Forty-seven minutes to disappear.
I make it to the main staircase without incident. My phone is in my pocket—I'll ditch it once I'm clear of the property. Let him track it to some dumpster on the highway while I'm already three towns away.
The front door is too risky. Too exposed. But the service entrance near the kitchen? That one leads directly to the garage where they keep the cars.
I've seen them leave the keys in the ignition. Arrogant bastards. So certain no one would dare steal from them.
My bare feet are silent on the stairs. One step. Two. Three.
I'm halfway down when I hear a door opening somewhere above me.
I freeze, pressing myself against the wall, heart hammering so loud I'm certain it can be heard throughout the entire mansion.
Heavy footsteps.
Salvatore.
No. It can't be. He's supposed to be recovering. Supposed to be in bed.
"Going somewhere?"
His voice comes from the darkness above me, low and dangerous, and every muscle in my body locks.
I don't turn around. Don't move… Don't breathe.
"Valentina." My name is a command. "Look at me."
Slowly, I turn.
He's standing at the top of the stairs, one hand braced against the banister, the other pressed to his side where the wound is still healing. He's wearing long pajama pants and nothing else, and even in the dim light, I can see the pain etched into his features.
He shouldn't be standing. Shouldn't be walking. Shouldn’t be confronting me in the middle of the night. And yet here he is.
"I asked you a question," he says.
"I was..." The lie dies on my tongue. What's the point? He already knows.
"I was leaving."
I can see the look of disappointment flicker across his face. Not anger like I expected.
"Were you."
It's not a question.
He descends the stairs slowly, each step controlled, despite what it must be costing him. I watch the way his jaw tightens with every movement. The way his hand presses harder against his side.
He's hurting himself to stop me.
Good, I think viciously. Let him hurt.
But another part of me, the part I've been trying desperately to silence, wants to tell him to stop. To sit down. To let me help him back to bed.
I hate that part of myself.
"My men saw you leave your room," he says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. He's close now. Too close. "They alerted me immediately."
"Never any privacy."
