Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
SKULL
“Sorry, Milly,” Ivy whispers before she passes out, and I barely manage to catch her before her head hits the floor.
Did she just call me Milly?
I lift her into my arms and carry her into the bedroom, where we started this day together. With a sigh, I place her on the mattress and back away, forcing myself into the chair in the corner because I don’t want her to think I took advantage while she was passed out.
I take out my phone and text Abel because, one way or another, that bastard needs to clue me the fuck in.
Ivy pulled a gun on me and then passed out when I told her I knew who she was.
She didn’t shoot you? I need to go over that lesson with her again.
Cannibal, what am I dealing with?!
IDK doc, that’s your fucking department. :)
I take several deep breaths because this man holds a half dozen degrees, one of which is in medicine, just because he was bored and suffers from the worst case of insomnia I’ve ever heard of.
Fear of the dark, storms, an aversion to quiet, and a general distrust of men. Is anything else vital?
Add Claustrophobia and PTSD
I look up at Ivy and tap my phone on my knee in thought.
I take in her clothes and remember her movements from earlier, which tickles my brain. I open Google and search for missing ballerinas, widening my eyes when a photo of Ivy comes up.
I read the caption, and then my eyes get stuck on the date.
“Missing American Ballerina search called off two weeks after disappearing from a popular Russian studio.” - April 30th, 2015
TEN FUCKING YEARS AGO?
“Ugh,” Ivy sits up slowly, holding her head.
“Small movements, Lass.” I clear my throat, trying to soften my tone.
But I’m pissed and want fucking answers.
“Milton.” The shake of my head stops her words.
“Milly, you’ve used it once already.” I glance at the kitchen window. I thought I caught her peeking at me earlier and figured it must have been opened if she heard Hamish call me my childhood nickname.
“I’m sorry,” she says, bringing my eyes back to her. I watch as she plays with the hem of her tutu.
“No need to apologize. You reacted like anyone else with your trauma.” I’m fishing, and she doesn’t disappoint.
“Who told you?” I smile sadly at her and point at her chest.
“I did some snooping, but all that gave me was your full name and occupation, just like Abel set it up. You provided all the other clues I needed to get Google to fill in the blanks. So I believe we’re past due for that chat you’ve been avoiding.” I nod and stand.
“Change into something comfortable and meet me in the living room.” I leave her room and close the door behind me.
I sit my arse down and rest my arms on my thighs. I lock my hands together so I don’t fidget and close my eyes to wait for her to join me. Years of experience with the club has my instincts on high alert and my brain turning over worst-case possibilities.
My heart tells me that it’s worse than anything I can imagine and that I’ll need to brace myself.
When the bedroom door finally opens, I have no idea how long I’ve waited, but I’m going to endeavor to keep showing the patience I lack.
“Can I get you a drink?” Her voice is soft, but her handling of the glasses is loud and almost panicky.
“Do I need one?” I open my eyes and look around to find her in the kitchen with the counter between us.
“Yes,” she says the word with a shake in her voice and hands.
“Then pour me a double.” I turn so she doesn’t feel the pressure of me watching her.
“I don’t know where to start.” I snort and nod with no good answer.
“The beginning. Ten years ago,” I say it as a suggestion, not expecting her to take it.
“I was fifteen, and the star of Swan Lake at the renowned Russian Ballet Company,” sadness and pride fill her voice as she hands me my drink.
I knock it back and quickly place the glass on the side table, wanting to get the story over with.
“We were due to open on Friday night and were informed that a private dress rehearsal was happening for the company’s top donors on Wednesday night.” I look up as she sits across from me.
She’s staring into her own glass as if looking into her past.
“It’s normal for the company manager to do a body check before performances, so when I was called into the office that morning before the private viewing, I remember feeling nervous because I’d indulged in some sweets the day before, and my weight had been fluctuating due to -” she trails off and waves her hand.
“Your menstrual cycle?” I guess as her cheeks redden.
“Yes, it had only been a few months since it started, and I couldn’t handle the cravings. Anyway, I got dressed and knocked on the office door at my appointed time, but it wasn’t the company manager who was waiting for me.” She brings her glass up to her lips and takes a long sip.
“Who was it?”
I just need a name, my sweet Lass.