Chapter 23
SAGE
Ilie in bed, refusing to get up. Why should I? What’s the point?
I take my time, soaking up the sun’s rays pouring through the vast penthouse windows, letting the feeling of a new day and new place heal some dark part of myself that hates what I’ve become.
Troy Severin is an asshole.
It’s not a revelation, but I let the anger build slowly anyway, a spark catching flame as I think of the lies he’s told and the way he made me feel safe to remind me I’m not. That he got so angry when he assumed I would just let Fogg…and then dragged me into his office to…
And I let him…
You let him touch you, dear Sis. Naughty. Naughty.
Sod this.
Maybe if I keep myself busy and just focus on killing him, I’ll feel better.
But how? I don’t have a gun, and unlike Laine, I’m not a slash-and-run kind of girl. Last night was proof. Too much blood instantly puts me off.
Could there be a book that could help? Something about plants, maybe? I lost the vial of poison Nola gave me, but aren’t there wild plants that can drop a man in thirty seconds?
With a sigh, I make a note to head to the library when I get back to Grayfleet, to do the one thing I’ve abstained from doing the moment I got off the boat: pilfer Troy’s pristine shelves.
Then I get out of bed. But I stop short when I see there’s a dressing gown on the chair and a set of fluffy slippers waiting. Last night, on the bed, I was tipsy, and Troy was tending to my sore feet.
Was that real?
Oh God, I thought I dreamt that.
Troy touched my feet and painstakingly put Band-Aids on them.
Horrified, I take a long, hot shower, letting the blasting water and bilious steam cleanse my mind and soul from the shame. The fluffy slippers and the snuggly robe help, perfect for cocooning my body in soft cotton denial when I step out and wander onto the balcony.
Troy is nowhere to be seen, but it’s still early from the looks of things. The sun is rising over the city, smothering it in a ruddy haze.
Did he go to work?
I don’t remember him leaving last night, but I did wake up a few times and note how lonely the vast emptiness of a super king could be. Not that I wanted to share the bed with him.
That would have been even worse.
I turn from the breathtaking view to find a member of staff opening the door, wheeling in a selection of breakfasts. She smiles, sets the plates, coffee cups, and pot on the coffee table, then leaves.
Breakfast for two, then.
I should get dressed. What I assumed was a closet door reveals a room lined with day outfits, casual wear, and evening gowns, shoes, and accessories…all in my size, all with tags still attached. They’re the clothes I bought from Harrods. But they were delivered to Grayfleet, weren’t they?
I pick a few items out, a cute winter-green couture skirt with flowers embroidered on the pockets, a cream sweater, leggings, and then slip on my old, faithful boots.
I’m never wearing heels again.
I’m transferring the items from my purse to my shoulder bag: my phone, lip gloss, and the razor, when Troy storms in, on his phone, arguing in Italian.
He speaks Italian?
His eyes take in what I’m wearing with a frown, and then he makes a Latin-sounding curse, and hangs up.
“Are you ready?”
“I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”
“No need, I’m taking you out to eat.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then why would I? I’m starving; I’ll go anywhere for the promise of food.
Troy drives us to an old-fashioned breakfast place right in the middle of Hyde Park. They even lift the barrier for him so we can drive along the Serpentine Road.
Troy gets out and then opens the door for me. I don’t bother trying to get out before him anymore; the last time I tried, he gave me a look that could melt tarmac. “This place is famous for its pancakes.”
My ears prick up as I slip out of the leather seat and into the crisp, autumn air. “Pancakes are my favorite.”
“Yes. I know. Kathy…mentioned it.”
I stare at him. “Oh, she did?”
He returns the look. “After this, we’ll head back.”
When he starts walking ahead, but then falters. “Can you walk?”
“I can walk. My feet don’t hurt in these boots. Thank you for the Band-Aids last night.” Without warning, my face blooms red.
He nods, but then reaches for my hand. I let him take it, awkwardly, and he leads me into the restaurant.
The place isn’t busy, even though it’s becoming a lovely October day, for once, not a cloud in sight. Outside, around the pond, the trees are all kinds of hues of orange and red. Soon it’ll be winter, and there won’t be any colors left. I much prefer Fall to any other month.
We sit in a booth on opposite sides, and he orders blueberry pancakes with fruit toppings and orange juice for us both, and then we eat in silence, watching the ducks.
Or should I say, Troy works on his phone and I watch the ducks, occasionally sneaking a glance at him, wondering how the hell I got to this point and how on earth I’m going to kill him.
Instead, I reach for my phone to take a picture of the birds on the water, noting that several swans are mingling with the ducks.
