Irritation fills his voice as he tries again, "If you're going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, you can at least do it in the privacy of your room."
I clumsily rise to my feet as I wipe the moisture from my face, my legs numb from the awkward position on the floor. When I open the door, he stands before me, and I don't meet his eyes, not willing to let him see how defeated I feel right now.
He walks further down the hall, the lights coming to life as he sets off the motion sensors. Turning left, he continues, and I follow slowly behind, every ounce of energy drained from me due to the harsh traveling, the lack of sleep, and the comedown of adrenaline from the showdown back home.
Not to mention the killer hangover I'm nursing, but that's nothing new and nothing I can't handle. A pounding headache is par for the course these days.
He swings a door open, holding his arm out in a gesture that would be charming if it wasn't him doing it. His posture is like a prince in a fairy tale, showing off the massive library to the princess he's trying to woo.
But this is no fairy tale, and he's no prince, just a fucking prick.
I slide past him and take in what's to be my prison for the foreseeable future.
The only word I can think of to describe it is clinical—like a hospital or a jail cell. There's a steel bed with white sheets and a tall steel dresser, and not a touch of warmth in this room.
The whole place is so fucking depressing I find myself wishing Alastor and his people had gotten ahold of me instead. If I'm to be in an underground cell either way, at least I could stand a chance fighting against Al. Not this big wall of muscle and monster.
A notebook lands on my bed with a quiet thud, drawing my attention.
"Make a list of what you need."
"What about all my stuff? You said it was coming," my voice threatens to break, but thankfully, Eamon ignores it, remaining at my door instead of coming inside.
"Itiscoming. But it takes longer to shipstuffthan it doespeople." His tone reminds me of someone trying to tame a zoo animal, and instead of calming me, it makes me feel more feral."Everything in your apartment will be here within the next few weeks."
I fight the blush from rising in my cheeks when I realize what all that means: the embarrassing collection of toys I've amassed over the years and the fact that someone has to pack them up to bring them here. "Everything?"
"Everything," his taunting cadence makes it perfectly clear that he knows exactly what I'm talking about.
Shame threatens to swallow me whole, so I shake it off and move on to my next concern, the easier one to face. "What about my job? I can't be out of work for the next two weeks."
He leans against the doorjamb, and I realize just how tall he made the ceilings. He's at least six and a half feet, and even still, the ceiling is far above his head.
He rubs his palm on the back of his head before running his hand through his hair, and I get the feeling he's not even sure how to keep a prisoner, "Your computer is the first thing on my list to retrieve once you're settled. What else do you need for work?"
"My files."
"And where are they?" he pulls out his phone and begins to tap.
"The filing cabinet right next to my computer. Oh, and everything on or in my desk."
With a heavy sigh, he nods. "They'll be here tomorrow. You hungry?"
"No."
A corner of his lips pulls up before the grin disappears again. "You're not a prisoner here, Isla. You're not confined to just this tiny room. You have full access to the livingarea,the kitchen. You can watch whatever trash TV you want. Hell, if it'll help, I'll even go get you some fucking furniture and paintings and shit. You just gotta ask."
"Oh, please. Give me a fuck—"
"I fucking warned you," he interrupts me, his carefully crafted calm disappearing into rage and frustration. "I told you and the Vegas trio of idiots exactly what would happen if they kept gambling with your life. Do you think I want you here? You think what I need is another fucking responsibility?"
Humiliation, hot and sticky, makes me fall silent as he scolds me yet again.Do you think I want you here?Something about that sentence makes my throat ache, the fear of being unwanted one I'll never shake, even when it's someone I want nothing to do with saying it. But I keep my chin up and my arms folded. Being stuck here might make me sad, but I'll never let this motherfucker be the reason I'm visibly upset.
With his big finger, he points at the notebook, "Write your fucking list. Start with food." When I don't answer or move, he reaches in and closes the door, trapping me alone in this sterile, cold chamber.
Instead of listening to his demands, I throw the stupid notebook across the room, letting it land uselessly on the floor. The bed, as uncomfortable and inhospitable as it looks, is the only place I have to relax. He said I'm not a prisoner, but that doesn't mean I have any interest in exploring.
Phone in hand, I consider reaching out to Bel. Not to tell her what's happened, but to ensure she made it home safely. I don't even want to know what she would do if she found out where I am or why. It's not the first time I've kept something from her for her own sake. If Eamon thinks I lack self-preservation, he would lose his damn mind watching Bel spiral out of concern for me.
