Chapter Six – Hayden
I can’t get Kayla out of my head. A bad thing for a whole host of different reasons, the first of which is classified. I’m not here to watch his new assistant, not here to worry about her, and definitely not here to give her a ride.
But… damn it, I can’t help it. There’s something about her that wordlessly screams for help, and it’s that same something that tugs at a primal part of my soul and makes me want to bend over backwards for her.
It’s ridiculous. I don’t know a thing about her, but that doesn’t matter.
I move slowly that day. I finish trimming the bushes and then start to weed the insane amount of flower beds the property has. Estates like this typically have a crew to keep the grounds; it’s definitely a full-time job for one person. I imagine it takes a full day every week to keep the grass cut.
Bradford is… exactly how I expected him.
Mostly rude, curt, dismissive when it comes to someone he views as lesser.
I suppose that comes with the territory of being who he is.
When your bloodline is that old, you think you’re better than everyone else.
That much isn’t unusual when it comes to the Bentleys.
But the girl… she’s different. There’s something about her, and as the hours wear on, it kills me inside.
Knowing she’s in there, with him, knowing there’s nothing I can do about it—I don’t know if he would ever hurt her.
Being on house arrest, he’ll only get that ankle monitor off after he does his time, and that’s assuming he remains on his best behavior.
Hurting his new assistant? That might just put him in prison. Even daddy’s lawyers might not be able to save him then.
Sometime in the early afternoon, I head inside the house to use the restroom.
Only problem is, I don’t know where a restroom is, so I have to search the house after slipping off my boots to make sure I don’t unnecessarily dirty the floor as I walk.
I make it to a hallway, where I finally find a restroom.
The house is nice, I’d give him that. Things might be a little dusty; don’t think Bradford has a housekeeper anymore, or a personal chef, but the house is damn nice. Makes me wonder why he has a house this large when it’s just him and no pack to share the space with.
Seems like a lot of empty rooms.
I do my business and emerge in the hallway.
I go back the way I came, but when I do, I notice something I didn’t on my way to the restroom.
One of the doors in the hall is different.
It swings outward instead of inward—peculiar construction for a room that, at first glance, is a simple bedroom.
I stop the moment I notice that door, how it swings, and what’s on the wooden door’s outer face.
Locks. Multiple locks.
Deadbolts. A chain. One would be weird enough, but multiple? I can’t think of a single sane reason anyone would need locks on the outside of a door that swings the wrong way… unless that someone was planning on keeping—and locking—someone else inside.
Is this room where he kept the two he had kidnapped? Must be. I can’t imagine any other use for a room like this.
After glancing both ways down the hall, I make sure Bradford himself isn’t around.
Don’t want him spotting me staring at this particular door.
He’s not near, thankfully, so I’m in the clear.
I continue walking through the house, my only goal to get to my boots and return outside, but when I round the corner of the hall, I come upon something that wasn’t there before.
Or, rather, someone.
Kayla, to be exact.
She stands, leaning against the wall, her back to me.
Her frail shoulders are slumped and her head hangs a little low.
Even from the back she looks too damn skinny.
Like, if she’s not careful, she could fall apart at any given moment.
I honestly don’t know how she can move or do anything without being in pain.
It could be a medical condition. I shouldn’t judge her, but every time I look at her, it’s damn difficult to resist my urge to sit her down and make her eat something.
“Hey,” I say as I walk around her. “You okay?”
Kayla straightens, and she lifts her head to look at me through her reddish-brown hair.
Her eyes are big and green, almost too big for her face—kind of like her lips.
The rest of her is just too damn skinny.
“Yeah,” she says after a moment. “I’m fine.
I…” She trails off, slowly pulling her hand off the wall, and when she does, she wobbles a bit.
Yeah, there’s no mistaking that. She’s definitely weak. Each time I saw her in the morning, she looked out of it, covered in sweat, like she was going to pass out at any given second.
“You what?” I prod her as my brows come together in concern.
She brings a hand up to the side of her head. “I… can’t remember what I was doing.” Then she chuckles softly and adds, “That’s a little embarrassing.”
I offer her my arm. “Come on. Let’s find you somewhere to sit down for a while. Are you drinking enough water throughout the day? I don’t have much left in my truck, but I’m sure Bradford won’t mind if you have some water from the tap—”
“No,” she says with a shake of her head. The action makes it look like she’s going to fall over, so she stops. “Maybe I do need to sit down.”
“Okay, come on. Let’s go to the kitchen.” I still extend my arm to her, but she doesn’t take it. I don’t know if she doesn’t take it because she doesn’t trust me or if it’s because she doesn’t like accepting any form of help.
Some people are like that. She was pretty resistant to letting me give her a ride both times—but I can’t really blame her on that. If I was her size, I’d be hesitant to get in any vehicle with a stranger.
She does not take my extended arm, refusing the aid. She shuffles her feet along the floor as she walks around me, and I walk beside her, if only to make sure she reaches the kitchen without falling.
Seriously. She doesn’t look good.
“I can handle myself,” she tells me when she notices I’m beside her, step by step.
“Sure, I don’t doubt that.” I glance at her and find she’s staring straight ahead with an unreadable expression on her face. What I wouldn’t give to peer inside her mind and know what she’s thinking. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Kayla sighs. “I’m fine. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.” Though she says it, she doesn’t sound too confident of the fact.
We make it to the kitchen after an agonizingly slow walk, and I tell her to take a seat at the island.
“I’ll grab you some water.” Before she can argue with me, for surely she wants to, I start to search the cabinets for a glass of some kind.
The refrigerator has a water and ice dispenser on the outer door.
That has to taste better than straight-up tap water.
Usually those things have filters somewhere.
“I can do it myself,” Kayla says, but she says it as she sits on a stool, which tells me she’ll take the water if I can find a damn cup for her.
So many cabinets. It takes me a while to find the upper cabinet that holds the drinkware, and when I see that sparkling glass, I pull one out and go to get her some water. I walk around the large island and set the glass in front of her, standing a foot away as I say, “Here. Drink.”
Her slender fingers curl around the glass. She doesn’t make a move to sip from it, though. Instead, she says, “I can take care of myself, you know. I made it this far without someone taking care of me.” Unless I’m mistaken, she sounds a tad bitter.
“Everyone needs help every now and then,” I say with a shrug. “It’s no big deal. Nothing to get worked up about. You really don’t look too good, Kayla. Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need to go to the hospital or something?”
Her green gaze snaps up in my direction, like I slapped her or something. “What? Why the hell would I need to go to the hospital?”
Crap. I said the wrong thing. I need to be careful with what I say to her, clearly. She is primed to take things the wrong way. “I meant… it’s not the first time you’ve looked like you were going to pass out. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I don’t need help,” she says with a frown. “I’m fine. Sometimes I get a little lightheaded, that’s all. It happens. It’s not a big deal.”
Seeing as how I never get lightheaded, I’d say it is a big deal, but trying to tell her that right now would lead to a dead-end.
I watch as she measuredly takes a teeny, tiny sip from the glass, as if she’s afraid the water will jump out at her and attack her.
It’s the smallest sip I’ve ever seen a person take, barely enough to be considered a sip.
I don’t want to push her, so I say, “Okay, okay. Understood. Just promise me you’ll sit here long enough to finish that water.” At the rate she’s going, it’ll take her an hour or two, no joke.
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”
Her attitude makes me feel… strange. Not insulted, but hurt.
I really only want what’s best for her, I want to help her, but there’s only so much I can do.
To her, I’m just a stranger, the new groundskeeper.
She doesn’t know who I really work for. Maybe if she did, the trust would come easier to her.
Or maybe not. Maybe she’s one of those people who doesn’t trust anybody. Maybe she’s had a hard life, learned a lot of tough lessons. The mere thought of her going through such times makes me want to wrap her up in my arms and shield her from the world, never let anything hurt her ever again.
It’s weird. She’s a beta, and yet… yet deep down, it doesn’t feel right, calling her a beta. She has the height of a typical omega, even if she’s skinny and lacks the curves most omegas have. Only omegas bring out instincts like that.
But of course, she thinks I’m a beta, too. Looking at us, we are honestly the furthest thing from betas.