She smiles back, small and grudging. “At least.”
“I’ll be back before you have time to miss me,” I say, circling the swell of her cheekbone with my thumb.
“Promise,” she says.
And I do.
11
Emma
The attack leaves me strangely emboldened.
Suddenly and strangely, Rosehill Manor feels as though it’s mine. With three security guards, two new men in addition to Pete, I do sleep better, even when Malcom is gone. Still. I don’t like the idea of being vulnerable again. So when I ask Pete if he’ll teach me how to shoot, he quickly clears it with Malcom via text, and takes me down into the hills.
Pop pop!
“Not bad.” Pete has a finger in his ear and an amused smile on his face, even though I’ve gone wide and missed all five of the glass bottle targets ahead of me. “You need more control.”
True.I bite my lip, trying to focus on the weight and heat of the pistol in my hands. Ever since Malcom left, I’ve been utterly unable to get him out of my head. The life I knew until a few short weeks ago has begun to feel like a fantasy or fallacy; some kind of fiction that belongs to another woman. Was I ever engaged? Was I ever a teacher? Did I ever own a home and have friends and enemies and another world?
I cock the pistol again and take aim, trying to account for the gusty spring wind as Pete has advised me. I close one eye, focusing on a tall green bottle in the distance, the sun glancing off its rounded edges.
I want to be angry with Malcom. I really, really do. But every time I think of him, I think of the weight of his rough, warm palm on my cheek. I think of the tortured guilt in his expression as he apologized and promised me the world. I think of the door that he left open for me, knowing I’d tried to run away once. Knowing that I could again.
Why haven’t I?
Pop!
The bottle shatters. Glass sprays into the yellow grass and Pete whistles, impressed. “Very good, Miss Rosen. Again?”
I nod and reload, taking up my stance, heart beating too quickly. I should be plotting to run away. I have more freedom than ever.
More freedom than ever.
That’s it—isn’t it? Even though I’ve been torn away from my life and dropped in another, I somehow feel freer than I ever did in Waterford. I’m paid for, looked after, protected. I could have a future here, if I thought to build one. Full of danger and twists and unpredictability. Full of things I’ve never had before, and didn’t know I wanted.
“Ready?” Pete asks.
I nod once, and fire.
* * *
Downstairs, something falls and shatters.
I jolt, sitting up straighter in bed. I close my book and place it on the nightstand, listening closely. A grunt, heavy footsteps. I frown and get up, taking the candle from my nightstand and making my way cautiously downstairs. I slide a letter opener off the entryway table, wading into the dark of the empty house.
Another curse, a soft, familiar voice—but it can’t be. I hesitate in the hallway outside the kitchen. Muttering, a sharp inhale.
Malcom.
It’s been three days since I saw him last. Three days I’ve spent hating myself for thinking of him, for craving his presence, and the security of him in Rosehill. It’s late now, far past midnight. I didn’t even hear him come in, and the maids and security aren’t with him.
I slowly push the kitchen door inward, peering around the corner cautiously. Malcom is at a deep sink, washing blood from his arms. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, his arms, chest, and back straining against the dark fabric. Rain has wetted his dark red curls to his neck. For the first time, I notice fingers of dark ink curling from beneath one sleeve. I wonder what the tattoo is of—what he looks like shirtless.Naked.
“I can hear you,” he says softly.
My neck heats, but I quietly enter the kitchen, closing the door behind me. “I wasn’t sure if you were another break-in.”
