Chapter 12
Beautiful prison
Scarlett
If I hadn’t gone to medical school, I would have loved to become an interior designer.
As a person, I’m sensitive to spaces and the things I surround myself with.
For example, I like a clean, mostly modern home with a designated reading space that’s old and seemingly out of place alongside the other modern furniture in the house.
I like tranquil spaces. Expansive properties like our ranch, where I can ride horses.
I’ve never been inside a space such as this one. To be fair, most people haven’t unless they’ve visited a palace. The foyer sets the expectations for the rest of the house. It’s massive, painted all in white, with a ceiling that stretches all the way to the roof of the house.
We stand on red hardwood floors. The walls on either side of us are adorned with four fireplaces, two on each side. The chairs in front of the fireplaces are either red or green.
The foyer ends with a massive staircase made of dark gray marble. Yes, marble, not wood or stone. Gray marble. Thick, intricately designed iron bars, shaped like bones with a skull on top, serve as railings. I’ve never seen such an interior.
The men climb the steps, and I hurry behind them, my fingertips grazing the iron skulls along the staircase. At the top, Endo takes a left and climbs another set of stairs. “See you around,” he says and starts to unbutton his shirt. My gaze follows him as his shirt comes off.
I look away and straight at the young man who’s waiting for me. Endo is distracting. His swagger makes it easy to forget he’s the enemy.
“Lead the way,” I say.
The man ascends the steps on the right, and at the top of those, we pass another sitting room with furniture from the sixteen or seventeen hundreds.
After that, we enter a bedroom that can only be described as a red room.
The floor, the wallpaper, the bed, the vanity, the furniture, it’s all red.
It’s not a subtle red either. It’s a blood-red room.
In addition, the bed is small, not quite suitable for a child, but small.
I’m five nine, and there’s no way I’ll be able to stretch out on the mattress.
“Can I change my mind about the room?” I ask.
Connor shrugs. “Sure.”
“Are there other rooms on this side of the house? That aren’t red, I mean.”
The man nods. “You can sleep in a crib or on the floor. The east side is fully furnished and renovated.”
“You’re saying on this side of the house, this is the only room with a bed?”
He nods. “There are the barracks, if you’d like.” He smiles. “You can come bunk with us.”
“No, thank you.”
“Then be grateful you have a bed. If your dad took my twin brother, I would already have cut you up and left you on his doorstep. Have a nice stay, Ms. Pembroke.” With that, the man leaves.
I stare at the door. He reminded me of the dangers of my captivity and the people surrounding me.
He might’ve been rude, but I’m grateful for it.
Sometimes I forget that people can be nasty.
I leave the suitcase by the bed. I don’t want to unpack since I hope my stay will be short. Outside, the clouds gather and the wind moves them over the sun. Thunder cracks and rain falls, the rush of drops beating at the window.
I never liked rain.
I like it even less when I’m trapped in a beautiful prison.
And I don’t like Endo either. Even if I find him beautiful too.
That night, I sleep as much as I’m able to in a bed made for a short woman from the thirteen hundreds.
Back then, our countrymen and women weren’t as tall as we are now.
We mixed with taller nations over the hundreds of years we sailed across the globe, and that’s particularly evident in this region, which saw so much trade from the seas.
It’s almost ten in the morning before I rise and panic about toiletries.
I don’t think I even brought a toothbrush.
I dump the contents of the suitcase on top of the bed and rummage through it, finding nothing useful.
Not only that, I brought clothes I haven’t worn since college.
But that’s all I have, so that’s what I’ll wear.
I slide into a pair of skinny jeans so tight, I can barely button them up.
I pick up a sheer white blouse with blue lace on the collar.
It looks festive, but since this is my first morning in my beautiful prison, it doesn’t match my mood.
Yet I wear it because I can’t summon enough energy to care about what I’ll wear today.
When I sit on the bed to put on sneakers, I realize all I brought with me are riding boots.
