32. Scarlett
SCARLETT
PURGATORY
Ilie in the middle of Sebastion’s bed, the same as I do every other day, with my ankles crossed and my messy ponytail hanging over the back of my pillow. My stomach rumbles, because it’s a little past lunchtime and Sebastion is… elsewhere.
I don’t even know where.
He’s not on the grassy area outside my window with the other exercising soldiers.
He’s not in the hall, guarding my door. Someone else is out there.
I don’t dare poke my head out to figure out who they are, but the gentle waft of their aftershave makes its way into my lungs, and though it’s not an unpleasant smell, it’s not Sebastion.
I know I could wander into the family’s private kitchen and find something for lunch.
Sebastion insists I can, and I glimpsed Arabella’s long, dark hair in the yard a while ago, which means I’m not likely to run into her.
Nevertheless, I remain where I am, ignore my grumbling stomach, and focus on my texts instead.
If I can’t be at home, I’ll speak with my home.
Lincoln:
I swear to God, if I find out you’ve spent your ENTIRE birthday holed up in that room you call a prison, I’m gonna whoop your ass.
I bought you a gift today. Nova and I were in town for breakfast, since, ya know, we gotta eat and all that shit. I walked past a place and saw something in the window.
Snatched it up real quick and dropped my credit card in exchange.
I know it doesn’t feel like a birthdayish kinda birthday, since you’re there and I’m here, but I promise, I’ve got your gift and I’ll give it to you the minute I see you again.
After I give you my other gift. The real gift. The most important gift of them all.
Me:
Is it you, Linc? Are you the gift?
Lincoln:
IT’S ME! I’M THE GIFT!
Me:
So the same gift you give me every other year. *Yawn* Unless the thing in the window cost five figures, I don’t want it.
I hit send and smile as my message works its way through the inter-webs. Or however text messages pass through the universe. Then, as the little speech bubbles bounce, I watch in anticipation for his reply.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And then laughing.
Lincoln:
Princess, indeed. Jesus. No wonder Tank wants to deck you half the time.
Me:
Charming, Castro. Blame the victim, why dontcha?
Lincoln:
Victim, my ass. You’re the second coolest chick I know, usurped only by the love of my fuckin life.
You’ve never been afraid to put in the work. You don’t need fancy. But the instant you and dipshit over there are in the same space, you show him this high-maintenance broad whose chin sits just high enough to tempt him to tap it.
Me:
Wow. Doubling down on the misogyny, I see. What a lovely birthday gift.
Lincoln:
You won’t bait me into an argument today. It’s your birthday. Maybe you should do something fun today. You only turn 26 once.
I roll my eyes.
Me:
We only turn every age once, dummy. I was only 25 once, too. Gave that up at midnight last night. Didn’t cry about it or anything.
I mean… I cried. For a man I’d just met, while he slept fitfully in his hospital bed, aided by an oxygen mask when the machines alerted his nurses to the need. I cried for the man sat beneath me, while he flirted and held my hand, but beneath my ear, his heart raced and ached.
Instead of bringing me back to our room, he switched on the television and insisted we spend our time barely paying attention to a dumb sitcom, all to honor a sick man’s simple request and keep him company while he slept.
I even cried for Arabella and Paul Jameson, because they mourn the best friend they know they’ll soon lose. Because they hurt for the brother too young to be burdened by his mortality.
And then when Sebastion’s phone chirped with a warning that Arabella was on her way back, he took me to bed and made me cry completely different tears.
The best kind. The healing kind.
But now it’s a new day, and my brother’s suggestion to get out and find something fun rings a little hollow.
What kind of fun does he expect me to find while surrounded by a hundred armed men and a homicidal Arabella already in the throes of grief?
Me:
I saw some horses the night we drove in. Not entirely sure if they belong to the neighbors or, who knows, maybe they’re wild. But since it’s my birthday and I allllllways wanted a pony…
Lincoln:
If they’re wild, leave them alone!
If they’re wild and you insist on ignoring my last message, then at least don’t stand behind them.
In fact, tell Tank to stand behind them. Then shout real loud and see what happens. Send me pics.
I choke out a silly giggle and try to picture the obnoxiously large, much-too-gruff Sebastion Jameson spending any of his spare time with a bunch of ponies. Amongst the explosives hidden in the ground… above the extensive and, unknown to me, tunnel system beneath his property.
Me:
I’m not allowed to take pictures here.
Lincoln:
Uh… what?
Me:
I didn’t stutter.
