“The only women at the Crawleys’ parties are their women or whores. You are one or the other,” he says casually.
I lift my chin. “I was there with my friend. Nothing more.”
He leans in closer, his eyes searching mine. I hold his gaze, swearing his eyes glimmer amber even in this darkness. I lock down any fear I have.
Moments pass. He says nothing. Only my breathing fills the room.
He steps back, turns, and leaves, slamming and locking the door behind him.
It takes me a second to realize he’s just walked off.
I bolt to the door and slam my fists on it. “Hey, let me out of here!” I yell. “Son of a bitch!” I fume when I get no answer.
I turn and head for the window. It’s not much bigger than a shoebox. I look down at my round hips and sigh. I won’t fit. But maybe I can squeezemy top half through and see where I am, call for help. There has to be someone nearby.
I stand on the bed, balancing on the end, and shove at the window. It doesn’t budge. I get down, remove my heel, climb back up, and slam it into the glass. It takes a couple of hits, but eventually the glass breaks. I sigh with relief as I knock out as much of the glass as I can.
I push myself up, managing to fit my top half through. Shards of glass cut into me.
“Shit,” I hiss in pain. I push through it and look around. Nothing but woodland surrounds me. I strain to listen for a road, for shouting, anything: nothing but silence and the sounds of woodland creatures of the night.
I just hope they aren’t meat-eaters that can smell blood.
“Help!” I yell. “Help!” I yell again. “Help.” I keep yelling.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a deep voice startles me.
I look to my left and see a man standing there, a large blade at his side reflecting in the moonlight.
“Help!” I cry out again, panic flooding my veins. I don’t want to be chopped up into tiny bits.
He moves toward me so fast, it’s inhuman. Hecrouches down in front of me. His eyes are ice white; they almost glow in the moonlight.
He takes in a slow, deep breath. “You’re bleeding,” he says on a swallow.
I freeze. If I push myself back into the room, I’m trapped in there. If I stay here, I’m trapped out here, and with the size of that blade, he could behead me like he’s slicing through butter.
“Back in your room. Now,” he orders.
Out of options, and really liking my head attached to my body, I nod slowly and push myself back into the room, wincing as the glass cuts my skin further.
“Don’t move,” he orders through the window once I’m back inside, clutching at my sides where the glass has cut me.
“Even if I wanted to, I’m trapped,” I retort.
His lip curves slightly at the corner of his mouth, either from amusement or trapped wind.
CHAPTER THREE
LUCIAN
I takea seat in the armchair by the fire, deep in thought as I sip my drink.
“We will get them,” Silas states, sitting down opposite me. My gaze cuts to his—my Vice President—his black eyes watching me.
I take another sip. “Yeah, and in the meantime, I’m not getting any answers from her.”
Silas rubs his stubbled jaw. “There are ways to make her speak,” he suggests.