“Nooo.” I move the clothes around the suitcase and curse, my shoulders slumping. Damn it. I should’ve packed better. But then again, I’ve been barely functioning since Hurricane Endo swept into my life.
As is the case with all hurricanes, Endo too shall pass. Hopefully, as early as today or as late as tomorrow.
I put on my boots, but still need toiletries. Even if I’m staying only a day, I need a toothbrush. Also, where is my phone? My wallet is digital, so everything is in my phone, and the phone isn’t where I left it.
Did it fall out while I was riding Velocity?
I purse my lips, thinking. No. I clearly remember setting it on the nightstand and watching Charlotte’s calls come and go on the screen.
I didn’t know what to say to her. Maybe I’ll find something to say today.
I’d hate for her to worry about me, even though we’re past that point.
I’m already getting a headache. A coffee should help with that.
I open the door to go downstairs and stop.
The young blond man who brought up my suitcase is leaning against the opposite wall.
He wears black pants and a black shirt that’s left unbuttoned enough to show a thick gold chain.
His hands are clasped in front of him. No tattoos.
Instead, he sports swollen, red knuckles from what I hope was an exercise with a punching bag and not a human face.
A white lollipop stick protrudes from his mouth, and as I watch, he moves it to the side with his tongue. One of his eyes is light brown, the other, blue like Connor’s. This must be Connor’s twin, Declan.
He gives me a once-over. “Hi.”
“Good morning.”
“Where to?” he asks.
Is he a guard or a guide? Or both. Maybe neither. I have no idea. “I would like some coffee.”
“I can have it brought up.”
“And breakfast?”
“Anything you want.”
“Do you think I could eat downstairs?” I don’t want to remain in my room, but I won’t go near Endo’s wing of the house either.
“The morning room?”
“Sounds lovely.”
With a wicked smile, the man leads me down the marble steps.
He’s tall and lithe, built like a swimmer, and he moves fast. In a rush to catch up with him, I pass the housekeeper, who is mopping.
I slip and slide down the last two steps but catch myself on the railing at the last minute before I bust my tailbone or, worse, the back of my skull.
Endo comes around the corner. “Are you okay?”
He’s wearing black slacks and a crisp white shirt. He smells fresh and appears rested. Unlike me, who looks and feels crappy. Besides, this is the second time I tripped in front of him, and I’m not even clumsy. Or at least I don’t think I am. Am I?
“I didn’t see the wet spot,” I say.
Endo smirks. “Do I have to carry you the rest of the way?”
I stride into the room to my right, having no clue if that’s the way toward the dining room. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Endo’s footsteps echo behind me. “Want to have brunch with me?”
“I just want some coffee.” I walk into a sunlit room with tall windows and an array of tropical plants on the left. Amber wallpaper surrounds the space. In the center is a small round table encircled by four antique chairs.
“This is my morning room,” Endo says.
Traditionally, women used morning rooms for tranquil time spent gossiping with family about the townspeople.
Back in the fourteen hundreds and for many centuries after, women seldom worked, and if they lived in this house, it meant they were wealthy.
Social networking, as it existed back then, was part of their job.
Along with marrying off their children into other wealthy families.
Endo sits at the breakfast nook near the windows. He rolls up his sleeves and picks up a cigar. The unlit cigar hangs between his lips as he spreads the newspaper served along with his coffee.
“Sit here.” While reading the paper, he kicks one of the two green chairs set in front of the nook. The chair glides away from the table as if pulled out for me. I believe that is his intention.
I sit on the plush bench across from Endo.
He puts the unlit cigar into a clean crystal ashtray and folds the paper to the side. “Coffee?” He pours before I answer.
There’s a stack of papers on the table. The top paper shows a handwritten list in my mother’s native tongue. She taught me the language and the alphabet they write in that’s different from ours.
C4 400 kg wireless deton
AK - 150,000 units (at least 1/10 with suppressors)
M67051 - Balan variants
Strela-2…
Wait a minute. What kind of list is this? Wha… I gasp and look away from the paper.