Chapter Six
WHO KNEW IT WOULD BE this hard to pretend you aren’t crushing on someone?
It’s been four days since I woke up in this mansion with a bullet wound, and every single one of those days has been an exercise in torture.
My side hurts whenever I make the wrong move, but it’s my heart that I’m worried about.
While it’s not quite broken, but it’s not quite okay either, and it feels less and less okay whenever I’m in his presence.
He checks my bandages every morning. His fingers brush my skin, clinical and precise, and my traitorous body shivers every single time.
I’ve memorized the rhythm of it now: the cool sting of antiseptic, the careful press of fresh gauze, the way his palm flattens against my ribcage to smooth the tape into place.
His hand is so large it nearly spans my entire side. I try not to think about that. I fail.
He brings me meals on trays that look like they belong in a five-star restaurant, and I eat while staring out the window at the rolling hills and eucalyptus groves because looking at him is dangerous.
The view is stunning, all golden California light spilling across manicured gardens and distant mountains, but I barely see any of it. I’m too busy not seeing him.
He asks me questions in that flat, clipped voice of his, and I answer in monosyllables because if I let myself talk, I might say something stupid like...
Why do you have to be so beautiful when you think I’m so ugly?
Why do you have to be so kind when you’re just going to hand me off to someone else?
Why can’t you want me the way I want you?
So I’ve developed a coping mechanism.
Every time my heart does that stupid little flip, every time I catch myself staring at the way his sweater stretches across his shoulders or the way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking, I mentally chant my new mantra.
He thinks I’m ugly.
He wants to marry me off.
He thinks I’m ugly.
He wants to marry me off.
I know he didn’t exactly describe me that way, but it means the same thing, right?
And I’m...I’m honestly bothered that he thinks he has to marry me off.
Since when did the FBI double as a matchmaking agency?
Or maybe this is his former-bad-guy days coming to the fore?
I mean...I’ve read my fair share of mafia romances over the years, and everyone in that world thinks an arranged marriage solves everything. So maybe—
OH MY GOSH.
An email has just popped on my screen, and I cannot believe what I’m reading.
RE: Query - THE INFERNALIS FILES
It’s a reply from a no-reply literary agent I emailed just yesterday. And when a no-reply literary agent does actually reply, it can only mean one thing, and it’s why my hand is shaking so bad when I click the email open.
Dear Ms. de los Reyes,
Thank you so much for querying me with THE INFERNALIS FILES. I absolutely devoured your sample pages and am thrilled to offer you representation...
A cry escapes me before I can stop it, but the sound is cut short when Zacharie blasts into my room a moment later, the door slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the crystal chandelier.
“What happened?”
“I...I...”
“Is someone here? Did you—”
Realizing that he completely misunderstood my reason for crying out, but unable to speak because my emotions are still all over the place, I can only point to the laptop he’s lent me, and as Zacharie crosses the room to read the email that promises to make my dream come true—
Everything that’s happened in the past four days suddenly come rushing back, all at the same time.
Kidnapped. Almost auctioned.
Shot. Almost died.
Crushed on someone. Almost crushed by that same someone.
And just like that, I’m crying like there’s no tomorrow.
Did all of those things really happened?
And when I think of how this was all because of Trina—
Why does she hate me so much?
I find myself crying even harder because I still love my cousin, and I think I always will. I know she’s only taken me in so she can have access to the money my parents left. But even so. She’s my flesh and blood—
“Luc Infernalis...”
It feels so weird to hear someone say a name that used to exist only in my mind.
“He’s not real.”
I look at my rescuer uncertainly. Why does it sound like he’s gritting the words out? “If you’re asking if he’s based on someone real—”
“Is he?”
He doesn’t just ask this sharply, but he also faces me all of a sudden, and I nearly jump back at the way he’s glaring at me.
Um.
Okay.
Maybe he’s all about stories being authentic and there’s something in my query letter that ticks him off? Maybe he thinks the way I describe Luc is unrealistic—
“Answer me, Mira.”
This time, I do jump back...because every time I hear him say my name makes me feel I’m in danger. Of what, however...I don’t want to know.
“Is he based on someone real?”
I shake my head.
“So he’s entirely...made up.”
I nod.
He doesn’t say anything else, but a muscle has started ticking in his jaw, and that makes me feel worse for some reason. I’ve been living under his roof for four days now, and I...I still feel like a burden to him.
“This agent...you know her?”
“She’s legit.”
“And you emailed her just yesterday.”
I wish I could do more than nod.
But I can’t.
You see, I thought long and hard about my future once my head stopped hurting, and my rescuer, at my request, gave me undeniable documentary and photographic evidence of Trina’s betrayal.
She really did have me drugged. Kidnapped. And sold for $50,000.
And because of that, my rescuer was right when he told me there’s no going back to my old life.
But as to how I plan to move forward...that wasn’t as easy to figure out.
