Chapter 56
DAMAGE CONTROL
Today, we’re in my new “enrichment room.”
It’s far too big for one person, but Vincent assured me no one else is using it.
He’s stuffed it with things like he’s trying to guess my thoughts.
Sketchpads, watercolors, even a stack of novels I probably won’t read.
There’s a small upright piano in the corner, angled toward the fake window I asked Colt to cover up.
The lights glow warmer in here, but they do nothing to make the space feel like anything but another cage.
“You could try the paints,” Colt suggests, nudging the sketchpad across the table toward me. “Or the piano. Or—” He digs into the basket in the corner. “Look at this. Harrow thought you’d be into weaving? You could make a rug. I’d take it.”
I give him a flat look from where I’m curled in the armchair. “No.”
“Tiny coasters? Big market for those underground.”
I almost smirk, but a wave of nausea overpowers it. “You’re bad at this. You know that, right?”
He drops into the seat across from me, kicking his legs over the side. “All right. What’s the point, then? Sit here until you get all dusty?”
“Sounds fine to me.”
“Mays,” he starts, eyes softening. “It couldn’t hurt just to try something. You could just sit at the piano for a few minutes? Fondle the ivory or whatever it is you do?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
He opens his mouth again, but I’m faster.
“I came in here. Shouldn’t that be enough?” The admission is pathetic, but I don’t have it in me to care.
His posture shifts, and with it, his tactic. He pulls a face that’s akin to a kicked puppy. “Boss-man said you had to try something.” He pouts his lip and holds his hands up in surrender. “You wouldn’t wanna get me in trouble, would you?”
Fine. I lean forward and make a squiggle on the sketchbook lying on the table. He tilts his head. Hums.
“All I’m hearing is you’re in an arts and crafts mood.
” Colt strides across the room to rummage through the craft bin again.
This time, returning with a bag of something gray and squishy.
“Modeling clay!” He holds it triumphantly over his head, beaming like he’s just cracked the code.
“You could make little sculptures of Mister M and smash them in the garden.”
My head snaps up before I can stop it.
“Tempting, right?” He waves it in my face.
I push it aside. “That’s immature.”
“Uh-huh. I’d still help you do it.” The door clicks, and Colt glances over his shoulder. “The man of the hour,” he mutters, stepping back.
Vincent steps in, eyes surveying the room like he’s scanning for damage. His gaze flicks over me, the untouched supplies, the closed piano, then lands on Colt.
“How’s she doing?” Vincent asks mildly.
Colt gestures toward me. “Thriving. You should see her artwork.”
Vincent ignores him entirely, crossing the space until he’s standing over my chair. He peers down with curious eyes. “I have news you might like to hear.”
I roll my eyes, but the motion has no energy. “Hmm?”
“You’re going to see Brielle.” The words land like they’ve been dropped on my head, ringing loud through the room even though his voice stays quiet.
It’s been one day. How is that even possible?
“That’s not—” My throat tightens. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” Vincent says, like it’s a fact. One that’s not up for debate. He sets a file on the table, flipping it open just far enough to make a point before closing it again. “And I have.”
Colt leans forward, brows raised. “Well, that’s news.”
I look to him. “Did you know he could do that?”
“Didn’t have the faintest,” he says, grinning so wide you’d think he’s watching the best show in the building. “But I’m enjoying this.”
Vincent clears his throat. “It wasn’t easy. She’s not mine to move, but I made it happen. I’m not sure for how long, but she’ll be here. No cameras. No audience. If you want it.”
Of course I want it. The answer is already forming before my mind catches up.
But I can’t help the flicker of suspicion. “Why?”
Vincent crouches so we’re at eye level. “Because you asked for something. And because you need it.”
I search him for the catch. “Maverick would never—”
“He didn’t have a choice.”
Something sharp twists in my chest. I want to ask how, but I already know he won’t give me the full answer.
I glance at the oversized bin of untouched art supplies, the clay still clutched in Colt’s hands, the piano keys I’m too scared to touch.
He’s been trying to bribe me back to myself, inch by inch. And now—this.
“You really can do that?” I ask, softer this time.
One corner of his mouth lifts, just enough to make it clear he’s holding the winning card. “I already have.”
Colt lets out a low whistle, still grinning like a fool. “Damn, Harrow. Power looks good on you.”
Vincent doesn’t acknowledge him. His attention stays on me, steady. “Well?”
I perk up, rolling out my shoulders. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, just as his tablet pings against his hip. Vincent sighs. Scrubs a hand down his face. “I have to go. Just—try to do something, all right?”
I give him a slow nod as he turns to leave. He murmurs something too low for me to catch, tugging on a pair of black leather gloves.
Once I’m sure he’s gone, I turn back to Colt. “Where’s he always running off to?”
Colt shrugs. “Wherever Carr points. Damage control, if I had to bet. That’s his specialty.
He’s Carr’s guy for the fires no one else can put out.
” He settles back into the chair, tossing the clay from hand to hand.
“Could be anything, though. Could be notes, could be cleanup, could be polishing the man’s shoes.
Doesn’t matter—when Carr whistles, Harrow’s already halfway down the hall. ”
I don’t bother hiding my shock. “Really?”
“Morning, noon, and night.” He glances my way. “What? You think they call him the hound for his pretty coat? It doesn’t matter if he looks like he’s running the place. He’s not. He’s on a leash, same as the rest of us.” His grin slips, the clay falling into his lap. “He just hides it better.”
Leash. I almost laugh it off, but unease sinks in my stomach.
I should feel safer knowing that even he answers to Carr, but all I can think is how tired he looked, how fast he moved when the tablet pinged—like hesitation would cost him far more than himself.
He runs himself ragged on Carr’s every whim.
And for what? To what end?
Colt waves a hand in front of my face, prying me from my guilt spiral. “Hey. We aren’t focusing on that right now. You told him you’d try. So we’re trying. Grab some clay.”
I slide off the chair slowly, reaching for the bag. “Why are we doing this again?”
He rips off a piece, smushing it between his fingers. “‘Cause it’s fun.” His gaze softens. “You deserve something fun.”
“Fun,” I echo, staring at the clay. I want to roll my eyes again, but something lightens in my chest. “I’ll be the judge of that.”