Monarch

30. Elena

30

ELENA

I barely have time to finish changing clothes before Lorne knocks on my door at ten minutes to seven. I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s only early to prevent me from walking down to the fourth floor to check on Ivy.

“Why’s there an extra lock on your door?” Lorne says by way of greeting.

“Atlas had them changed again.”

Lorne’s face darkens, probably from the mention of Atlas’s name, not the lock itself.

“Why?” he barks.

“Because someone broke in again.”

Lorne’s jaw tightens, his pale lips compressing until they turn white. “And you didn’t think to mention that to me?”

“It just happened last night. I didn’t want to distract you when you’re so close to the end of your book.”

Also, a not-insignificant part of me thinks you might be the one doing it.

But Lorne doesn’t look guilty or secretly satisfied. Actually, he looks pissed.

“Has it occurred to you that it’s probably Atlas?”

“Probably Atlas…what?” I say blankly.

“Writing on your wall,” Lorne hisses.

He thinks I’m being obtuse, but I really had no idea what he meant. The idea that Atlas would deface the hotel that is his home and his legacy seems laughable. But, of course, Lorne doesn’t know Atlas quite as well as I do.

“Why would he do that?” I ask carefully.

“He’s running his haunted hotel shtick so you’ll ring him in the middle of the night—which is exactly what you did!” Lorne accuses.

I would toss that out as jealous nonsense. But then I remember something that did strike me as odd at the time. Miraculous, almost.

My entire living room was destroyed in a frantic, two-minute frenzy that had me diving off the side of the bed, terrified, scrabbling for the phone. When I crept out, feathers flew in the air like snow, the couch cushions slashed, books tossed around the room, splayed open with their pages torn out. But my camera was just sitting there on the table, completely untouched.

If the person doing this wanted to hurt me, how did they miss my camera?

Unless they didn’t miss it at all. Unless…they couldn’t bring themself to smash it.

Lorne doesn’t give a fuck about my camera. He thinks it’s old and useless; he’d probably love to chuck it out a window.

But Atlas wouldn’t. He knows what it means to me. I don’t think he could bring himself to hurt me like that.

Lorne can see my mind working. Low and gloating, he says, “Yeah, you didn’t think about that, did you? While you were letting him comfort you, wrap his arms around you and hold you tight—you didn’t realize he’s the one fucking with you. Trying to wedge between us.”

I can’t help shivering. That can’t be true. Atlas wouldn’t do that.

But on the other hand…the books that were torn the worst were Lorne’s. His entire series that I bought at Books n’ Brews was shredded, even the covers ripped to bits. Lorne is so proud of those books and his status as a famous author, I have a hard time imagining him destroying them. Even to scare me. Even to blame it on Atlas.

“He’s been preying on you since you got here,” Lorne says, his fingers digging into my upper arm. He always holds my arm when we walk, steering me. He doesn’t hold my hand or let me tuck my arm in his. “He probably does this all the time, whenever he sees a guest he likes.”

The idea of Atlas flirting with a parade of guests before me, like Lorne’s parade of porn girlfriends, makes me sick.

But he does have all that replacement wallpaper handy. He could have done this a hundred times with a hundred different women.

Heart pounding painfully, I rip my arm out of Lorne’s grip. “You don’t know anything about Atlas.”

“You think you do?” Lorne laughs. “He’s playing with you. I put a ring on your finger, not him. I’m marrying you. I’m taking you away from whatever shit you were in back home—that’s right, I’m not fucking stupid, Elena. You’d never even been to a wife swap before that day. You stuck out like a sore thumb.”

Slowly, I say, “You saw me upstairs?”

“Of course I did! I saw you the second you walked into the room. You were a giraffe in a herd of gazelles.”

He says it coldly, deliberately, looking into my face, his words chosen to hurt me.

“And you came and sat down at the same table as me on purpose…”

“You’re missing a part.” Lorne smiles. “First, I waited in line behind you and bought the same tart. You’re not very observant.”

My face burns. I know he’s telling the truth. Because nobody buys rhubarb tarts besides me. That’s why I thought it was so funny and sweet.

I’m such a fool. Seeing exactly what I hoped to see.

