11. Damaged
Chapter 11
Damaged
Winnie
My locked door opens for the second time today, revealing the man who stole Tru away from me at the cemetery. He nods to me, staid and solemn, then steps to the side allowing me to see Tru, tear-stained and cowering behind him.
It’s been almost twenty-four hours and she looks petrified, absolutely panicked.
“Tru,” I say softly, not wanting to startle her. I can only imagine just how on edge she is right now. Call me a mother hen when it comes to her, but she hasn’t spent a night away from my house since I got her back.
The years she was away—first stolen, then recovering—were absolutely hell for me. After Christophe disappeared, and my father started using me for his business deals, Tru was the only friend I had. Until she was gone too. What happened to her during that time…I don’t know that I can ever fully understand it.
I get no reaction and step closer repeating her name and getting the same response. Non-response, really, because she gives me absolutely nothing.
I glare at her tall, copper-haired escort and whatever hate and vitriol is running through me, tempers just the tiniest bit. His stoicism is softened with the way he looks at her.
He offers me a small smile and ushers Tru through the door, settling her on the oversized chair angled toward the warmth and flames radiating from the fireplace.
“What did you do to her?” I bite out on a whispered hiss. “Where has she been?”
My instinct, my gut reaction, is to put myself between this guy and Tru. To protect her, shield her from everything and anything bad in the world. I failed her once, the thought of doing that again is unfathomable.
But I stop and look. Really take in the dynamic between them.
He’s different—gentle, caring…attentive and in tune with the darkness that lives inside her, with her needs.
He shakes out the soft, thick throw from the back of the chair and tucks it around her, brushing her baby fine hairs back from her face.
There’s something there—something more. Something intriguing , but I don’t know that I have time to think about it now.
Later. Later, I’ll try to parse things out, ask Tru…you know, when she’s able to string together coherent thoughts and speak.
For right now, I’ll let it go, at least this part of things. I need whatever information I can get from this guy, make a plan, and steal us away to safety.
“She’s in shock, been shut down since I put her in the car.”
I don’t miss the tender way he strokes her hair, runs his knuckles down her cheek, the side of her neck. The softening of his eyes as his gaze roams, touching her everywhere.
“Why are you just now getting here? Where did you take her?” I push my way to Tru’s side and drop to my knees in front of her.
She’s here, but she’s not present. For years, I’ve done everything I could to protect Tru from the outside world. Soothe her anxieties, keep the scary monsters and things that go bump in the night far, far away from her.
“She—”
I cut him off. “And who are you? What’s your name?”
A muscle in his jaw jumps and his eyes narrow ever so slightly before he blows out a sharp breath. “Teague Grey. I work for Mr. Robicheaux,” he states sharply. When his gaze darts back to Tru, it softens considerably. “Truie was…she was struggling when we left the cemetery. I drove until she calmed and then brought her here. I took her straight to her suite of rooms last night. I assure you; I saw to her needs personally.”
My glare is so sharp, it almost shocks me not to see blood dripping from his eyes.
“You saw to her needs? If you hurt her…laid a single finger on her…” I can’t even finish my thought.
This whole situation is so fucked up.
“Chr—Excuse me. Mr. Robicheaux asked me to bring her to see you as soon as possible today. She’s…she’s not yet eaten and needs to drink some water.” Teague glances from Tru to me and asks, “If you could perhaps encourage her along those lines, I would greatly appreciate it. I have some things to see to for Mr. Robicheaux.” He waits for my response before nodding once again and stepping out into the hall.
Garrick takes the ginger oaf’s place, a heavy tray of food and drinks balanced expertly on his fingertips. “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing a simple tea. A bit early in the day, but it seemed prudent.”
He presents a gorgeous spread of finger sandwiches, hand pies, and tarts. Cookies and delicate little cakes.
I’ve never in my life seen anything so lavish. He can’t really think this is simple, can he?
Fine porcelain plates are set before us as well as crystal water goblets, but the cutlery is very obviously absent. Not that it’s necessary for the food, everything is bitesize.
“Is it a special occasion?” I ask, my voice sharper than the sweet man deserves.
“Miss?” He pauses in his ministrations, his brows pulled together. “It’s truly a simple offering. Mr. Robicheaux didn’t want your dinner spoiled. Is it not to your liking?”
Lord help me, I feel like I’m in an alternate reality. Like the shit I saw my parents tripping through when they took too much of their own stash.
“Would the lady rather have something different? I’m happy to provide whatever it is you’d prefer.” He stands ramrod straight and smooths his perfectly tailored jacket. The man is quite serious and now I feel like a bumbling idiot. A rude bumbling idiot.
“No, I’m sorry. Everything looks great, really. I just meant”—I point toward where my plastic cup from last night sits on the end table—“I’m being trusted with real glassware?”
A grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “It would seem so, miss. Is there anything more I can do for you? For Miss Cochonette?”
“You’re still opposed to leaving the door unlocked and letting us sneak out of here?” I know the answer is no, but it can’t hurt to try.
“I see the lady has a lovely sense of humor today.” He steps to the door and before locking us in tight, adds, “Dinner is at eight. Mr. Robicheaux will expect you to dress for the occasion.”
Hours later, after spending most of the afternoon with Tru, watching movies and doing everything in my power to coax some water into her, she’s asleep. Curled into a tight ball tucked into my massive bed, the throw Teague placed over her gripped securely in her balled fists.
