Chapter 4 #2
"You saved me?" My voice comes out small, uncertain. I don’t know if I should believe this man, but he hasn’t actually hurt me yet.
He could have, but he hasn’t—in fact, he seems to have gone out of his way not to.
But, at the same time, I trusted Neil—at least enough to sign my name and take his money. And look where that got me.
"Yeah."
I study his face, looking for deception, for the predatory smile that was plastered on Neil’s face every time he looked at me. Instead, I find something complicated—anger, yes, but not directed at me. Exhaustion. And something that might be genuine concern.
I take a deep, shaky breath. “Oh,” I whisper, and then I gather myself, stiffening my spine as I look up at him.
He hasn’t let go of my wrists yet. "Thank you.
But I need to go home. My mother—she's sick, she has cancer, and she needs me to take her to chemo, and she's probably worried sick about where I am—"
"You can't leave. Not yet." He interrupts me, not rudely, but firmly.
The words hit me like a physical blow. "What do you mean I can't leave?"
“Rocco De Luca trades in people. Women.” Ronan drops my wrists, seeming to sense that while I’m not calm, I’m at least not violent now, and puts his hands loosely on my shoulders, looking down at me with a sincerity that tells me he’s not lying.
“If he had you, that means he thinks he owns you. If you go home right now, he will come after you. He’ll hurt others to get to you, including your mother and anyone else you care about who might be in the way.
If you leave this house, you’re putting them in danger. You’ll lead him right to them.”
Every word feels like a needle driving into my skin. I stare up at him, horrified at the calm with which he’s saying these unthinkable things. Evenly, normally, like this is everyday life for him.
Maybe it is. He was in that warehouse, too. I don’t know why. I don’t know if I want to know why. But he left there with me.
“You were there, too,” I snap, giving voice to my thoughts as I push his hands off of my shoulders and take a step back. He lets me go, which makes me feel marginally better about him, though not much. “What were you doing at a place owned by a man who traffics women?”
“Going after him,” Ronan says calmly. "For reasons of my own. And I need to know how you ended up in his hands," he continues. "What you owed him, why he targeted you specifically. Until I understand that, I can't figure out how to keep you safe."
Safe. When was the last time I felt safe?
Before Mom's diagnosis? Before I took out that loan? I realize I don’t remember, and that scares me, too.
It makes me dig in my heels, because while this man seems sincere, I don’t know him and I’m loath to trust anyone I don’t know now, after what just happened.
"I’m not going to tell you that." The words come out harsher than I intended. "It's not your business."
His expression doesn’t change. "It became my business when I pulled you out of that cage."
"I didn't ask you to!" The panic is rising again, threatening to choke me. "I didn't ask for any of this! I just want to go home!"
Ronan stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing options, calculation in his hazel eyes. He takes a step back, giving me more space, and I glance at the broken lamp before I look back at him.
He really is handsome. Not at all the kind of man I pictured in my terror when Neil told me what he was going to do with me.
He’s the kind of gorgeous I never expected to see in real life, let alone be standing in a bedroom in his house, wearing flimsy silk nightclothes that I’m sure he can see my nipples through.
The thought makes me cross my arms over my chest.
“Whose clothes are these?” I demand, and something flickers in Ronan’s eyes, something that almost looks like guilt. It makes me instantly wary.
"Alright," he says, his voice suddenly toneless and flat.
"We'll table this conversation for now. But Leila—" He knows my name.
Of course he knows my name. "—you need to understand that this isn't over.
Rocco isn't going to just forget about you, and if you walk out of here without a plan, you're going to end up right back where I found you. Or worse."
"I can take care of myself," I snap, but I know that’s a lie. I’ve gotten caught up in something that’s way out of my wheelhouse. Something so far beyond me that I’m honestly terrified to leave and face the outside world again.
But I’m also terrified of whatever is here—of who he is and why he owns this gorgeous house, and what he was doing in that warehouse. And outside, there’s my mother. There’s everything that matters to me.
"Can you?" His voice is gentle, deep, but it cuts to the bone. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like taking care of yourself is what got you into this mess in the first place."
