Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
The memories slam into me without warning. The man in my safe house. His shadow, the hit, the scuffle. Blood. Darkness. Then the guy outside shooting him.
I gasp. My heart kicks against my ribs. “What happened to the guy who attacked me in the house?” I try to read anything in that cold, lovely face. “Is he dead?”
“No. You didn’t kill him, and neither did the bullets he took outside,” Sylveria says, her tone flat, almost disinterested. “My people have escorted him somewhere secure.”
I stare at her, waiting for more, but she just smooths the leg of her linen pants like this is all routine. “Great. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what you discover after they torture him.” I fold my arms over the blanket. “I’d really like to know who he is, considering it clearly wasn’t you who sent him. Who else wants me dead?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They remain as cold as polished sapphire left in an Arctic freezer. “I assume quite a few people want you dead, Ella, so let’s not play that kind of game.”
I don’t know what game she thinks we’re playing, but I’m in no condition to argue. Especially not while wearing a hospital gown and nothing else, sitting under high-thread-count sheets, while Sylveria probably has three concealed weapons tucked inside her designer purse.
The bag is unmistakably Hermes in a limited edition, no doubt. Pale rose leather, sharp-edged and impractical. I have to admire it, even though I hate that I do. I’m not up to leaping for it and grabbing a weapon, so I look around the room. There’s no clock. No window. No way to gauge time. I pause, then give in. “How long have I been here?”
“You’ve been out for three hours,” she says, her voice lowering just a tad. Am I inconveniencing her? “It took my associate maybe thirty minutes to get you here. The doctor said you have a mild concussion and quite a lot of bruising.” Her tone softens, not with compassion, but interest. “I’m impressed. You put up a good fight.”
I don’t answer her. I’m absurdly glad I didn’t kill the guy. Oh, most folks think I’m a murderer, or an attempted one, anyway. I’m not. I actually didn’t mean to hurt Thorn to the degree I did.
She taps a ring against the chair arm once before adding, “We will find out who he is. My people are … very thorough.”
I don’t doubt that. Sylveria Rendale doesn’t waste time or resources. If someone tried to kill me and it wasn’t on her orders, she’ll dig up everything. “I want to know.”
“Of course. For now, I obviously saved your life.” Sylveria brushes the diamond choker at her neck. “So you owe me.”
My mind blanks for a second. I try to rewind, to find something in the fog behind my eyes. Then I see the moment with the rain slicking the driveway, a figure outside the house, a hand on my shoulder. He asked if I was okay in an Irish accent.
Was he one of Justice’s men?
If so, who attacked me inside the house? It doesn’t make sense. My gut says it wasn’t Justice. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t send someone. He’d show up and do it himself. I glance at Sylveria, who’s still fiddling with her necklace. “Wait. You didn’t take the guy from outside the house, too, did you?”
Her eyes flick briefly toward the window shade. Then back to me. “No.”
Ah, I get it. “Your guy checked him out and found, what? An Irish mob tattoo on him?” I try to smile even though my whole face feels like it’s been hit with a brick. “You didn’t dare take one of Justice’s soldiers.”
“That’s neither here nor there,” she says. “As I said—we saved your life. Now you owe me.” She shifts in the chair with an aristocratic grace that would fool most people. Not me. I know exactly where she came from. Sylveria Rendale might look like old money, but she crawled out of the backwoods of Kentucky. Beauty bought her a ticket to Silicon Valley, and my father, for reasons I will never understand, bought everything she was selling.
And here she is. Smug, polished, and smiling like the Queen of Versailles while I lie half broken in a hospital bed.
Curiosity has always been my downfall. “What do you want?” I haven’t had time to fully hack the TimeGem system yet, so this isn’t about that.
“It really doesn’t matter.” Sylveria straightens her jacket like this is a done deal. “Because as soon as the doctor releases you, you’ll be coming home with me. I must make sure you’re all right.” Her voice is softer now, with that artificial calm she uses when she wants to sound maternal. Except she sounds more robotic than concerned. What is going on?