I blink back in shock. Surely he’s not serious?
“But…” I bite my lip, worried that if I push this then he’ll finally lose his patience and drag me back down to my cage.
“But what?” He says, though he doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds amused, as if he’s enjoying my discomfort immensely. Absolute bastard.
“What if I need to poo?” I say.
“Then you can take it out. See to your needs and then replace it after.” He says like that’s so obvious I should have guessed it myself.
Jesus fucking Christ. He’s not joking, is he? He wants me to have this thing in me not just tonight but for tomorrow too, and the next day?
I open my mouth to say more and he wraps his arms around me in a way that tells me this conversation is done.
“They’re coming.”
I frown at those words, turning to look at Mateus’s panicked face in the doorway.
“Close up the house.” I instruct. “Ensure as many of the staff know to get out as possible. You know what else to do.”
Mateus nods. “What about her?” He says pointing to Grace, who’s standing, frozen by the window, as if she thinks any sudden movement might just condemn her. She’s a pale silhouette against the dark glass, watching the first distant, flickering lights of the conflict. A beautiful, broken doll propped up in the corner of my fucked up world.
As I look at her, her eyes dare to meet mine and they’re silently begging me.
“This one stays with me.” I reply, clicking my fingers in a sharp, precise sound that cuts through the tension in the room. As if I’d leave her, as if I’d simply hand over their darling little trophy that easily.
She walks silently, obediently, gliding across the Persian rug like a ghost in a silk chemise and I pull her in, placing my hand on her perfect round arse as a declaration of ownership. I can smell the faint, clean scent of her soap undercut by the sharp, metallic tang of fear. It’s intoxicating.
“Ready the car. Have the boy put in it. We’ll be there shortly.” I add.
I feel her tense further as he leaves but whatever thoughts she has in her head, she keeps them to herself.
I rise and walk to a chair by the fireplace where a cashmere jumper the colour of a stormy sky is draped. It is impossibly soft, and I hold it up for her to slip on. “Arms out.”
She complies, a marionette with my hands on the strings. I guide the sweater over her head, careful not to muss her hair. My fingers, as they brush the nape of her neck, feel the frantic rabbit-pulse of her heartbeat and it makes me smile.
I am putting a jumper on my favourite possession because I don’t want her to catch a chill while we escape the holy war raging at my gates. The absurdity of the courtesy is not lost on me. It is the ultimate expression of control, to be meticulous in the face of chaos. To care for something that is just a pet, while around me the house burns down.
I take her hand, striding to the door. Her fingers are ice-cold and lie limply in mine. “Time to go.” She clutches my arm with her other hand, her feet stumbling over the rug with the pace I’ve set.
We move through the corridors of my home, a fortress that has stood since the thirteenth century. The walls are lined with portraits of my ancestors, kings, condottieri, a cardinal or two, all of them stern-faced men who understood that power is not given; it is taken and held through sheer, unadulterated will. Their eyes seem to follow us, not with judgment, but with approval. Afterall, this is just another chapter,another turn of fortunes wheel.
The sound of the assault is clearer now, even deep within the stone belly of the castle. Not just shouts, but the distinct pop-pop-popof gunfire, and a deeper, more ominous thump that might be explosives.
Mateus was not exaggerating.
Theyaregetting bolder.
We exit onto the east terrace. The early morning air is indeed cold, and it smells of diesel and distant fire. The black Range Rover is there, engine running, a beast of metal and potential energy. My driver is at the wheel and another of my men is in the passenger seat, an assault rifle held upright between his knees.
I open the rear door and guide Grace in. She clambers inside, with clumsy, frightened movements, and then she freezes.
Ezra is already strapped in, his little features screwed up into such a serious look, while Mateus sits beside him.
Her eyes dart to the boy and back to me but I don’t give her time to ask questions, I merely shove her over and get in.
As the door shuts, we speed off and she lets out a gasp of air, turning to stare at the castle now rapidly disappearing behind us.
“Where are we going?” She asks.
