Chapter 16 Kaia
KAIA
Ever since my tryst with Flynn, I’ve spent all my time in the conservatory painting.
The peace is nice, listening to the sounds of birds dancing in the wind and laughter from the lake makes me feel at ease, and I lose myself in each brushstroke.
A calm mind almost makes me feel like everything is okay.
But each time I have to change out my water or collect fresh pain, reality is waiting for me on the edge of my mind.
As the days trickle by, it gets harder and harder to pretend that this is some kind of life.
Underneath the good food, the painting, and the fact that my nightmares are fewer, the truth remains.
I’m still a captive.
My armed guard now remains outside the conservatory to give me peace to paint, but each time he checks on me it’s an alarming reminder that I’m Flynn Gallagher’s prisoner.
The man who slaughtered my best friend, my brother, and my aunt.
And I’ve crawled into bed with him. Twice.
The thought sickens me and my hand wavers, adding a black streak to the edge of my character’s face and turning them from someone basking in sunlight to smothered by shadow.
What is wrong with me?
How could I sleep with someone like that?
Am I really that starved of affection that the moment a monster who haunts my family shows me a lick of kindness, I hop on his dick and forget everything he’s done?
Even now, my core clenches at the memory of his cock and my nipples throb as if they yearn to be back between his teeth. My body sings for him and sometimes my heart does too, but it makes no sense.
If Anya knew, if Vic knew? They would be horrified.
I should be horrified.
Sinking my teeth into my lower lip, I gaze past the canvas and out the window where the tip of a sailboat drifts past the tops of the trees.
Flynn, to his credit, hasn’t been cruel to me.
Locking me in the cells was my own doing, and he easily could have tortured or killed me for my attempt on his life.
For some weird reason, he didn’t.
It means I’m still valuable to him in some way, but the exact reason remains a mystery.
If I could get in touch with my uncle, I bet he’d be able to clear things up about what Flynn is after, but outside communications are impossible.
Ever since the poisoning, no one here trusts me so I can’t get information from Frank or any of the servants I see around the estate busy with their work.
All of these people are loyal to a Gallagher and given his family’s cruel reputation, it’s surprising.
And at the same time, it’s not.
My time around Flynn has shown him to be an angry, firm man who dotes on his daughter and treats people decently.
But his reputation isn’t born from a misunderstanding. He’s a dangerous man.
The rubble remains of my home proves that.
I close my eyes and replay that night in his office over again, much to my body’s enjoyment and as I run through everything we did together, desire warms my blood.
In the next breath, regret follows and confusion clouds my thoughts.
I hate him.
I think.
I know I should.
But the sex is amazing. Is the sex amazing because I hate him?
Or because he’s an older man who knows exactly what he’s doing and pays an unusual amount of attention to my pleasure, the woman he supposedly hates?
I miss Anya. Thinking of her makes my chest tighten and I open my eyes to find that the sailboat has moved beyond my line of sight.
Disheartened, I glance back at my painting and wince.
Fixing that black streak almost isn’t worth it, but scrapping it and starting again sounds exhausting and leaves me with far too much time with my own turbulent thoughts.
“Kaia?” Florence suddenly stumbles into the sunroom with a smiling Angie in tow who is, as always, clutching her giraffe.
“Are you okay? Oh—.” I spot the reason for her distress immediately. Her blouse is completely soaked in something dark, and her brow twists in her distress. “What happened?”
“Grape juice,” Florence groans. “Can you watch Angie while I change?”
“Sure.” I smile strongly at Angie. “Angie, do you like to paint?”
She drags her amused eyes off Florence and onto me, then she nods.
“Cool. Do you want to paint with me? I messed this one up so I was going to start a fresh one.” Moving the canvas off the supports, I set it aside facing the wall so I don’t have to look at the mistake. Then I pick up a fresh canvas and set it up. “You can even take my stool if you want.”
“You’re a lifesaver!” Florence pats Angie’s head and rushes out of the room, leaving a very faint scent of grape in the air.
Angie keeps a hold of her giraffe while she climbs up onto the stool, then she gazes up at me with a small smile that makes my heart jump up into my throat.
Such a sweet kid and yet she’s never said a word, although as I stare into her eyes, all I can hear is her screaming Daddy while Flynn lay dying on the floor.
A death, if I’d committed to it, would have granted me certain freedom from here, and I wouldn’t be battling the clash of attraction and guilt.
Then, like a creeping shadow crawling across the lawn on a hot day, it dawns on me. I’m alone with Angie and she’s the most precious thing Flynn has.
If I wanted to leave here, walk out, and never come back then she would be my key.
Using Angie would surely get Flynn to agree to everything and anything I wanted and then I could avenge Anya and Vic, and my aunt, just with words and orders.
All while using this little girl as a shield.
The thought strikes like the sudden lash of a whip, cold and painful, and it’s followed by a strong curl of nausea in my gut.
I couldn’t ever use a child for something like that.
