Chapter Thirty-Three #2
I let him, but I don’t participate. I’m still upset over what happened last night. When he tries to spend time on foreplay, I push him away—he doesn’t argue, apparently too eager to get inside me.
The next morning, he leaves before I do. A note waits for me on the nightstand, informing me that he left early for a quick meeting, and he’ll return to collect me at around 10.
Collect me. As if I’m an object rather than a person.
Yet again, I throw up before I shower… but that doesn’t seem to curb my appetite before breakfast.
In all likelihood, my body is probably physically rebelling against the close proximity with Killian. My stress is at an all-time high, and while I’m not someone who gets carsick, I am someone who gets stress-sick when my anxiety becomes overwhelming.
I expect it to go away, but it doesn’t. We move on from London and head to Paris, staying at yet another lavish hotel with amenities that make my eyes bulge.
Every morning, as I think about the impending events of the day, I vomit.
Killian always leaves for an early meeting, sends me to the hotel before his last meeting or gala of the night, and then fucks me once he gets back.
I make no attempts to participate or get anything out of it; after a couple of days, he stops trying to keep up the pretense and just fucks me for his own pleasure.
Sometimes, I even throw up while waiting to get him back. I take it as a sign of my body being beyond done with this arrangement and begging me to cut ties with the beast that is Killian so I can move on with my life.
After how he reacted a couple nights ago, there is very little tethering me to him.
I’ve done everything he’s asked of me; I finished the novel he had me write a week ago, I’ve let him have my body in whatever way he desires, and I’ve kept him company for the predetermined amount of time.
Each day that passes marks one day closer to my freedom.
On the sixth day, we move onto Germany, where we stay in a former castle that’s been turned into a hotel.
Our room is the most beautiful and lavish yet, fit for kings and queens.
Sun pours through leaded windows, and a vaulted ceiling rises over a living room with carved-oak paneling.
There’s a limestone hearth big enough to host a party of three, velvet sofas gathered around a low table of inlaid marquetry, and a grand piano waits by the window, which overlooks a field of vineyards.
Through an archway, the bedroom is as large as a court.
A four-poster bed stands high and canopied in damask, with crisp linens glimmering over the mattress.
A pair of gilded mirrors catch candlelight from wrought-iron sconces; a writing desk of black walnut faces the view, stocked with handmade paper and a fountain pen.
The bathroom is sheer indulgence—Calacatta marble, a freestanding copper tub, twin vanities, and underfloor heating that warms the stone.
Killian chuckles at my parted lips as I explore the suite on our first night, as eager as a kid at a candy store.
The following morning, he leaves me a note informing me that he’s in meetings until the afternoon, and tells me I’m free to explore with Locke.
It hits me that he’s no longer bringing me to every event because he doesn’t want a repeat of the situation with Silas.
He doesn’t want me around other men, and he doesn’t want to give me the opportunity to covet other men.
His jealousy really is out of control… and he’s boxed me into something of a corner.
I only have little tidbits of information to go on, but my gut tells me that I was digging in the right place when I was researching Silas. Something is clearly going on between him and Killian—while I’m not sure what exactly it is, I’m determined to find out as soon as I get home.
Since I have some freedom—albeit monitored freedom—I decide to head out and explore the city.
Though I’m traveling internationally and luxuriously, I’ve scarcely had a chance to sight see or really take in all the different cultures.
After getting ready for the day, I ask Locke if he can take me to a café—somewhere I can sit, relax, and enjoy my alone-time.
Locke drives me onto a crowded street, parks the car, and brings me to the doorstep of a charming café.
I enjoy a coffee and delightful cheese pastry as I read the news on my phone, answer a few work-related emails, and enjoy listening to the people milling around me, speaking German and ignoring my existence.
I like blending into a crowd—it’s when the best people-watching can be done.
One of the reasons I pursued journalism is because human behavior fascinates me.
I watch as a woman at the table next to mine holds up her pinky, ring, and middle finger to order three lattes for her table—an odd change from the way Americans signal the number three.
A man walking outside holds the flowers upside-down by the stems.
The sun here is brighter, and the air somehow tastes cleaner. While I don’t enjoy having to deal with Killian’s bullshit, I do enjoy experiencing a snippet of foreign life.
Locke stays out of sight, though I know quite well he’s watching me.
Since I have the illusion of being alone, I enjoy a nice walk down the street once I’m done at the cafe, window shopping as I go.
When I pass a pharmacy, I pause. The shampoo Killian got me consistently makes me nauseous—I should probably look for something cheap and unscented as a replacement.
I step into the store, squinting at the foreign lettering on each aisle, and decide to just wander until I find what I’m looking for.
Everything’s cleaner here, from the streets to the stores. The tiled floors are polished to a shine, and the organization of products is sensible and accessible, even to a foreigner. I pass by an aisle with feminine products—tampons, pads, vitamins, and pregnancy tests—
I stop cold when my stomach turns over, and every cell in my body turns to ice.