Chapter 16 #2
As he talks, I hear Ashland's voice: Your fiancé has killed two wives before you.
A car revs its engine beside us, and when I look…
But no.
Why am I disappointed that Ashland isn't chasing me?
I was the one who left.
I can't believe I haven't told Marcus the truth. That he doesn't know why I left or what I did. I don't tell him I was kidnapped. I don't tell him what really happened.
I don't tell him there's another man who knows me better than Marcus ever tried to.
“Where's your cat?” Marcus says with a frown. “Your mother said you took your cat.”
“He's with a friend.” I swallow hard and remember the note I left for Ashland:
Please send back Lancelot .
“I have some work to do,” Marcus says, and his eyes flick to mine again. “I want something very clear, Bianca.”
I nod and swallow, feeling a bit nauseous.
“Don't you ever pull anything like that again,” he says quietly, his voice smooth and controlled. “I don't like being made to look foolish. And I don't appreciate having to worry about where my fiancée has run off to. Do you understand?”
His tone is so reasonable. So calm. But there's something underneath it that makes my skin crawl.
And somehow, his threatening tone is nothing like Ashland's. Where Ashland's is protective and fierce and—and hot , goddamn it—Marcus’s is just… calculating and cold.
Why does this feel so wrong?
I told myself the entire time I was with Ashland that I needed to escape. And here I am. Out. No longer a prisoner. No longer a captive.
Why do I feel so bereft?
Marcus barely glances at me for the rest of the ride.
“We have a lot of catching up to do,” he says, and his eyes glint as he looks over my clothes, my curves. He presses his lips together but doesn't say anything.
I'm glad of it. I think if he made one comment about my body right now …
What am I doing? Why am I with him?
I fucking hate this.
But I don't hate being home.
When the car pulls up in front of my house, my mother comes to the front door, her eyes wide and searching for me, and a lump rises in my throat.
Ashland had actually texted my mam from time to time, keeping her in the loop. She's kept her distance from me, allowed me to have my space.
So I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for the door handle.
“I'll pick you up at seven,” Marcus says coldly. “We'll go out to dinner, and we'll discuss what's next.”
“I—thank you,” I say.
He reaches for my wrist, his grip a little too firm. I give him a curious look, but he only tugs me to him, puts his hand on the back of my head, and kisses me.
I stiffen.
It feels wrong.
It feels so fucking wrong, like kissing a wax statue, cold and lifeless. Nothing like…
“I missed you, Bianca,” he says against my lips.
Why does that feel like a lie ?
“I want you to go inside and talk to your mother. I'm sure she's been worried. We'll sort everything out tonight at dinner.”
The old Bianca would have asked if he was angry with me. The old Bianca would have wanted to apologize.
Not now.
Maybe a little vacation from Marcus Crowning was exactly what I needed to see the truth.
“Bianca!”
Mam runs to the car, her arms outstretched, and gives me a warm embrace.
“I missed you,” she says. “Tell me everything.”
And that's when I realize I don't have that much to tell her. So I give her a weak smile. I've always been terrible at lying, so I don't think this is the time for me to start making up fibs.
“I'm tired, Mam,” I say. “And I've missed you.”
That, at least, is the truth.
“Well, who can blame you for wanting a little adventure?” She sighs and gives a long, wistful look at Marcus's retreating car. “No one wants to go straight from college into an engagement, do they? Not without a little freedom first.”
Right. Something like that.
I smile at my mother. Of course I don't tell her it wasn't that. I don't tell her anything at all.
“Interesting that you took Lancelot with you,” she says. “He came back a little while ago. Someone left him on the doorstep in his carrier.”
“Did they?” I give her a sharp look. “Who brought him back?”
“I didn't see,” she says with a shrug. “But it looks like he's been well cared for while he was gone, hasn't he? It's not exactly like he was a stray wandering the streets looking for scraps of food. He's plump as ever.”
“You didn't see anybody?”
“No. But there was a note.” She pulls a small folded paper from her pocket.
He missed you.
My hands shake as I take it.
Is that Ashland's handwriting?
Was he here? He brought my cat, and then he… went back?
He left?
I go up to my room and collapse on my bed. The weight of it all is absolutely exhausting .
I can't get it out of my head. Lancelot is back, which means Ashland knows I’m gone , and he hasn't come looking for me.
Why does that make a lump rise in my throat?
My phone buzzes. I’ve half forgotten how to use a cell phone since I’ve been here. I haven't looked at it, and honestly, I almost enjoyed having a break. It was quieter without one.
It buzzes again, and I look at it sitting on the bedside table. I reach forward and tap the screen.
Unknown Number
This is Ashland. Keep my number.
He's texting me?
My hands are shaking. I don't respond.
I see the little dots on the bottom of the screen rising and falling, rising and falling. Then another message pops up.
Unknown Number
I know why you left, and I've decided this time I won't chase you. You need to see this for yourself, Bianca, and stop taking my word for it. But I will be watching. And if he tries to harm one hair on your head, lass, you know exactly what will happen.
I won’t be far.
I swallow hard, but I don’t respond .
I put the phone down.
I will be watching.
I look around my room—at the walls, the dresser, the mirror. My skin prickles with awareness.
He's been watching me for six years. Why would he stop now?
I push to my feet and start searching. I need to find where he's watching, where he's put his cameras, and how he's been spying on me.
I tear everything out of my closet and throw it on the floor, but find nothing. I tear through my dresser—nothing. I check behind picture frames, under the bed, inside lampshades.
Nothing.
And then, as I'm standing in the center of my room, frustrated and breathing hard, I catch it—a tiny glint of light from outside my window. Something small is mounted on the tree branch that faces my room.
What’s that outside the window?
I move closer to the glass and squint, and that's when I see it. A small camera, expertly camouflaged, is angled directly at my bedroom.
My bedroom.
How long has that been there? Has he been watching me sleep? Watching me dress? Watching me live my entire life?
I should be horrified.
I should be furious.
I am furious.
But underneath that, there's something else. Something that makes my chest ache and my hands tremble.
He's still protecting me. Even now. Even after I left him.
I stare at that camera for a long moment, my heart pounding.
Then I walk to the window, unlock it, and push it open. The evening air rushes in, cool against my flushed skin.
I lean out and carefully pluck the camera from the branch. It’s small in my palm, expensive and sophisticated.
I hold it up in front of my face, knowing he's watching on the other end. Knowing he can see every detail of my expression right now.
And I don't flip him off.
I don't smash it.
Instead, I just look into the lens, letting him see my face. Letting him see the confusion and anger and something else I can't name that's written all over it .
Then I set the camera on my windowsill, still running, still watching, pointed at the empty chair by my desk.
Fine. Let him watch an empty room if he wants.
But I don't destroy it, and I don’t know what that means.
I close the window and draw the curtains. My phone buzzes again, but this time I ignore it.
Ashland has taught me one thing: No one will tell me what to do, and I don't owe anyone an explanation.
Not even him.