Shit.
I’ve been so busy working to keep myself fed and housed that I’ve missed out on some crucial life skills, like lock-picking and boat driving. The bedroom doesn’t offer much more. It’s clear that Wallace uses this place as a pit-stop or a fuck palace, there’s nothing but some changes of clothing and bottles of scotch. I look under the bed, go through all the drawers in the bureau, even check under the marble bathroom vanity to see if he’s taped something there.
“Why are you sitting on the bathroom floor?”
Ah, crap. He’s back.
“I do my best thinking here.”
My captor is leaning against the doorway, arms folded and bulging biceps on display. He’s eyeing me like I’m a particularly fascinating strain of bacteria.
Trying to regain my dignity as I stand up, I ask, “Do they know?”
Frowning, he nods. “That’s why I’m here. It’s about to get ugly. I brought up some food for you. You’ll be staying in the suite. Same rules apply. Dinna answer the door for anyone but me.”
“Trust me, I do not want to be in the middle of this nightmare,” I agree fervently.
“Good.”
He turns to leave, and I blurt out, “Wait!”
The man is holding on to the last of his patience; I can see it. “What?”
“Are you going to be okay?” I ask. “Is there any chance they’ll figure out that it was you?”
That half-smile again. “Ah, lass. Are you worried about me?”
“Of course,” I say without thinking. “You’re all I have.”
He laughs, even while looking a little surprised about it. Maybe he’s never experienced an actual emotion before.
Our little moment is cut off abruptly when someone starts pounding on the door like they’re trying to break it down.
“Hold off, you dumb fuck!” Wallace shouts as he strides for the door. “What the hell do you-”
There’s another giant of a man standing there, dressed in a guard’s uniform. Not as tall or broad as Wallace, but I’d still not want to run into him in a dark alley. “Pardon the interruption, Sir,” he intones, “but your presence and that of your female companion is requested for dinner.”
“Not fucking likely,” Wallace snarls, “she’s mine, and she’s staying here. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Two more guards materialize next to the first one, hands hovering over the guns holstered on their hips. They’re the firstfirearms I’ve seen since I’ve been in the UK. You couldn’t go a day without running into some asshole brandishing their pistol back home in Iowa, but seeing them here feels shocking.
“The other Lords and Mr. Armstrong are waiting for you,” the first guard says. “Everyone left on the island will be in attendance.”
Wallace looks back at me, his eyes are cold as an iceberg. “Come along.”
My best friend Carlie used to make me see films with her that she considered “high art.” Some were ridiculous, like the ninety-minute ordeal where we watched a man consume a bust of Selena Gomez that he’d sculpted from fudge.
I specifically hated the films that were deeply unsettling, like the one with a deranged chef who killed off his most ardent diners at a private party. I remember the feeling of nausea as they all sat at their beautifully decorated tables and realized that they were going to die.
This is worse.
This is happening right here.
To me.
There are other innocents here, our terrified servers, including the nice woman I fished out of the pool last night. She’s carrying a tray of crystal goblets to the table, and her hands are shaking so much that the glasses are chiming in warning, a high-pitched clatter that makes one of the Lords - Trent, I think - scream at her to get the hell out.
Go, sweetie. Run as fast as you can, I think.Take your chances in the ocean.