Show up looking for a miracle, and how easy it is to convince you that’s exactly what you found.

We’ve reached the restaurant. Lorne lets go of my arm and puts a possessive hand in the middle of my back instead.

“Table for two,” he says to Sienna with his most charming smile.

It is so fucking creepy how different his voice sounds speaking to her compared to just a minute ago talking to me. He sounds relaxed and mellow, like nothing could possibly make him mad.

But he’s not mellow at all, steering me through the restaurant. He’s glued to my side, hand on my spine, watching everywhere for Atlas.

I’m sure Lorne notices that, for the very first time, Atlas is absent from the Reinstoff while we’re eating. He must be hanging back, giving me space so he doesn’t agitate Lorne. But that doesn’t seem to please Lorne. His eyes narrow, and he only becomes more tense.

Sienna takes us to what I would call our table if I enjoyed thinking about it that way. It’s the coziest table in the restaurant, tucked under the low, thatched roof, close to the fireplace. When Sienna’s only seating me, she puts me in the booth by the bathrooms that has a rip in the seat.

“Here you go.” She smiles at Lorne.

You can have him.

No. I wouldn’t wish that on Sienna.

I sit across from my fiancé, feeling slightly sick. There wasn’t much affection left to destroy, but knowing that Lorne has been manipulating me from the beginning sure as hell kills any remaining guilt. Is anything he told me true?

What has he even told you?

Not much. He distracted and pressured and scared me away from pushing for details. And I made it all so easy.

But not anymore.

Before the waitress has even arrived to take our drinks, I demand of Lorne, “What happened to Ivy’s mom?”

He stares at me, blank faced, unblinking. “Why are you asking that?”

“I want to know.”

“She died.”

“How?”

“Why?” Lorne says softly. “Are you worried?”

My mouth goes dry. There’s no water on the table. My tongue, when it touches my lips, is about as moistening as a finger. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” Lorne says, reaching across the table to take my hand. But as he gazes at me, the pupils of his eyes seem to spread and darken like oil, and his voice flattens and drops. “You don’t have to worry about anything, Elena. Because I’m going to take care of you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

I want to pull my hand away. Lorne’s grip is too strong. Painful, almost. He waits until I nod one tiny millimeter. Then he begins stroking his thumb back and forth across my hand. The longer he touches it, the less it feels like it’s attached to my arm.

Softly, he says, “It’s Atlas who should worry.”

I go cold, so cold I’m sure that Lorne can feel it. But his thumb swipes back and forth over my hand like a ticking clock.

“You don’t have to worry about anything, Elena, because you’re a good girl, loyal, faithful. But if Atlas tries to take what’s mine…his size won’t save him.” He holds my gaze, his eyes cold, clear, and completely serious. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Olivia saunters up to our table, a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other, crossed at their stems. “Looking for this?”

Lorne turns, his face coming to life like an animatronic. “Olivia! You changed your hair.”

“Just a trim.” She touches the ends modestly. Her hair looks like a shampoo commercial, like somebody must be shining a floodlight on it to get that kind of glow.

And I do not give one single, solitary fuck. I hope Lorne spends the rest of the night flirting with her and doesn’t look at me once. The last thing I want is more of his attention.

Glad to have my clammy hand back in my lap, I sneak a glance around for Atlas—but not for eye candy. I’m scared. Of what Lorne might do to him. Atlas is way bigger, but that won’t matter if Lorne has a weapon, or if he ambushes him, sneaks up in the middle of the night…

Do you really think Lorne would do that?

I think of his face when he’s not smiling, when he’s not putting on the charm. When he’s looking me in the eye and threatening me.

I think he’d do much worse.

As I suspected, Lorne makes dinner drag on and on. He keeps pressuring me to drink more wine. I refused to drink any until he did first even though this bottle came sealed, Olivia popping the cork tableside.

Lorne seemed to find that amusing and made a big production of taking his first sip. I still waited for him to finish half a glass before I drank any.

Now I’m on my third glass, trying to quiet the anxiety building in my chest.

Half of me is glad that Atlas isn’t around. What Lorne said scared me. And the longer Atlas stays away, the more Lorne relaxes. But the other half can’t feel comfortable without my own personal bodyguard on the other side of the room.

