in the air in an attempt to make him loosen his hold.
All I get is a harsh squeeze on my outer thigh. Ouch.
We pass the statue of the Virgin Mary carrying the little angel as they both cry, and a scary sense of foreboding goes through me.
A realisation, too.
That statue represented Alicia’s life in the King mansion. She was crying and no one saw her. She suffered and no one helped her.
If anything, her husband and life companion poisoned her. He killed her.
He killed my sister.
Angry tears fill my eyes as I elbow and claw at his side. I know it won’t get me anywhere with his strength, but as long as I can breathe, I’ll fight.
I’m a fighter. A survivor. I’ve come this far, and I won’t allow Jonathan to dictate my end.
It doesn’t matter that my palms keep bleeding. The sting and the burn will eventually go away once I’m out of here.
Margot appears at the entrance, wearing a long nightgown. She must’ve gotten out of bed due to the commotion.
“Help me, Margot! Help!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
She opens her mouth, then closes it while she watches the scene like it’s out of a freak show. I’m struggling in Jonathan’s hold while his face is stone-cold as if it’s made of fucking granite.
“Sir…?” she asks, almost uncertain.
“Go back to sleep, Margot,” he tells her in a firm tone that accepts no negotiations, his attention focused ahead.
“No!” I squirm. “Nooo!”
I stare behind me at Margot, hoping against all hope that she’ll follow and somehow help me out of the tyrant’s clutches.
She’s not there.