Chapter four
Tilly
“Cami, get down,” a gruff voice calls out, waking me from what certainly wasn’t a restful sleep.
“Fuck, there’s a bomb, move!” it roars again, and my eyes pop open.
I sit up and start blinking into the dark, looking for the source of the horrifying words.
My senses return, and I remember exactly where I am, a half-empty farmhouse somewhere in the Scottish Highlands with my uncle’s bodyguard.
A man who is trained to kill was sent to collect me after I ran from my family, yet again.
The voice, which I realize is Greyson’s, starts mumbling something incoherent, but there’s no mistaking the distress in his tone.
He’s frightened. The stoic and seemingly unflappable assassin during the day is unsettled in the night when his dreams win.
The room is pitch black. All the candles that flickered as I closed my eyes burned out.
The fire that Greyson set crackles pathetically, both the color and warmth almost gone.
I drop to the floor and crawl toward the orange embers, hoping to relight them.
The deep breaths of a man still sleeping become closer, and I push myself up to stand.
I continue toward the fire, taking small steps in the dark to minimize the risk of bumping into anything.
As I approach the hearth, I’m aware of a large lump lying at my feet.
Bending over, I reach to touch a blanket with Greyson underneath.
I step around him, then crouch beside the almost dead fire.
After squinting into the dark, I can make out the shape of a few tools sitting to one side—a poker and one of those airbags you squeeze to encourage the flames.
Having never set or even had an open fire in my home, I’ll need to use what I have seen in movies to attempt to get some heat into the room.
The blanket I slept in is still pulled around my shoulders. I tie it in a knot at my neck, creating a cape over my ruined, dismal dress. I reach for the poker and begin stabbing at the pile of glowing ash. It crackles and a little flame appears, then immediately dies.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter, grabbing the bellow, which I’ve now remembered the name of.
I lay the funnel at the base of the fire, then push the two handles together.
Air wooshes down the pipe, throwing bits of gray and orange into the air.
Strong fingers wrap around my ankle as I push the handles together a second time.
Startled, I lift the item high and twist around to hit my attacker. The old wood and leather crash down hard, and Greyson grunts on the impact. The room falls silent, then a deep chuckle sounds in the blackness.
“You’re just as feisty as I remember,” he whispers, amused.
“Take your hands off me,” I snap back, pissed at him for making me jump. His grip releases as he pushes himself up to sit. I rotate to face him.
The sun has started to rise, and soft winter light seeps through the old, dirty windows.
There isn’t enough to give me a clear view of him, but it highlights his shape only centimeters from my body.
He doesn’t speak, but I feel his focus on me, watching for my next move.
He has this indescribable stillness about him like a lion waiting in the long grass to pounce on its unsuspecting prey.
He’s too sure of himself, and I want to change that. I’m fed up with men telling me what to do. I’m done with them acting as if I’m an idiot. I often tune them out; most men say nothing I want to hear, their words fucking pointless.
“Who’s Cami?” I ask him, and he visibly tenses. My eyes stay fixed on him; no doubt the impending light will begin to highlight my face somewhat. So, I try to keep my expression impassive. He’s unsettled by my direct question. Good. I want him to be.
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” he lies, not at all smoothly.
“Well, your subconscious does. You were calling her name in your sleep. Has she sucked your dick?”
“Bullshit, don’t be so fucking crass. It doesn’t suit those pretty lips,” he growls, standing and walking over to the window at the far side of the room. He pushes it open roughly, and a blast of cold air rushes in. He quickly recloses it. “I don’t talk in my sleep. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
“What do you mean by that?” I try to keep focused on the fact he called a woman’s name in his sleep rather than the fact he called my lips pretty. However, that fact makes my stomach flip. He thinks I’m pretty. It feels fucking good.
Greyson keeps looking out of the window, so I clear my throat loudly to prompt a response. I may be flattered, but I’m not letting him off the hook yet.
“Nothing,” he says dismissively. “Move out of the way, and I’ll restart the fire.” I stand to join him as he walks back to the fireplace, but I don’t move out of his way. “Excuse me, Miss.”
“Remembered your manners, Greyson?” I tease, unmoving. His close proximity causes my skin to tingle. The grumpy asshole is nothing but testosterone, and I love it. “What do you mean you wouldn’t be here?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he mutters. “Miss Tilly, please move out of my way so I can start a fire. There’s no point in being both hungry and freezing.”
“Try me,” I goad, taking a step closer to him. He ignores me.
