Chapter 8
Connor Pen
For the millionth time, I stop myself from pulling out the key card I bought off the building manager from my pocket and taking the elevator up to Hilary’s apartment.
I have to be at work in less than four hours.
We can’t both be absent without a valid work-related reason or the rumor mill will have a field day.
I’ve been ruthless in the past to protect Hilary’s reputation, so she’s never landed in the company gossip columns, but people talk faster than their brains work.
One instance of the boss and his female personal assistant disappearing for a day without explanation would be social suicide for my gladiator goddess. I won’t allow it.
I haven’t spoken with Hilary since I fucked up in the changing room on Friday night. Her methods of avoidance during the work week may have been frustrating, but I can understand them. I don’t know what’s going through her head now.
She even skipped her friend’s wedding rehearsal to avoid me.
The only thing stopping me from breaking down her door is the assurance she only called in a sick day and didn’t put in her two weeks’ notice.
Movement in the shadows at the mouth of the nearest alley steals my attention. I slip through the darkness with my senses on high alert.
A rat shrieks and a cat yowls before little furry bodies streak across the circle of light underneath the streetlight.
I exhale in relief and stalk to a new stake-out position.
The burst of violence—and the painful throb of my hip—reminds me of my visit with Uncle Ronan this morning.
His strikes were more poignant than usual. The bruise on my hip may take weeks to heal. A steel-toed boot will win over flesh and bones every time.
When I didn’t include Hilary in my weekly update, he scowled and disappeared into the woods, relaying his disgust at my cowardice without a single word.
I was stupid to think I could omit such a big snafu, but I checked the surveillance records of the boutique and no one of questionable intent was there when she slapped me.
Her friend Penelope Miles and Sebastian Sterling saw her stomping out of the changing room, but they have no reason to tell an old man hiding out in the woods.
A suspicion forms in my mind.
After a few more minutes of watching the front of her apartment complex, I sneak around the building and perform a quick security sweep before pulling up my hood and jogging to the nearest subway entrance.
A few minutes later, I stop and wait at the crosswalk three blocks away from my destination.
I take off my hood and turn my face up to the streetlamp for a few moments out of respect despite the dots it leaves in my vision.
When the light man turns green, I walk the rest of the way with my hands swinging naturally out in the open and my strides purposeful but unaggressive.
This late at night, every inside light is off, but the bulb under the awning illuminates the entryway through the glass door. The shadows shift. My uncle’s face emerges from the darkness. His eyes gleam with the coldness of death.
He twists the lock and pushes the door.
“Took you long enough,” he gripes.
“She came by?” I ask as I step over the threshold.
“Get on the mat.”
Fuck.
I stride down the hall, toe off my shoes, line them up beside the bench, and move to the center of the big blue mats.
He joins me. Without a word, we bow.
That’s the last bit of respect he shows me. With brutal accuracy and force just shy of lethal, he beats the hell out of me without leaving a mark on my face or arms. For a while, I return blow for blow, but then I shift to defensive maneuvers.
He humbles me time and time again until I sweep his legs out from under him. We grapple. He never loses the upper hand.
With our limbs tangled together and his arm around my throat, I fight to escape the headlock, but his body is a living cage wrapped around me.
“What did you do?” he demands.
“I fucked up,” I croak.
“No shit. What. Did. You. Do?” His arm tightens with every syllable.
Blackness hovers along my periphery.
“I hurt her,” I admit.
He squeezes. Inky blackness washes over my senses, and I float in a pool of tar. It clings to me no matter how hard I fight.
I wake with a jolt, flat on my back in the center of the mats. The ceiling mocks me. My limbs refuse to move.
“I warned you, Connor.”
“You did, Uncle Levi. I—”
His tsk is all the correction I need. He doesn’t want any association with me right now. I force myself to my knees and face where his voice came from the shadows.
“Thank you for the lesson, Mr. Carter,” I say.
He grunts in his normal taciturn manner.
“You’re losing her,” my uncle says.
Terror grips my heart. Every response I come up with sounds like an excuse.
As though sensing my spiral, he speaks more words in one conversation than I’ve heard him say in the past several years.
“I won’t ask for specifics. I don’t need them. The kind of pain I saw in her eyes on Friday never goes away. A lesser person would’ve ended their life already, but she has no quit.”
I hang my head and breathe. Shame and guilt war within me.
I knew this path would make me a villain. Revenge isn’t noble. But hurting the woman who saved me is unforgivable.
Neither of us attempts to break the silence as I work through my failure.
After running through hundreds of scenarios in my mind, only one has a positive outcome. I lift my head. Mr. Carter stands less than two feet away from me.
“It’s time, nephew,” he states.
I nod.
He scowls.
“You’re right, Uncle Levi. I’ll tell her,” I vow.