I want to argue, want to tell him he doesn't know anything about my life, or my choices, or the impossible situation I found myself in. But the words stick in my throat, because deep down, I know he's right.
I made this mess. My desperation, my pride, my refusal to accept help from the people who offered it—all of it led me to Neil's door, led me to that warehouse, led me to this moment.
"I need to call my mother," I say finally, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "She'll be wondering where I am."
"Give me her name and number. I'll have someone contact her.
Tell her you're safe but that you can't come home right now.
" He delivers the instructions with a precision that makes my skin prickle, a chill running down my spine.
Every word out of his mouth sounds like someone who is used to being in charge, commanding others, being obeyed.
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, fear lacing it. "I need to talk to her myself. She has to hear my voice, or she'll never believe I'm okay."
Ronan considers this, then nods slowly. "Later. After we've talked more."
"Now."
"Later." His tone brooks no argument, and I realize with growing horror that I'm not a guest here—I'm a prisoner, just in a prettier cage than the one Rocco kept me in.
"You can't keep me here against my will!" The words come out as a high-pitched shriek, and I see his jaw tighten.
"Watch me. I’m not going to let you get yourself or the people you care about killed because you don’t understand what you’ve walked into." With that, he turns and walks toward the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the opulent room, my hands still shaking from adrenaline and fear.
"Ronan." I don't know why I use his first name, thinking it will make him turn around, but he does. "How long?"
His eyes glitter with irritation. "How long what?"
"How long do I have to stay here?"
He pauses in the doorway, and for a moment, his expression softens. "I don't know. Until it's safe. Until I figure out how to end this."
“What is this?” I gasp, staring at him, but he just shakes his head.
“We’ll talk more later.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I hear the lock turn. I'm alone again, trapped in suffocating luxury with no way out and only my thoughts to keep me company.
I stagger back toward the bed, sinking onto the floor next to it with my back to the frame as I pull my knees up to my chest and try to think.
My mom will be awake by now. Who is helping her with breakfast?
Does she have an appointment today? Who will get her to it?
Does she have enough in her accounts? I put the money that I borrowed into my own accounts, not wanting her to look at her balances and wonder where it all came from.
But that means she doesn’t have access to it right now.
What is Alicia doing? Helping my mom? Looking for me?
Badgering the police until she gets herself locked up for assaulting an officer or something? It wouldn’t surprise me.
I drop my forehead onto my knees. This is a disaster.
A nightmare. This is worse than broken kneecaps or whatever other ideas I had in my head about what Neil would do to me if I couldn’t pay, from watching too many movies.
I’ve been kidnapped, hurt, and now I’m trapped with a stranger, with no way out.
My mom has all but been abandoned by me, the person who was supposed to take care of her, and I’ve made it all worse—given her something to worry about besides the cancer.
The guilt that floods me, bringing fresh tears to my eyes, is almost worse than the fear.
—
I cry until I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to get back into the nice bed again as dirty as I am.
I don’t know why I care about taking care of Ronan’s sheets, but I guess it’s some measure of manners my mom instilled in me.
I’m not really a guest, but I can’t resist the feeling that I should be mindful that I’m in someone else’s house.
I don't know how much time passes before I hear footsteps in the hallway again, but when the lock clicks, it's not Ronan who enters. Instead, it's a woman about my mother’s age, with grey-threaded blonde hair in a low bun and a kind look on her face, as well as an armful of clothes in her hands.
"Mr. O'Malley asked me to bring these up," she says, a faint German accent in her voice.
She sets the clothes on the bed. I see that there are toiletries stacked on top of them—shampoo, conditioner, what looks like body wash, and a tub of body butter.
"He said to tell you that you should bathe and then join him downstairs for dinner. "
I blink at the clothing. Where is all of this coming from? Does Ronan have a wife that I don’t know about? A sister? A girlfriend? Am I wearing their clothes? I chew on my lower lip, still staring at the pile warily before I look back at the woman.
“What’s your name?”
“Ida,” she says pleasantly.
I frown. “Are you the staff? Does this house have staff?”