Chapter 8
Rhys
Rhys braced his hand against the wall of the shower, letting his head hang beneath the rushing water.
He didn’t know what time it was. Early. The only information he had to go on was the hint of daylight in the corner of the skylight above him.
It had been a long time since he’d had a hemiplegic migraine that severe. And, fuck, he hadn’t missed them at all.
Even back during the worst of his attacks, Rhys had had his family there with him. They’d taken care of him when he hadn’t been able to take care of himself. It was a frightening sensation to be rendered so useless. One he hadn’t missed.
And to be rendered useless in the sole company of a woman he knew full well hated him—one he’d spent the day antagonising—was his worst nightmare.
Yet she’d risen to the occasion. He raised a hand to his scalp, wincing slightly. Migraines always left his head feeling like it had been kicked around like a football, but he wondered how much worse it would have been if Penny had left him to face the agony alone.
After rinsing, Rhys turned off the shower.
He towelled off before putting on a clean change of clothes.
He was desperate to get to Villa Scilly today, desperate to get his next infusion.
Just because he’d had one hemiplegic migraine last night didn’t mean that another couldn’t strike at any time.
Yesterday, they’d been less than an hour from where the ferry departed from in Falmouth.
With a bit of luck, they could make the first crossing.
Gathering up his pile of dirty clothes, Rhys turned off the bathroom light and quietly opened the door—
Just in time to see the handle of the front door depress.
He disappeared back behind the bathroom door, leaving it ajar as he peeked through the gap. He was relieved to discover that Penny had locked the door before settling down on the bed with him, but that didn’t seem to deter whoever was out there.
A few telltale clicks told Rhys that the would-be intruder was attempting to pick the lock.
He gritted his teeth, looking around for a weapon and settling for a large, ceramic plant pot in the corner. He kept his ear close to the gap, listening as they failed to gain access, until a heart-sinking click reached his ears.
Rhys closed his eyes as the dread swept over him. He was in no condition to do this.
There was a slight creak as the front door opened.
Beneath his bare feet, Rhys could feel the moment the intruder stepped inside the tiny building.
There was a pause after the first step, but eventually a second came.
The third sounded farther away, giving him enough confidence to look through the gap once more.
The intruder hadn’t seen him—but he was heading straight towards a sleeping Penny.
Motherfucker.
Silently hoping the bathroom door was well-oiled, Rhys clutched the improvised weapon and crept forward. The migraine meant he was sluggish, but he hoped the element of surprise would bridge the gap.
He managed two steps before the intruder heard him, but it was enough.
Just as the man began to turn, Rhys brought the plant pot down on him with as much strength as he could muster.
The man turned at just the right moment, meaning the blow struck his shoulders, but even that was enough to send him crumpling to the floor in a cacophony of groans and shattered pottery.
In the midst of it, Rhys caught a look at his face—instantly recognising him from George Chomsky’s security team. Max, his name might have been? He barely gave it a thought, jumping backwards as the silver of a blade sliced through the air, held tight in Max’s fist.
Out of the corner of his eye, Rhys saw a thick wooden chopping board on the kitchen counter.
He picked it up, giving Max time to take a second swipe—but Rhys was already lining up his own, aiming it squarely at his opponent’s face.
This time, his blow struck true, but he hadn’t anticipated the meaty thud it would make, or the sickening sound of Max’s nose crumpling beneath the chopping board. Even with his stomach churning, though, Rhys lined up a second shot.
Max, however, slumped backwards, his eyes half closed.
Rhys didn’t waste time. He turned the man over, straddled him to pin him down, and yanked his arms up behind his back. He looked around for something to tie them with.
“Is he dead?” Penny asked behind her hands, backed against the wall in fear.
“Probably not. Help me look for…” Rhys trailed off as he saw a bunch of zip ties in Max’s back pocket. Fucking bastard. “Come here. I need another pair of hands to tie him up.”
Penny scrambled off the bed and—after he’d explained to her how zip ties worked—first secured Max’s hands behind his back and then his feet together.
When their intruder was secure, Rhys bent down to listen to his back, relieved to find that he was, in fact, breathing. The last thing he needed to deal with was a body.
“Did you give the people at reception any of our information?” he asked Penny.
“Of course. They asked for it.”
Rhys exhaled, closing his eyes. “You’re too honest for your own good.
” He didn’t need to get rid of a body, but he did need to get rid of a walking, talking pain in the arse.
Rifling through Max’s pockets, he didn’t find anything else of note.
No phone. No car keys. Only a lock-picking kit, a pair of wire cutters, a Sharpie, and Penny’s phone.
A phone he knew he’d seen charging on the coffee table when he went to take a shower.
Twiddling the Sharpie between his fingers, Rhys was struck with an idea.
“Where are the car keys?” he asked Penny, using Max’s abandoned knife to nick the man’s shirt before tearing it in two.
Penny shoved the keys in front of his face.
“Cheers. Can you pack up everything in here while I deal with him?”
She didn’t move, fear contorting her expression as her eyes jumped between them. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you going to kill him?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. Now pack everything up. Quickly.”
With Penny busying herself with shoving everything back in his bag, Rhys dragged Max’s unconscious body out of the little lodge. He himself had barely been conscious on his walk in, but he didn’t waste time sightseeing.
Thankfully, the Bentley was parked directly in front of the lodge’s garden area, but he had no intention of putting Max in the back seat.
Opening up the boot, Rhys took the time to perfect Max’s appearance—front and back—using the Sharpie the man had so helpfully provided, nodding with approval once his work was completed.
Max didn’t know it yet, but he was about to have a terrible day.