He grunts and shuts himself in his office.
The clear dismissal prompts me into motion. I suffer in silence when putting on my shoes proves to be an agonizing experience. My entire midsection feels pulverized, raw, and swollen.
I deserve every ounce of pain and discomfort.
Despite how soon I must be at the office, I walk past the best place to hail a cab and ignore the nearest subway entrance.
Uncle Levi made a point by not offering me water or pain management before kicking me out, so he believes I deserve to suffer, too, so I walk several miles before taking the bus.
The bumpy, swerving ride is every bit as excruciating as receiving the original beating.
I stop by my townhouse just long enough to shower, swallow an anti-inflammatory, and don the suit Hilary placed at the front of my walk-in closet. I pause at the sight of the empty hanger dangling from the hook.
From her perspective, her work is invisible to me.
She doesn’t know I keep my eyes glued to the security feed every time she enters my home.
She doesn’t know I track her every move.
She doesn’t know my day-to-day life revolves around her.
I’ve gone to great lengths to keep my obsession with her a secret.
Now is not the time to reveal it either. She’ll quit before I finish explaining.
I wince as my attempt to sigh sends shocks of pain through my chest.
As much as Uncle Levi means well, I can’t tell Hilary everything. I can’t risk her quitting. I need her by my side.
Only one thing will keep her within reach. My uncles may skin me alive when they find out—because they will—but I’m willing to accept the punishment if this doesn’t work.
I solidify my plan during my commute.
The office seems cold and colorless without Hilary.
I throw myself into work and call my best attorney to the executive conference room to prepare for my new approach.
True to the business ethics I admire him for, he helps iron out several topics without asking the questions looming in his curious eyes.
Once I complete the work Hilary lined up for me, I leave without much fanfare. Despite the never-ending responsibilities, I reach my vehicle earlier than usual. When I drive out of the parking garage, the sun has yet to set.
Unable to face my quiet townhouse with such a pivotal moment on the horizon, I park my car in its normal spot and head toward the bus stop.
Every instinct demands I text Hilary, but I refrain. Her phone is off anyway.
I need to know she’s okay, though, so I ride the bus to the nearest subway station and walk the few blocks to her apartment. Without an ounce of shame, I stand on the corner most visible to her building and call the number she included in her employee information as the emergency contact.
Even though I’ve never called it before, I know it belongs to Aisha Thompson, one of the girls she informally adopted when she was still a child herself.
Except for a few stints in new foster care homes before Aisha ran away—Hilary was labeled a runaway years before the others—they’ve lived together ever since.
I force myself to breathe normally as the phone rings and rings. Half a second before it goes to voicemail, a woman answers.
Out of breath, skeptical, and half whispering, she says, “Hi. You’re Hilary’s boss, right? She saved you in my contacts.”
Memories wash over me, and I fight a wave of emotions. Tucking them all away for later, I clear my throat and focus on the present.
I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. Of course my warrior queen takes care of the people she loves with every ounce of her heart. Only someone as methodical as her would think to add their employer to their friend’s phone in advance.
A woman with wings for lashes and no volume control bumps into me. She gears up for a yelling match, takes one look at me, and scurries away.
“I am,” I say into the phone.
“Hilary isn’t taking calls right now,” she says.
I applaud her stern tone, but she fails to hide her worry.
“I understand. She took sick leave today. I’m in the area if she needs anything.”
I pull my phone away from my ear when she covers her receiver with something. Probably her hand. Several moments pass.
“Are you really offering or just being a jerk and checking if she’s sick or not?” she accuses.
“I never offer unless I mean to follow through,” I say.
She hesitates and halfway covers her mic as she whispers back and forth with someone, probably Momo Smith, Hilary’s other roommate.
“Will it come out of her paycheck?” Aisha asks.
Amusement creeps through me.
“No, it won’t,” I confirm.
“How ‘in the area’ are you?” she asks.
I lie and reply with a row of shops a few blocks over.
She whispers back and forth a few more times before responding.
“I have a list. Are you ready?”
“Of course.”
As the number of items grows, I give a rueful smirk and start toward the shops. Ever the opportunists, Aisha and Momo include their favorites along with Hilary’s. In fact, I suspect the majority of the list is for them and not my gladiator goddess.
I don’t care. I buy everything and even add a few extras before lugging all the bags through the streets.
The girls were smart and included a few medicines, but it’s not enough to make me believe Hilary is sick.
As long as Aisha and Momo are taking care of her, I’ll give her space. I can wait another few hours before seeing her again.
I hope.
Even with the beating fresh in my mind and the pain in my body, my worst ailment is the itchiness under my skin. Like an addict denied their favorite drug, I’m going through physical withdrawals.
I need Hilary Winthrop.
Now.