Four swans to be exact.
I give a little shudder. I’m starting to hate swans, but the ducks look hungry. I start putting some of my toast aside on a napkin.
“What are you doing?” Troy eyes me over his phone.
“It’s for the ducks.”
His eyes narrow, and then he gestures to the waitstaff and asks them if they have any duck feed. The girls disappear into the back to look for some.
I’m staring at him when he catches my eye and shrugs. “Bread is bad for the birds.”
“Oh. Of course.” I knew that.
A few minutes later, the waitstaff place a bag of duck and swan food next to us on the table.
“We can stop by the pond on our way out,” he drawls and then goes back to his work.
On my lap, I feel my phone vibrate.
Taking it out, I see I have a few messages.
Laine:
Swanley kid vanished after his release, but Cash managed to get a copy of his prison records. I’ll send them now.
Also, Nola and I saw your wedding in the paper. WHAT IS HAPPENING?! Check in ASAP!
Mum:
Am I sitting next to your father at the church because I’d rather sit with Auntie Moreen?
How was the dress fitting? I’m still in London, so I couldn’t pop down, but I’m sure you look nice.
One glance up at Troy across the table, and I can see he’s still absorbed in his phone. Heart pounding, I click on Edward Swanley’s prison files that Laine sent. So this is the boy who burned his parents in their beds in the fire at Grayfleet?
My eyes skip through the clinical text, though certain words jump out at me…altercations, injuries, isolation, until I reach the note at the bottom, written in red marker:
Swanley’s reputation among inmates has become problematic. Staff refer to him as the Demon of Port Penn. He’s become increasingly violent in response to perceived threats. A psychological evaluation is STRONGLY recommended.
And then the final assessment:
Swanley is highly intelligent, calculating, and dangerous when provoked. Recommendation: Close supervision upon release.
I force myself to keep reading.
A detailed log of his injuries is next, catalogued in date order, starting with the extensive pre-existing burn scarring across the upper torso, neck, and shoulders from the fire.
Then come the prison wounds, and there are a lot, but I note the worst ones: a deep laceration to the left shoulder requiring sutures, and a shiv wound to his right side, below his rib cage, that the doctor notes, narrowly missed vital organs.
Troy was in prison, too, Kathy said as much when I was listening to her and Mundel. But I don’t know which prison. Is he the Demon of Port Penn?
I look up at Troy, still typing, ever the workaholic businessman, the same man who just ordered me blueberry pancakes, and try to see him as Edward Swanley, the psychopathic inmate, and fail.
But I do feel sick to my stomach.
If I could just see the scars, I’d know for sure, but that would mean him taking his shirt off, and I just swore not to let him touch me again.
Mouth dry, I send replies to everyone, and then quickly delete the messages from my phone. Then I stare at my food. I’m no longer hungry.
“I thought this was your favorite?”
I look up, and Troy is studying me. “I er, don’t feel...too well.”
Leaving the table before he can stop me, I hurry to the bathroom. Once inside, I slam the door shut and scrape the lock until it closes. Then I crouch down and cling to a toilet bowl for a good few minutes, emptying my stomach of bile, trying not to pass out.
Don’t be such a baby, Nell admonishes.
“And look where it got you,” I grit out.
Nell always used to call me weak, saying I was too innocent for my own good. But surely one gets a pass for marrying the Demon of Port Penn, kissing him when no one is looking, and then being left wanting more.
Surely?
When there’s nothing left, shaking, I get to my feet. I take my time washing my hands and face while staring at the pathetic girl in the mirror.
When I close my eyes and open them, I see my sister in my reflection, her pale face momentarily superimposed on mine—swollen, waterlogged, lips tinged blue, eyes empty and bulging in their sockets.
“Water does that to a corpse, baby sis.”
“Oh, go away,” I rasp, gripping the edge of the sink, but the mirage has already faded, leaving me alone again.
I pull out my phone and stare at its screen. I’ll need to find a way to see his scars. I’m shaking at the thought. And secretly looking forward to it, too. It makes me want to laugh and cry.
God, I’m losing it.
They’ll be committing me at this rate.
Shakily, I text my friends.
Sage:
You guys awake?
Laine:
It's 11 am on a Tuesday. Of course, we're awake. So, you’re getting MARRIED!
Nola:
When were you going to tell us?
Sage:
I was going to tell you. It’s just been a bit crazy here, but everything’s fine.
Laine:
How is that fine? What happened to the plan? Where are you?
Sage:
In Hyde Park. He took me for pancakes this morning.
Laine: