He’s playing a multi-level game of deception, but what he doesn’t know is that I can play that game right back. The only difference is, I’m aware of his moves while he thinks I’m ignorant. But I’ll make sure he’s not aware of mine.
I’d almost be tempted to take him out and sacrifice myself in the process, but I’m determined to stay alive now, even if only out of spite. I was fine with killing myself before, but there’s no way I’m giving up now.
I thought that happiness would be the thing to drag me from the depths of my despair and allow me to feel something again, but it’s not.
It’s pure, unadulterated rage.
That evening, after I’ve had time to simmer in my anger, I force myself to calm down and put on a neutral expression before heading downstairs for dinner. One thing I’ve learned over the course of the last few weeks is that Ambrose enjoys cooking on top of his many other hobbies. It’s also clear that he takes his gardening seriously after my discovery of his labeled mason jars in the pantry and vacuum-sealed bags in the freezer containing various vegetables and herbs. Every night, I can count on him to make dinner, which I’ll admit is a nice change from my previous routine back in my own home. It’s certainly not enough to make up for all the terrible things he’s done, but it makes my hatred of him slightly more tolerable.
I sit down at the dining room table, my back to the wall so I can face the kitchen. Ambrose’s hair is wet—he must have showered after finishing his work in the garage earlier—and though he’s brushed it back, the thick, dark strands curve around his ears and fall over his forehead the more he moves.
“Do you just go grocery shopping like a normal person for the food that you don’t grow?” I ask.
He briefly glances up from the cutting board where he’s chopping a bell pepper. “Yes. What else would I do?”
“I don’t know, kill animals with your bare hands for meat, probably,” I deadpan. In any case, it’s almost comical to imagine him walking the aisles of a grocery store, tossing prepackaged cheese and meat into the cart.
“Where do you get the money?”
“I’ve saved up quite a bit of money over the years, bothfrom working for it and from stealing it from those who don’t deserve their riches.”
I snort. “Okay, Robin Hood.”
I’m pretty sure he smiles, but I can’t be sure because he turns to grab something from the fridge just as his lips twitch.
“These days, though, I mostly make money from selling my wood carvings and the furniture I refurbish.”
“Right.” I remember him saying that in the garage.
He continues to cook, sautéing various vegetables with chicken until he brings two plates of food to the table and sets one before me.
“Thanks.”
We’re about halfway through the meal when Ambrose clears his throat and says, “I’ll require your presence at an event this Saturday.”
I pause with my fork mid-air. “What kind of event?”
“A masquerade. Sort of like a pre-Halloween social thing. There will be a lot of important people there, and I need a date.”
“No.”
He cocks his head, his brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“I may have agreed to a deal with you, but it did not involve going to events as your date.”
“It’s at a beautiful mansion in the mountains, and you don’t have to dance,” he reasons. “I just need you there for show. I’ll handle all the details, down to your outfit.”
“Still no.” If he thinks I’m going to help him out by being arm candy to make him look good, he’s delusional.
“I’ll knock fifty years off our bargain if you go with me.”
I pause. Nowthatis tempting.
“One hundred.”
He smirks. “Seventy-five.”
Locking eyes with him, I take a sip of water, forcing him to wait a few seconds for my answer. Anything to get under his skin.