She’s completely innocent and I’ve already come close to traumatizing her once, though as she gazes up at me I know exactly what Uncle Antov would want me to do.
He wouldn’t think twice about using her if it meant securing his safety.
Just like he wouldn’t think twice about letting Flynn die at his feet.
Is my safety worth scaring Angie?
There’s no telling when my value to Flynn will run out and there’s no way he’d keep me around for any other reason.
Is she my answer?
Angie suddenly reaches for me and places her small hand in mine, her smile widening as she waits for me to get started with the painting.
Glancing down, the sight of her hand in mine brings a sudden wave of tears to my eyes.
Before I know it, I’m crying.
Covering my mouth with my other hand, my world blurs, but even through the tears, I can see the concern on Angie’s face.
She tightens her grip in my hand and tugs at me, and my heart breaks.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, hastily wiping away my tears with the back of my free hand. “I’m just…really sad about that painting.”
Angie nods slowly as if she completely understands, then she slides off the stool and hugs my waist.
The pain in my chest worsens, as does my lack of control over my own tears and it takes everything I have to stifle a sob.
What a fucked up situation.
How can this sweet child come from someone so twisted? Someone so dark?
After a few seconds, I sniffle deeply and hug Angie back as tightly as I dare. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get started with this painting then I won’t be sad anymore, okay?”
Angie pulls back from the hug and nods quickly.
With my help, she hops back up onto the stool and together we begin painting without any real direction.
Angie creates outlines of trees and buildings, and I fill them in with splotches of paint. We work mostly in silence but every so often I ask her a question about Flynn or the house.
None of them are answered, of course, but she does keep looking at me while I talk and something about the eagerness in her eyes just makes the one-sided conversation flow.
Almost an hour later, Angie ends up in my lap as we study the complete painting.
Beside the house and numerous trees, she painted three stick figure adults and two children.
“Is that your Daddy?” I point at the first one which is a very generic stick figure, all things considered, but it’s taller than the other two and has a wide smile.
Angie nods eagerly.
“I thought so. And this one…is this one Frank?”
Angie shakes her head.
“Florence?”
Another no. Angie leans against my hold on her waist, and splotches her paintbrush into the red paint, then smears a happy red smile onto the face.
“Is that…your mommy?”
Angie nods quickly.
“Oh. Where is she?” All this time, no one’s ever mentioned Angie’s mother or Flynn’s wife, but given how he dotes on his daughter it’s hard to imagine he didn’t love her.
Angie tips her head back against my shoulder and points upward.
My brows twitch together. “She…is she in heaven?”
Correct. Another nod.
“Do you miss her?”
To my surprise, Angie shrugs and shakes her head. Nothing about her expression suggests that’s a lie and my stomach tightens as I try to piece it together. “Did you not like her?”
Angie shrugs again.
“Did you…ever meet her?”
I get my answer as Angie shakes her head.
No.
So she’s never met her mother.
It gives me more questions than answers, but anything is useful at this point.
“Okay, so who is this?” The third adult looks exactly like the second. And if Frank and Florence are off the table, I’m out of ideas.
Angie giggles to herself and swings her legs, then she dips her red-stained brush into the black and begins swirling a spiral over the third figure’s head, creating something akin to curls.
“Angie…is that me?”
Her beaming smile is my answer and the tension in my stomach sweeps up to my heart.
She drew me.
Why would she do that?
Our eyes meet and Angie gazes up at me with a smile.
I should be happy, I think, but all I can focus on is that she’s included me in her painting while having no idea that I’m captive here and tried to kill her father.
“That’s so sweet,” I murmur softly, fighting back another wave of tears. “So this little one here must be you, right?”
Angie nods and the end of the brush handle ends up in her mouth.
My fingers skim along the canvas to the second small stick figure. “And this? Who is this, Angie?”
“Angie!” Flynn’s voice suddenly booms from the doorway making me jump.
Angie kicks out her legs and immediately wriggles free from my grasp, then she runs toward her father and giggles as he sweeps her up into his arms and cuddles her close.
“Did you pour your grape juice all over Florence?”
Angie’s cheeks flush pink and she shakes her head, refusing to admit the truth until Flynn tickles her stomach and she dissolves into quiet laughter.
“You did, didn’t you? I’ve just seen her trying to get the smell out of her hair. Poor Florence, she’s going to be smelly for days.”
Angie giggles harder and her giraffe ends up slipping from her hand. Before it can reach the floor, Flynn catches it then fixes me with a strangely warm look.
“Thanks for watching her,” he says and my heart flutters.
This is why I’m so confused.
I know what he’s done. I feel the pain from what he’s done.
Yet when I’m watching him with his daughter, the only time he ever truly smiles, I see a handsome man battling something secret, with sharp edges carefully softened to protect the child he loves.
He’s a monster.
I know that.
But in this moment, and others like it, all I see is a soft as butter dad who makes my heart skip a beat.
Maybe I was wrong.
I am being tortured after all.