Chapter 5 #2
I tell myself it’s not because there’s something about his face that’s actually interesting to draw—the angles of his jaw, the thin scar through his left eyebrow, the way his eyes are darker than they should be for someone with his coloring.
My pencil moves almost automatically, capturing the harsh planes of his face, the way his mouth is usually set in a hard line except for those brief moments when it almost looks like he might smile.
I draw him the way he looked this morning when he came to make me eat: cold and controlled on the surface but with something else underneath.
Grief, maybe.
Or guilt.
Or both.
I add the scratches I gave him that I’m proud of. Battle scars from trying to claw his eyes out.
Annoyingly, that didn’t seem to bother him. He didn’t even flinch when I made them.
He caught my wrists and held on like I was no more threatening than a kitten.
The drawing takes shape and I realize with irritation that I’ve made him look almost…human.
Not the monster I want him to be, but just a man.
A complicated, stupid man who’s doing terrible things for reasons he thinks are justified.
Worse than that, I’ve made him look handsome, with those dark eyes and the way his mouth curves just slightly when he’s fighting that almost-smile.
“No,” I tell the sketch firmly, my irritation spiking. “Absolutely not.”
Before I can think better of it, I grab the pencil and scribble devil horns on his head in quick, aggressive strokes.
Then a ridiculous curly mustache across his upper lip, like the kind a cartoon villain would have.
There. That’s better.
“Fuck you,” I spit to the Leo drawing before I flip the sketchpad closed with more force than necessary and shove it to the far corner of the desk where I won’t have to look at it.
“This is your fault,” I inform the closed sketchbook, presumably addressing Leo even though he’s not here. “If you’d given me better books, I wouldn’t have resorted to drawing your stupid face.”
My stomach growls and I can’t ignore the hunger any longer.
The dinner tray is sitting on the coffee table where the guards left it an hour ago.
I inspect the food sitting under the warming tray.
It’s some type of pasta dish that actually looks pretty good and a side salad and bread that’s probably homemade because everything in this prison has been unnecessarily high quality.
I should eat.
I know I should eat but part of me still wants to fight and refuse everything they give me on principle.
“But you also don’t want them shoving a tube down your throat,” I remind myself as I sit down and pull the tray closer to me, loathing that my mouth is watering. “So maybe pick your battles better, Em.”
I’m halfway through the pasta when I decide I can’t stare at nothing anymore without screaming.
I grab the copy of Wuthering Heights because at least it’s about people being terrible to each other, which feels appropriate for my current situation.
I settle onto the bed with the book and a glass of water, propping pillows behind my back to get comfortable.
The first chapter is slow but I push through, determined to have something to occupy my mind besides the endless loop of fear and anger that’s been consuming me for three days.
I’m maybe thirty pages in, and just starting to get invested in the story, when I hear the first explosion.
It’s distant but unmistakable—a sharp, violent crack that rattles the windows and makes my heart stop.
For a second I think I imagined it, but then the alarms start blaring throughout the estate, loud and urgent.
I drop the book and jump up from the bed, my heart suddenly racing so fast I can feel it in my throat.
Another explosion, closer this time, then the unmistakable sound of gunfire.
Oh my god.
I run to the window and press my face against the glass, trying to see what’s happening.
Outside, the carefully manicured gardens are lit up with floodlights, and I can see movement near the perimeter walls.
There’s dark figures running, the flash of muzzle fire, and guards shouting and taking positions.
My father.
It has to be my father. He’s come for me.
“Dad!” I scream, even though there’s no way he can hear me through the glass and over the sound of alarms and gunfire. “Dad, I’m here! I’m up here!”
Pure elation floods through me, so intense it makes my knees weak.
He came for me.
My father came for me.
I’m going to be rescued.
I’m going to go home.
I pound on the window with my fists, screaming at the top of my lungs. “I’m here! I’m in the house! Second floor!”
But the window is thick and the battle is loud and no one can hear me.
I spin around and run to the door, pounding on it with everything I have.
“Dad! Daddy, I’m in here!” My voice cracks but I keep screaming. “Someone! Anyone! I’m locked in here!”
I can hear guards in the hallway, their voices urgent and sharp as they communicate with each other.
Someone’s calling for reinforcements.
Someone else is saying something about the south gate being breached.
More gunfire. So much closer now that it sounds like it’s right outside.
I back away from the door, my breath coming in short gasps, and look around wildly for anything I can use as a weapon.
The lamp on the nightstand?
I could smash someone in the head with that if I had to.
The letter opener is gone but one of those philosophy texts could actually be useful.
The pen…could I stab someone with a pen?
God, I hope I don’t have to find out.
The battle sounds like it’s everywhere now.
There’s gunfire coming from multiple directions, shouting in Italian and English, more explosions that shake the entire building.
I can hear running footsteps in the hallway, someone barking orders, and the sound of breaking glass from somewhere downstairs.
Come on, Dad. Come on. You’re so close.
I position myself behind the bed, the lamp clutched in my hands, ready to either defend myself or hit Leo Santoro if he tries to stop my rescue.
My whole body is shaking, but I don’t know if it’s from fear or the pure desperate hope that this nightmare is about to end.
Minutes pass like hours.
The gunfire is constant now, a horrible soundtrack that makes my ears ring and my heart hammer against my ribs.
At one point bullets punch through the wall of my bedroom—actual bullets, tearing through the plaster and sending debris flying—and I dive behind the bed with a scream, covering my head with my hands.
Oh god oh god oh god.
I stay there, pressed against the floor with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, while the battle rages around me.
Men are shouting, there’s more gunfire and something that sounds like it might be grenades.
The window shatters—just one pane, but it’s enough to let in the sounds of combat from outside, making everything seem even closer and real.
This is actually happening.
There’s an actual firefight happening right now, and my father is out there somewhere trying to get to me.
Please be okay. Please don’t get hurt. Please don’t let anyone die because of me.
And then, as quickly as it started, it stops.
The gunfire fades and the explosions cease.
The shouting dies down to tense, clipped communications that I can’t quite make out.
The alarms are still wailing but everything else goes quiet in a way that’s somehow worse than the noise.
I wait, barely breathing, desperately hoping that the silence means my father won.
That any second now, the door is going to burst open and it’ll be Connor Brennan standing there, coming to take his daughter home.
Please. Please please please.
Suddenly, I hear something.
Footsteps in the hallway.