But then I feel my body weakening.
When I open my eyes, my spirit sinks even though I knew this was coming.
I'm lying on a dirty cot in the corner of a stone room. White paint peels off the walls in great, flat pieces. The tiny window high in the wall is barred with a thin pane of glass just beyond the iron rods. I shiver. There isn’t even a blanket in here.
I walk across the room to the door. There's a cup of water by the slot they open to give me my meals.
They've put me in a quiet room, one of the cells they keep clear in the cellar for purposes ofextra correction.
The door is iron, and I vaguely recall that this place was used by the forces in World War II. They kitted out the cellar of the manor house into a kind of bunker. The walls are naturally thick and they installed practically impenetrable doors. The cold is as pervasive as a winter storm. It seeps up from the very floor.
I go back to the cot and huddle in the corner, trying not to touch the cold walls. I fold my arms and my legs underneath me, my teeth chattering violently.
How long can Stoke conceivably leave me down here? I’m not sure. There’s a camera in the corner, its little red light blinking once in a while to show me that the system is actually up and running. I guess it’s to make sure I don’t die down here. But the blinking light stops as I stare at it. It’s down again. Are they even going to know if it gets too cold?
My plans to escape are now in tatters because I had to be a hero. I shake my head, berating myself. It was so foolish to try to stop them from hurting William, and I’ll bet they put him on the Board anyway. All of it was futile. All of it was for nothing. And now I’ve sabotaged my own plan because I couldn’t let the injustice go.
I’m never getting out of this place.
The walls seem to close in on me as desolation begins to creep in. I try to rally my morale.
Iwillget out of here.
The guys know where I am.
Maybe they’ll be able to get me.
But I feel like I’m lying to myself. Unless I can leave The Heath, things are just going to get worse and worse for me if I don’t die of hypothermia in this cell first.
Stoke was bad before but now he has a vestedinterest in keeping John happy and keeping me in his grasp. Money is a powerful incentive. He’ll let my stepfather do whatever he likes, have whatever he wants.
The thought leaves a bad taste in my mouth. There's no fucking way Marcus is getting his hands on me. I'd rather die. But, I rationalize, if I'm a problem, Stoke will just drug me, and Marcus will make sure the marriage is consummated no matter what. Hell, he’ll probably take trips here just to get me pregnant with the heirs that are so important to them.
My thoughts make me feel sick, and, for the first time since I got here, I’m genuinely afraid.
I need to escape, now more than ever.
Mav
Ibundle my coat more closely around me. How is the British wind somehow colder than it is in Connecticut, even though it's well above freezing here. I stuff my hands into my pockets and scowl at the deserted road.
'Where the fuck is he?' I snarl.
Blake looks at his watch. 'He'll be here.'
'How do you know?' I grate out, mostly angry that we’re waiting out here for this fucking guy instead of going to get our girl, that because of this random Britishbloke, we’ve wasted two more days.
‘What if he doesn’t come? What if he was just messing with us, or he’s gone to that fucking house and told them we’re coming?’
‘He won’t do that.’
‘How do you know?’ I mutter.
‘Because he wants revenge for them firing him,' Blake says simply. 'He'll be here.'
A minute later, I see lights coming up from the bottom of the village where a ford runs across the road. I scowl and give Blake a long-suffering look because I recognize the sound of the vehicle.
It's Douglas in his crappy, beat-up car. He pulls up and we pile into his shitty little Corsa, Blake and I cramped in the back.
