She doesn't wait for permission.
And I start counting.
One. Two. Three.
The seconds stretch like pulled taffy, each one lasting longer than the one before.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Dashkov is watching the door she slipped through. That nasty gleam in his eyes makes me want to reach down his throat and rip out his windpipe with my bare hands.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five.
Calder has already returned to his conversation. No concern for what might have happened to Keira for her to flee like that.
He doesn't deserve to say her name.
Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three.
I can't think about anything except finding her. Getting to her. Making sure she's not falling apart somewhere alone in the dark.
Forty-eight. Forty-nine.
Close enough.
I peel away from the wall and slip through the door.
THIRTY-SEVEN
KEIRA
The hallway blurs past me in smears of color and shadow as I search for somewhere to fall apart alone.
My son is inside this house. Not with me and not safe.
I can't even keep myself safe. It's better that Hale is nowhere near that dining room right now. Nowhere near those men.
The staff bathroom is down a narrow set of stairs. It's small, with a flimsy lock on the door, but it will buy me time. He won't think to look for me there.
I slip inside and twist the lock with trembling fingers. The second my back hits the door, my legs collapse beneath me. Cold tile shocks my skin through my dress, but it barely registers.
My body is shutting down.
My hands won't stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs, trying to breathe through this, but it's no use. My feet are going numb, pins and needles climbing up my calves as each breath comes shorter than the last.
The beginning of a spiral I cannot afford right now.
Hold it together.
I try to count since it can help diffuse a panic attack.
One. Two. Three.
His hand between my legs.
Four. Five. Six.
So obedient. I've heard she's quite accommodating.
