Chapter Fifteen Stalemate
Chapter Fifteen
Stalemate
Zeyar had stopped speaking to Hasan.
Which was fine, because Hasan had nothing to say to him anyway.
That was what he told himself as he stood in the Devar Brothers Shipping Co.
office, angrily preparing Poppy’s lunch: a cup of chai, a cucumber-and-chutney sandwich, and four digestive biscuits.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than what many had.
He put the dishes on a tray and headed down to the basement.
Normally, when Hasan arrived, Poppy would already be standing by the door, looking down her nose at him as though she were one of the maharanis of old as she fired questions at him like bullets.
Her ability to remain haughty and imperious, dressed in an oversized, threadbare salwar kameez, was impressive; he’d give her that.
But this time, she wasn’t there. He frowned, balancing the tray against his hip as he turned the key in the lock. “Miss Sutherland?”
The door swung open. Poppy was inside, lying on her bed. He took a step forward—right into the middle of a small puddle.
He jerked back as water seeped into his sock. “Where the fuck did this water come from?” Something wet struck his forehead with a splat. He tilted his face up. A dark shadow stained the ceiling. A pipe must have burst. As he stared, another droplet fell, catching him right below the eye.
He cursed. In this drought, the burst pipe might as well have been a severed artery, the room soaked with blood. Focus on the problems you can solve. He turned his attention back to Poppy. “Get up, Miss Sutherland,” he ordered. “I’ll transfer you to a dry cell.”
She didn’t move. He glared at her. Of course, after consistently bombarding him with questions nonstop, the obstinate woman had chosen today to give him the cold shoulder. “If you want to molder away in a wet cell, be my guest! I’m leaving.”
She still didn’t stir. Hasan narrowed his eyes, sensing something amiss. He put her food tray down in a dry corner and approached the cot.
Then he noticed the bile spattered at the side.
“Are you ill?” he demanded, his frustration forgotten. How had she gotten sick? Had it been something in the food? Anxiety drove his voice up in pitch as he called her name, trying to rouse her. “Miss Sutherland. Miss Sutherland?”
She remained limp. He leaned over her, gently rolling her body face up.
“Poppy?” She was boneless in his arms, just as she’d been that first night on the Montrose driveway.
The green-and-violet bruise on her temple stood in lurid contrast to her ashen, bloodless face. The sight sent his heart plummeting.
He kneeled on the bed beside her, searching for a pulse.
“Please, please don’t be dead,” he whispered, the sound barely audible over the blood roaring in his ears.
The only heartbeat he could feel was his own, racing at an alarming speed.
If she was dead, this would ruin everything.
Montrose would kill Paranjay for sure. Zeyar would never speak to Hasan again.
Zeyar—Hasan swore. His brother had been right: Somehow, even without storming the precinct, Hasan had managed to fuck this up.
He should have checked on Poppy more, should have kept a guard to watch the door.
He hadn’t wanted to station men down here, especially given how nosy she was—what if someone spoke to her and gave the game away? Now he was paying for his mistrust.
He pressed his fingers harder against her throat, bringing his ear to her nose, listening for her breathing. Nothing. Then—there. A faint flutter. Her stubborn heart, still beating. Her breath warmed his ear a touch. He sighed raggedly. “Damn, you scared me.”
She stirred slightly, her weight shifting as consciousness returned to her body. Her warm-brown eyes cracked open, moving sluggishly over his face. They sharpened, recognition flooding her gaze. Her eyes flew open fully, and her hands slammed against his chest, shoving him away.
“What are you doing on my bed?”
Though her push had been weak, her cry made him jump. He scrambled backward, slipping on the slick tiles. He caught himself against the wall, chest heaving.
Poppy pushed herself upright. Though she still looked pale, her eyes were alight with ferocity as she said, “My fiancé won’t have me back if you touch me.”
The idea was so absurd, it took Hasan a moment to figure out what she was implying. He barked out an involuntary laugh. “Is that what you thought I was doing?”
“Don’t act innocent.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know what men like you want. You thought you could try and feel my—” She stopped, the expression on her face so mortified that he would have laughed had he not just had the fright of his life.
“The only thing I was trying to feel was your pulse,” he bit at her. “You looked like a corpse when I walked in here, surrounded by your own vomit, in a room that’s starting to flood. Forgive me for demonstrating a little concern for your basic well-being.”
The intensity in his tone took them both aback. He needed to calm down. She was alive. The plan was still on.