Mommy Dearest says so. Something about Trojans and image-eating web security bots combing the servers and… I don’t even know.
I got so bored during that lecture, my brain glazed over.
Not.
My brain glazed over from fear and disbelief. Grief and the panic that came with having all of my safety nets taken away in one fell swoop.
Me:
Hang on. I’ll test it.
Tapping the camera button and reversing the view, I attempt to smile at the image reflecting back at me, but all I see are my eyes, more shadowed than usual.
My hair, messier than regular-life-me would typically allow.
A soft red spot warms my skin just below my collarbone, and though I don’t recall exactly how it originated, memories of Sebastion’s lips settled right there last night fill in the blanks easily enough.
I tug my sweater just a fraction higher to hide the mark from my brother—because I’m boiled spaghetti, even on my birthday—then I consider flashing a peace sign.
Or a half-heart with my fingers.
But I only turn twenty-six once, and I’ve been stuck in what feels like the tumble setting of a washer/dryer for a month already, so I choose pettiness instead.
I flash just one finger.
The middle one.
I capture the picture and attach it to my message, then I hit send and… wait for the explosions. I glance toward my door, expecting armed soldiers on a raid. I peek toward the window; maybe they’ll come in that way.
Frowning, I tap on my screen again.
Me:
Did you get it?
Lincoln:
You sent a picture?
Me:
Yep! It was my gift to you.
Lincoln:
It didn’t arrive…
Guess Jameson’s cyber security folks earned their pay today. No pic. Now I’m sad.
Lame.
Me:
Kinda feels like a prison to me.
I draw a shaking breath and hope the painful yearning prickling my heart passes soon.
We’re not supposed to cry on our birthdays.
Me:
What happened last night? Did you find Greene? Ask him nicely to stop bothering me?
Lincoln:
No. Still waiting for my contact to come back with more information.
Double lame.
I turn toward the sound of my door handle rattling, then at the shuffling of feet on the other side. With a pounding heart and dread pulsing where my blood should be, I shove up straight and lock my phone screen.
Maybe the siege has arrived.
Maybe my blatant disrespect toward Arabella’s no-pictures rule has pushed her over the edge of her tightly gripped tolerance.
Maybe I’m being especially melodramatic because I only turn twenty-six once. But then the door cracks open and Sebastion’s deep, commanding voice rumbles through as he finishes a discussion with my assigned guard.
Gulping, I snatch up my phone, unlock it, navigate to my texts with Linc, and send one last message.
Me:
The Trojans have arrived to chop my head off. It was nice knowing you. Tell Nova I said goodbye. Love you forever.
Shaking my head, I lock the phone again and slip the device into my pocket. Across the room, Sebastion finishes whatever he and his buddy are discussing, then he steps across the threshold, closes the door, and meets my eyes.
He simply stares. Grins. Objectifies me a little.
“Hey.” I push off the bed and nervously drag my sweater sleeves down. “Busy day today?”
“Come with me.” He starts across the room and latches onto my hand, all in less time than it takes for my buffering brain to process his words. “We’re going out.”
“Wait.” Stunned, I dig my heels in and try to slow him down. Useless, really, considering how much bigger he is. “Sebastion, stop!”
“Scarlett, go.” His eyes dance with the same kind of playfulness I see when he wants to fuck.
But it’s also the same look he gives when he wants to be mean.
I know he’s capable of cruelty just as surely as he can worship a woman’s body.
I’ve been on the receiving end of both. Unfortunately for me, I can’t determine which way his mood will go until he shows me, and because of it, I can’t convince my nervous system to calm the hell down.
“I’ve got something to show you, Princess. ”
“Sebastion—”
He drags me all the way to the door, but instead of opening it, he slingshots me forward and around, then he presses my back to the hard wood and follows me in until my breath explodes from my lungs and he somehow manages to catch it.
“Yum.” He nibbles on my lips and thrills in his uncanny ability to make me forget whether I’m angry or sad.
Nervous or excited. Horny, or simply searching for a distraction from the shitshow that is my life.
“I’ve only been gone for a couple of hours, but I forgot how fuckin’ delicious you are.
” He slides his palms along my ribs, my hips, the swells of my ass.
And all along, his teeth do magical things to my neck. “Fuck, Scarlett.”
“Where were you?” If I close my eyes and hold my breath, I could almost convince my brain to function again. “Also, I tried to send a picture to my brother. It didn’t work.”
He snorts and peels the front of my sweater down, latching his lips onto the mark I already attempted to cover up. “Told you it wouldn’t work.”