Each time I moved the throw, Tru pulled it back in tighter, but of the handful of words she gave me, not a single one gave me anything about where she spent last night. Not a word about what happened or why she’s been shaking so hard.
All I’ve gotten from her at the mention of Teague is the smallest pause in her trembling as she clutches the last thing he touched to her chest.
I glance at the clock and curse the fact that I can’t just stay here with her. I’m exhausted and the last thing I want to do is squeeze myself into the scrap of a dress that was delivered to my room.
It’s gorgeous—bloodred and cut to mold to my curves.
Grudgingly, I shower and dry my hair, twisting it into space buns perched on the crown of my head. As I dust on makeup, I wonder who went shopping for all of this and exactly how they matched my colors so perfectly.
And why.
Why is any of this happening? There has got to be more than meets the eye.
I don’t doubt that my parents fucked up and did it spectacularly. They’ve been doing that my whole life. But this attention from Christophe, his intensity, is unlike anything I could imagine. It’s got to spring from something different, something deeply rooted and terrifying.
Jesus.
I pause, makeup brush smooshed against my cheek. What the hell am I doing? After all that I’ve been through and as crazy as all of this has been, why am I painting my face fully intent on stepping into a dress that was delivered to my room? My locked room in this damn house?
Stockholm Syndrome is a very real thing, but that doesn’t mean I have to drink willingly from its cup.
Hell no.
I set the high-end products aside, adjust the belt on my robe and glare at the gorgeous gown hanging from the door of the closet. While it hasn’t done anything to me, what it represents has me all kinds of twisted up.
I’ve never really rocked the boat, always did what was expected of me. Toed the line to keep things copacetic and not make waves no matter what sketchy situation my father happily sent me into. Fat lot of good that did me.
Instead of sliding the shimmery red gown on, I dig through the other clothes tucked neatly away in the walk-in closet. If I’m going to be waltzing into the unknown with this dinner, I want my armor to be comfortable.
Tiny black workout shorts that will barely cover my ass. I dig through another drawer and find a fitted t-shirt almost the exact color of the dress. I pull each item on, adding a pair of soft socks that hit just above my knees.
I don’t even bother with the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. I feel cute and comfortable—and totally inappropriate for a formal dinner.
I love it.
There’s a soft knock before the lock clicks and the door swings open. Garrick steps into the suite and clears his throat, glancing around fleetingly. I can only imagine his trepidation.
I enter the sitting room and pull the bedroom door closed behind me. Tru is well and truly out cold and if she stays that way, it’ll make my life so much easier. I’ll be able to concentrate on finding a way out of all of this.
“Miss L’Ourson? Was there a problem with your attire for the evening?” Panic laces the butler’s question, concern marring his features.
His eyes sweep me up and down, taking in my hair, my outfit, my knee socks. I look more like I should be starring in a sorority porno than having dinner in a mansion with a beautifully dangerous specimen of a man.
“Nope, no problems. I decided this is more…me.” I pluck at the hem of my t-shirt, tugging the cropped fabric low enough to reveal the swell of my tits. There’s not much to it, honestly. My choices are flashing under-boob or ample cleavage.
Garrick’s eyes widen the slightest bit before his gaze darts to whatever is over my shoulder. That blank wall must be fascinating with the way he’s focused.
“I see”—he clears his throat and straightens his spine—“Mr. Robicheaux specifically requested you dress.”
“He did. You mentioned that earlier. But here’s the thing, Garrick. I don’t see why I should put in the effort. Why should I go through all the work of doing my hair and makeup? Why should I stuff myself into a dress that may not even fit me?—”
“I assure you, miss, the dress is to your exact measurements.”
“When I am nothing more than a hostage here?” I ignore the fact that someone involved not only picked up the perfect makeup palette but also knows my measurements. That’s just a whole different level of…I’m not sure what.
“Miss, I implore you.” Garrick is the epitome of stoicism as he dutifully avoids actually looking at me. Once again, the blank wall over my shoulder is getting the full weight of his stare. “Mr. Robicheaux is?—”
“Going to have to get over himself,” I tell him with a smirk. “Now, are you escorting me to face my sentence? Or are you going to bring me another charcuterie board and some wine? Because that sounds so much better than whatever Christophe has in store for me. I think I’d much rather hang out with you and Tru, shooting the shit and painting each other’s nails.”
“As delightful an evening as that may be, your presence has been requested in the dining room. And I rather enjoy the state of my being just as it is,” he states, fighting the lift at the corner of his mouth.
Garrick opens the door and ushers me out into the hallway.
Teague looks up from his phone, eyes bright, shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
He looks almost pained, holding back his smile as he takes me in. “Shit. I hate that I’m going to miss the boss’s reaction to this.”
I laugh. “You’re not joining us for dinner?”
He shakes his head, letting a small chuckle escape. “Nah. Much as I’d love to see Christophe’s face when you waltz your ass into the dining room, I don’t want Tru to wake up alone.” He pushes into my suite and opens the door separating the bedroom from the sitting room. His features soften as he gazes at Tru’s sleeping form. The door stays ajar as he pads silently to the settee, settling in as if there’s no other place he’d rather be.
And I hate him a tiny bit less for the way he cares for my friend.