“So you didn’t want to ruin me?” Poppy quavered.
He would have never touched a woman without her consent—unlike many of the officers in her beloved fiancé’s force, he didn’t get off on brutalizing the powerless.
It stung that she thought he was capable of such an act—but then again, who would believe that even monsters had morals?
He forced himself to adopt an air of indifference.
“Don’t take it personally, Miss Sutherland, but overrighteous noblewomen are hardly my type. ”
“As if I’d want a brute like you,” she said, glaring.
He didn’t dignify that with a response. “Give me your hands.”
“What?”
“I’m moving you into a dry cell, but I don’t trust you to not make a break for it. Give me your hands.” He put his right hand over his heart mockingly. “I promise I’m not going to make a pass at you.”
She scowled at him.
“Unless you’d prefer to stay here?” He eyed the water stain on the ceiling and the vomit on the tiles pointedly.
After a beat, she extended her hands reluctantly.
Hasan reached over and took both her delicate wrists in one hand, helping her off the cot.
As they walked across the hallway to the other vacant cell, he studied her, wondering how much she knew about the man who had his brother.
While he doubted she knew anything about how the police operated, she might know more about Richard and the way he thought.
He waited until they’d entered the new cell together before asking, “Where is your fiancé, anyway, Miss Sutherland?”
She stiffened in his grip. “I’m sure you’d know better than I,” she quipped, “given that I last saw him at our engagement party, however many days ago that was.” A new edge had entered her voice, one he didn’t understand.
“Four,” Hasan supplied. “It’s been four days. Today is the fourth. And do you know how he responded to my ransom letter?”
She sucked in a breath, as though she couldn’t bear to hear the answer. He frowned. Why did the girl have so little faith in her fiancé?
“He didn’t,” he answered, when it became apparent she wouldn’t speak. “He hasn’t responded to our ransom note. One might think he intends to leave you in my care.”
“He has the money,” she said, her voice steady. “He wants me back, I assure you.”
“Then why hasn’t he responded?” He raised a brow. “It’s not a question of money. We didn’t ask him for that.”
“I don’t know,” she snapped, but her voice wavered.
He stopped, narrowing his eyes at her. “You do know.” She averted her gaze, but he grabbed her chin and turned her face back toward him. “You know something, don’t you? Answer me. Tell me why Montrose hasn’t responded to our letter.”
She jerked her head back, pulling her face free of his grasp. “I am not answerable to you.”
Hasan had had enough. First, he had found Poppy lifeless and immobile. Then, after he’d tried to check on her, she’d accused him of assault. Now she had the nerve to be smart with him? He would show her who was in charge here.
“Not this hoity-toity shit again.” He used his hold on her wrists to pull her closer. She wriggled, but he held firm, bending so that she had no choice but to look him in the eyes. He ignored the loathing reflected in her gaze as he said, “If you want your meal, you’ll tell me what you know.”
Poppy launched herself at him, swifter than a snake.
Hasan swore as her skull smashed into his face with a resounding crack.
He released her, bringing his hand to his nose in disbelief.
It came away wet. He stared at the blood on his fingers, then shifted his gaze to her.
Clearly, he’d underestimated her, and she knew it.
She met his gaze, unrepentant. “Starve me, then,” she spat. “The food is subpar, anyway.”
“Only someone as spoiled and entitled as you would complain about the quality of food in a famine,” he retorted.
That wiped the scowl clean off her face. “You’re right,” she said, dropping her gaze to her toes. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just . . .” Poppy squeezed her eyes shut. The skin between her brows wrinkled as she sniffed. “I’m tired of being here.”
The threat of her tears alarmed him more than her display of violence. “I don’t want you here any more than you want to be here. That’s why I need to know why your fiancé won’t respond to our ransom note.”
She tilted her head up at him, her silence calculating. Hasan held his breath.
“I’ll tell you,” she said, “but first you have to tell me what you want from him so badly.” She twisted her fingers together, but her gaze held firm as she suggested, “Maybe . . . maybe we can help each other.”
Help each other? Though it seemed like a bluff, the offer had certainly sparked his curiosity. What kind of arrangement did she imagine between a noblewoman and a brute? For a moment, he was tempted to ask.
Then he glanced at the blood on his fingers, proof of how he’d underestimated her. He would not make the same mistake again. “It’s not worth the risk.”
With that, he locked her in the room, taking the tray of food back to the kitchen.