I don’t care what Lorne said about Atlas and the writing on my wall. I feel safer when he’s near, and I trust him to protect me. It’s Lorne who scares me.

Amy’s still here, watching us with so much intensity that I’m sure she’s doing it on her boss’ orders. But tiny Amy is not as reassuring as Atlas. Especially as Lorne drinks more and more.

She is, however, devious. She’s unleashed both Sienna and Oliva on our table for maximum flirting. Barely two minutes can pass without one of them popping by to “see how we’re doing,” which means Lorne can only make so many cutting comments, and he definitely can’t pinch me under the table.

I try to resist the many times he refills my glass, wanting to keep my wits about me, but Lorne is still being enough of an asshole that the alcohol helps take off the edge. It makes me a little less afraid and a lot more bold.

Flushed with liquid courage, I demand, “Are you going to let me see Ivy tomorrow?”

Lorne’s face is also flushed, his eyes slightly dull, cloudy marbles instead of clear, cold sky. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how nicely you beg.”

I really don’t know how I ever thought this man was attractive. His eyes are bloodshot, his lips puffy in a face becoming increasingly bloated with alcohol. But that’s not what makes him ugly. It’s his expression, flat and uncaring, interested only in what stimulates him.

He doesn’t give a fuck about Ivy. Or about me. He only cares about what he can make me do.

But I care about Ivy.

Enough to do this:

I take a heavy swig of wine and set down my glass.

Clasping my hands in front of me in a praying position, I say, “Lorne, please, please can I see Ivy tomorrow? I promised to help her make her costume. It’s important to her. I really don’t want to disappoint her.”

Lorne takes a sip of his wine, too. “That’s pretty good. But I’m not totally convinced.”

His expression makes my stomach turn. He’s looking at me like you’d look at a worm on the sidewalk, squirming, baking in the sun. Assuming you had a grudge against that particular worm. And you got a visceral enjoyment from watching it burn.

But Ivy does not want to be a princess. She probably drew fifty owls in her notebook. So I humble myself again.

“Please, Lorne. I’m begging.”

“That’s not begging.” Lorne jerks his chin toward the floor. “You know how to beg.”

I stare at him. The restaurant is completely packed. Every table is full. And Sienna and Olivia are already watching us.

Lorne is not joking. He gazes calmly back at me, waiting.

He has all the power here. I know damn well that he has no problem at all making Ivy wear some princess bullshit, which Mrs. Cross will make as itchy and ugly as possible because that’s her joy as well as her personal taste.

I’m not letting that happen. Even if I have to make a complete fool of myself.

I slide out of my seat in my dress and high heels and get down on my knees on the floor of the restaurant with at least a hundred people watching. Heads immediately turn, everyone thinking a proposal is about to happen, all the more interested when they see it’s a woman down on her knees.

But I’m not proposing. I’m begging my fiancé not to be a spiteful piece of shit to his own daughter.

As I lift my clasped hands and plead with his smug, smirking face, I realize how much I’m truly beginning to hate him.

“Please, Lorne. I’m very, very sorry for upsetting you. I was so stupid and ungrateful after everything you’ve done for me. Please forgive me.”

The smile on his face is disturbing. Because I think it’s genuine. This is Lorne happy and satisfied. When I’m humiliated, down on my knees.

“That’s better,” he says.

I stand up, stiff and nauseated. A strange silence has fallen in the restaurant, half the diners looking away, half still staring uncomfortably at what is very clearly not a proposal. Even Sienna and Olivia seem slightly disturbed, Olivia standing still with furrowed brows and Sienna whispering to Amy, who responds with a tense shake of her head.

Now that I’m on my feet, I’m realizing how drunk I’ve become. And how little self-control I have remaining.

Holding the edge of the table so I don’t sway, I tell Lorne, “I’ll come at ten tomorrow morning.”

He smiles at me, the smile I’m beginning to think is the only one that’s genuine. The one that shows no teeth, no crinkling of the eyes, and no kindness at all.

“Where’s my kiss?”

My stomach churns. I would rather get down on my knees again and kiss the floor.

But I bend at the waist and press my dry, cold lips to his, promising myself, that’s the last time we’ll ever kiss.