The one thing I was certain of was that I didn’t want to marry someone just for my safety. I didn’t want to be passed along like a package, handed from one man’s protection to another’s. I wanted to move forward on my own terms.
And that was what pushed me to face my fears.
I queried every literary agent I thought might be a perfect fit for the kind of stories I write and draw. I polished my sample pages until my eyes burned. I crafted query letters and deleted them and rewrote them and deleted them again.
All while convincing myself that no one would ever want my work.
Until now.
“Congratulations, Mira.”
It wasn’t just the words that startle me into looking at him, but the way he said it. His voice has changed. It’s no longer cold and hard. It’s gentle now. And dare I say warm—
Stop right there, Mirabella de los Reyes!
Don’t forget he thinks you’re ugly!
So just stop thinking him being nice changes things.
“Thank you,” I manage to say with a smile instead. “And if, um, all goes well with this, I think...”
Icy blue eyes narrow at my direction, and it becomes a challenge not to wilt under his gaze.
“You asked me before how I wanted to move forward—” The words tumble out in a nervous rush. “And this is it. I don’t want to be a burden to you—”
“I never said you were.”
His voice is back to being sharp, and yes, to be fair to him, he never said those words to my face, but he had to be thinking along those lines to want to marry me off.
Right?
“Anyway—” I struggle to keep my smile in place because the last thing I want is for this guy to realize how much he’s hurt me without even trying. “I just wanted you to know I’m very, very grateful to all your help—”
“I was only duing my duty.”
Ouch.
I’m ugly, so he sees me as a duty.
This guy truly has a way with words.
My rescuer crosses his arms, and I just hate how it makes me look at his perfectly sculpted biceps despite everything.
“You’ve been acting oddly for some time now.”
“I’ve just been thinking hard of how I want to move forward with life without you—”
He stills.
“I mean, without having to bother you.”
“I didn’t realize your stay here has been so unpleasant.”
Color bursts in my cheeks. “You misunderstand. I didn’t mean.
..I’m grateful, okay? I can never thank you enough for saving me, but I’m just not used to depending on anyone, and.
..and I don’t think it’s fair that I keep troubling you like this.
So I’m really hoping this email will change everything. ”
He glances back at the laptop. “You used your real name when querying. Does this mean—”
“I’ll use a pseudonym if I do get published. One of my favorite authors openly acknowledges using one, and no one knows who he is. Or if he’s really a he or a she.”
“And where do you intend to live?”
As far away from you as possible.
“Somewhere really far?”
A pause.
And then he says coolly, “Give me a day, and then we can talk about options.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
How weird. That same word we just uttered is supposed to mean something wonderful, so why did we both sound like we’re talking about our own obituaries?
Silence erupts between us, and I find myself stupidly taking notice of how the afternoon light slanting through the window has caught the gold in his hair, and—
Stop it, Mira!
I clench my fists against my sides, terrified that I’d suddenly find myself reaching up to touch his hair.
“Have you thought of what pseudonym you’d use?”
The question catches me off guard. “I...”
“It has to be something that won’t draw attention.”
“I was thinking of using Ariana Taylor,’ I say at the same time.
Silence.
But this time, the kind that makes me feel rather defensive.
“It’s not that bad!”
“Why not add Rihanna while you’re at it?”
“Well, if I’m allowed to also add a middle name, I would love to—” I belatedly notice his gaze boring into mine, and oh.
He was being sarcastic.
“Ariana Taylor will do,” I say weakly.
A muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth. Is that...is that almost a smile? No. Impossible. The man’s face is carved from glacier ice. He doesn’t smile.
“Anything else you want to add?” he asks.
“Deceased parents, only child?”
“Too much like your real life. We’ll give you a fake sibling. Do you have any preferences?”
“I’ve always wanted a big brother, and...oh!”
“What is it?”
“I think I know where I’d like to be relocated.”
“Go on.”
“Would Chicago be possible?”
“That depends on your reason for choosing it.”
Do I tell him it’s because I love Michael Jordan, and I’ll always see him as one of the Bulls, never the Wizards?
That I used to fall asleep watching old championship games on YouTube, dreaming of a city I’d never seen?
That the idea of snow feels romantic to someone who grew up in endless California sunshine?
“It can’t be something your cousin can also figure out, if she were of the mind to look for you.”
That totally makes sense, but now I have no idea if Chicago is a safe place to choose. Trina can be weirdly observant at times, and I have no idea if she’s aware of me being a diehard MJ fan?
“Sleep on it,” my rescuer advises quietly. “Take your time thinking this through—” The sound of his phone buzzing cuts him off, and his expression noticeably turns grim at whatever he’s reading.
And when he looks my way, my heart just drops.
“What is it?” I whisper.
Are bad guys after me again? Is this going to be like the Taken franchise, and—
“Your cousin has been murdered.”