“Clara! I’m so glad I caught you!” Mattie chirps, as tears gather in my eyes and every bruised inch of me screams.
Luckily, or unluckily, she’s lived her life as a Westerhouse, so she immediately pulls back, her lips twisting down as she looks at me with too much understanding. But, her course set, she keeps going, knowing as well as anyone that acknowledging my pain won’t make it go away. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading to the movies. Maybe tomorrow we could go for a walk, and I could tell you all about it. I know you miss going out.”
“That sounds great, Mattie. We’ll have to see about the walk then, though,” I say, both of us looking at Smith, his face a mask of professionalism in front of the youngest Westerhouse.
“Well, I’m off!” she says, giddy to see her boyfriend despite my less than healthy situation.
Somebody around here should be happy, so I smile when all I want to do is cry. Then Smith lets his true self show, and half-drags me back to the blue room while I fail to hold in my whimpers and coughs, the beautiful day apparently something I’m only allowed to be a part of while locked in a box.
I’ve been stir-crazy for weeks, unable to run, to plan, to do much of anything, so when the door’s latched behind me, I force my aching body to open the two windows, the fresh breeze and the sun on my skin like a lover’s kiss.
What would I give if that were true? If they were here with me?
I’m doing this for them. And me.
I ran, because it was the smart move. But I won’t keep running. If I’m making the life I want, I want it here. With all my guys, with our friends and families, with the bitter winter that makes the summer so sweet.
So, if I must withstand some bruised ribs and a beautifully appointed cage, I’ll do it. Because once we make it to the wedding, we’ll be able to finally take down the monster that has been nipping at our heels for a year.
Now, if I could just get access to the internet, I’d know how close we are to having what we need. As if my wishes are worth something, the door clicks open behind me. Spinning, my heart plummets to see Trevor standing there, his gaze like mud slung against my skin.
“Sister,” he says.
So, no wishes answered, then. “That’s weird, you know,” I respond, standing taller than is comfortable. Not that he didn’tsee the beating I took yesterday, but I’m not showing him weakness.
“Father wants to see you out in the gardens,” he says instead of responding to my sally.
“And my guard?”
“I’m guard enough, sister.”
I roll my eyes just to watch his charm slip, leaving an angry boy who wants everyone to fall at his feet and worship him. Different damage than Trips, a more dangerous kind, with all the money and power he has at his fingertips.
Gathering what little strength I have, and a good dose of make-believe, I walk with him through the mansion, still easily lost as I’ve been mostly locked up for the last few weeks. Outside, though, I almost forget I’m on my way to meet with the devil, just basking in the sunlight, the too-thick perfume of the roses cloying but bearable, only stopping to cough twice.
Six months ago, the scent would have caused a panic attack, a visceral reminder of Bryce’s favorite apology. Now, it just makes my nose twitch. A marker of change, of growth and healing. A reminder that running, at least for a while, was the right choice.
In the middle of the maze of flowers, Trips’ dad sits at a wrought-iron table sniffing something amber and flipping through a stack of papers. Trevor pulls out a chair for me, and if I didn’t see through him, I’d think he’s being polite. But when he pulls out his own chair, Papa Westerhouse waves him away. “Give us fifteen, my boy.”
Trevor glares at me, like this turn of events is my fault, then stalks off. His father sighs but doesn’t look up from his papers. Which is fine by me. Any moment free of my confinement feels magical. Even if staying perched on the iron seat might be a new torture for my abused body.
“I honestly don’t know where I went wrong with these boys,” he says eventually, still looking over the papers.
I consider holding my tongue, but my fake sweet routine is more or less a bust, so I don’t. “Maybe you should have beaten them a little less. Or treated them both like actual human beings instead of pieces to be moved across a game board. But what do I know? I’ve never been a parent.”
“No. You were a nanny, and not a very good one at that.”
I don’t have a response. Some kids I cared for I clicked with, and those jobs were easy. But others were doomed from the start, with parents either too strict or too lenient for me to find success.
“Do you think you’re a good father?” I ask instead.
“I think I built something of value to pass down to my children, and I’ve done what I thought necessary to keep their legacy safe.”
“So, no.”
He slaps the papers down on the table, finally giving me his full attention. “Careful, girl.”
“You said it yourself—I’m not a person here. What can the opinion of a walking womb do to harm your self-worth?” His fists tighten. If I hurt any less, I probably would have flinched through pure instinct. Instead, I stare at him. “You asked me out here for a reason, and I don’t think it was to ponder your parenting techniques.”