I look at this strong, dominant man, and I almost feel sorry for him for a second.
Last night, James Greyson let me into his head without even realizing it.
A slip of the tongue while in dreamland tells me he has fears.
He isn’t unstoppable. And as much of an uncaring asshole as he wants to appear to be, he cares about at least one person—Cami. Whoever she is.
I file the name away but plan to revisit the subject later. I need to know who she is; her existence makes me uneasy. His reaction to her name stings my skin.
Even if I don’t want to admit it, this man is intriguing. But more importantly, he could be my ticket out of this hellhole, also known as my family. Perhaps my plans to escape have been upended somewhat, but it doesn’t mean new ones can’t be made.
Greyson could just be the person who could help me see it through to the end. It’s possible I still have a chance of finding freedom before I’m forced to marry one of the most dangerous men in the world, all in the name of a union between criminal families and promoting their version of peace.
Greyson steps around me. I may be determined, but I know when to back down.
Our conversation won’t get any further than this right now, and if I want his help, this man needs to feel as if he is in control.
Continually poking at him for information isn’t going to work.
So, I bite my tongue and return to sit on the sofa.
Daylight has started to fill the room, and the sparse furnishings are slowly coming into view.
My eyes move to my companion, on his knees, with pieces of wood, coal, and a box of matches.
He runs a match along the edge of the box, and it sparks to life.
Old newspaper is screwed into a ball and stuffed under a pile of small sticks.
He lights it, and the black and white text bursts into flames before dwindling.
Greyson mumbles. I can’t hear what he says, but it’s obvious he isn’t happy that the fire isn’t conforming to his wishes. After numerous pieces of paper and sticks are lit, the fire eventually burns. He rises, then turns to face me.
Dark eyes drop to my bare toes, then slowly work up my body to meet mine. A shiver runs through me as I watch him take in my ragged appearance.
“What time do you think it is?” I ask him. Neither of us has a watch or phone. He glances at the window and then back at me.
“Probably around nine. Scottish winters have long nights and short days.”
“Are you hungry?” I ask him, not knowing what else to say. Between the attempt on our lives the night before and the bizarre place we find ourselves now, there isn’t much to ask.
“I could eat.” His words are blunt, but my mouth dries with each syllable.
Eat me. The thought pops into my head, and I quickly bury it. I hate these types of men. Anyone connected to my family is on my shitlist. Sure, they’re fine to play with, tease, annoy, and use so I can get to where I want to be. But I will not crave him. I will not yearn for him.
“I’ll see if there is anything in the kitchen.” I stand and hurry away.
“Good luck finding something edible in there,” he calls to my retreating back. “I’ll investigate outside and see if I can work out where we are.”
As I step through the door into the kitchen, my gaze rises and my jaw drops. Snow falls heavily on the other side of the window.
“Oh hell!” I squeal. “We’re never fucking getting out of here!”
Greyson appears behind me within moments.
“What’s wrong…” His words trail off as he sees what I do. We step forward together and look outside over the now pure-white landscape. Every surface, tree, and stone is covered in piles of soft snow. It looks like it’s been falling for hours.
I turn to Greyson at a complete loss as to what we do now. “I can’t go out there in this.” I signal to my shredded dress and blanket combo. “Never mind the fact I don’t have any shoes.”
“Where are your shoes?” he asks, puzzled.
“One is at the party you kidnapped me from. The other is somewhere else. Between running for my life and you throwing me over your shoulder, my Louis Vuitton’s weren’t exactly my top priority.”
“I’m sure you have plenty more at home in your walk-in wardrobe, Miss,” he replies, and I glare at him.
“That’s if I get home.” My gaze drops away from him as emotion rushes to the surface.
Suddenly, I fear what’s happening. My life is not only in danger from the men chasing us but also from where I’ve ended up.
I turn away and pull open the nearest cupboard, wanting to focus on anything but where we are.
Greyson’s hand lands on my shoulder. I feel him step up behind me. Our bodies don't touch, but we’re close enough that I can feel his warmth radiating from him.
“I’ll get you home safe, Miss,” he whispers. “That’s my job. You’ll live a long happy life surrounded by diamonds and wine.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, stealing a look at him over my shoulder. For some strange reason, I believe him when he says he’ll protect me.
“Because I’ve survived worse, and I am damn sure I won’t leave this earth here. You find us something to eat.” He gestures to the range of cans on the shelf. “I’ll go outside and see if I can find anything to help us.”