“Being a murderer doesn’t suit you.” The words come from nowhere and my mouth drops open when I hear them, appalled. “Sorry. I didn’t… I don’t…”
But he just smiles. “That’s okay,” he murmurs, rubbing his knuckles along my jawline. “You’re a murderer, too.”
Blood sprays into the air, and I gasp, jumping to my feet and stumbling forward. My ankle, only just beginning to find stability again, yelps with pain and I grab at the table to stop from falling to my knees.
Baxter moves near, and I hold up a hand, hair tangled over my face, body bent, ankle throbbing. “No. Don’t touch me.”
My heart beats so fast I can’t catch my breath. I don’t want to close my eyes but they’re bugging out of my head. The moment I do, another torrent of blood cascades through my mind, so real, so visceral that I can smell its meaty stench, feel the wet warmth as it lands.
I retreat, trying to get my breathing under control, willing my pulse to slow. Failing to do either. When I back up so far, my arse hits the wall, I stop, shaking, ragged.
A second ago I was fine. I can’t believe how fast I fell apart.
“I’ll call the doctor for you,” Baxter says, reaching for my arm.
At the offer, I skitter sideways. “No. I-I…” Terror swamps me from nowhere, my arms turn into gooseflesh, every hair raised.
“What’s happening?”
His mild voice is at complete odds with the rush of horrified messages surging through my body. That there’s nothing to fear only amplifies their exchange.
“Isabelle?”
“I-I think I just n-need to lie down.”
“Yuri.” Baxter’s voice arrives from the distant end of a very long tunnel. My sight collapses into a single pinprick of light while the buzzing in my ears turns into a roar.
Then the bodyguard’s arms pluck me to safety, lifting and carrying me from the room and into the empty hallway. By the time he places me on my bed, I can even snatch tiny breaths of air.
CHAPTERTEN
BAXTER
“But the lady was going to read me a story,” Sophia protests as I encourage her into bed a half hour later. “You promised.”
“She’s not feeling well,” I say, and the claim is mostly true.
I hate that I pushed her.
Any fool could see she hadn’t said the words to hurt me. From the moment she arrived, her mouth has been getting away from her and tonight was no different. To throw what she did—forSophia—back in her face because of a moment of pique is unforgiveable. Something I acknowledge even as I shy away from the sting of remorse.
I need to stop pushing her. She needs as much care as Sophia, even if she’s less likely to admit her need. From now on, I will treat Isabelle with tenderness. Let her mind and body heal from her recent trauma.
Just because I enjoyed watching her shocked reactions to my suggestions, my touch, doesn’t mean she’s in any fit state to play my games.
Especially since they no longer feel like playing.
This wasn’t how I’d envisaged spending the evening. All afternoon, my mind has been filled with the sight of her agile body twisting and spinning across the ice. I’ve watched the snippets enough times to feel a sting of raw jealousy when her partner takes hold of her teenage body and helps her soar, or land.
That she became damaged rescuing my daughter, something I should have done myself, physically pains me.
Although I understand perfectly well her desire to escape from here, return to the life she knows, I can’t let her go. Even if she stood a chance of surviving outside these walls, I couldn’t risk it.
When she did me this favour, Isabelle became my responsibility. If I have to fight her every step of the way, I will ensure she emerges from the other side of this. Whole. Well.
The best version of herself that she can be.
That my debt to her and my selfish interests collide is lucky circumstance, nothing more.
