Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74581 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Is he watching me?
I look around my apartment, wondering if he’s trained a camera on me.
He told me to go.
I close my eyes, willing myself to focus on what needs to happen next. I can’t let my heart and brain war with one another and make me lose my focus. I can’t.
I swallow down a few more gulps of water, stand straight, and pull my shoulders back.
I don’t look the same. I look… older. More careworn. Almost haunted.
A knock sounds at the door. For one wild, crazy minute, I imagine it’s Constantine.
“Hello?”
“I’m here to bring you to your father’s house, Miss Valencia.”
I sigh. Someone who works for my parents, then. Gingerly, I push myself away from the vanity and head to the door. I check through the peephole and see a uniformed driver waiting for me. With another forced sigh, I open the door.
He smiles at me, then gives me a curt nod. “Nice to see you’re safe, ma’am. Your parents have given me instructions to bring you home.”
“This is my home,” I say, but I’m talking to his back, and my protests likely don’t mean much to him anyway. My parents’ house is not my home. I’ve worked too hard and too long to have the home that I’ve made for myself. I’m not sure why now, of all times, it’s an important distinction for me to make.
I sit in the back of the car, buckle myself in, and close my eyes. I’m still woozy, almost like I’ve got a hangover. I hold my head as we drive over the streets that will bring me back to my father’s house.
I wish Constantine was with me. I’ve never been afraid of my parents before. I’m not sure why I am now. Perhaps I’m afraid they’ll see the truth without me saying a word. That they’ll know I fucked Constantine. That he touched me. That he made me come, over, and over, and over again. That I screamed his name. Flailed over his knee while he whipped me then brought me to climax.
I’ve never been more alive than I was in the short time I spent with him, and everything else now seems so dull and muted I want to cry.
When I was with Constantine, I finally, for once in my life, felt I belonged somewhere.
“The press has been alerted, Miss,” the driver says with pride. “I suspect we’ll have some reporters back at the house ready for your statement. So good to have you home, Miss Valencia.”
I don’t even remember his name.
“Thank you.” I look out the window, as the cars and streets whip by like we’re on a carousel. “How’s my father?”
“He’s been distraught over your abduction, Miss, but otherwise in good health. Your mother’s the same.”
I didn’t ask about my mother.
The drive is short, and we arrive at my parents’ house just after dark. I feel disheveled and confused, my brain as jumbled as scrambled eggs. I swallow the remainder of the water in the bottle I brought with me, swishing it around to let it moisten my lips and mouth. My stomach drops when we pull up to the entrance to my parents’ estate.
Red and blue flashing lights illuminate the night sky.
I stifle a groan.
This is going to be a very, very long night.
Chapter 19
Constantine
I left Clare sound asleep in her bed.
When she wakes in her own home, surrounded by all the things she knows and loves, our interlude together may feel like nothing more than a bad dream.
Walking through her apartment was far more painful than I anticipated. It was like stepping inside her skin. The scent of her perfume enveloped me the moment I walked through the door, Clare cradled in my arms. Everything inside—from the carpet to the throw pillows—was soft and gently textured, in shades of cream, pale blue, and dove gray.
I pulled back the coverlet and set Clare down on her bed, tucking her in like a child. She had been warm and sleep-heavy in my arms, her cheek nestled against my chest.
I intended to leave immediately, but I lingered in her living room, examining the neat rows of books on her shelves, and the carefully tended potted plants all along the windowsill.
The apartment was tidy and well organized, simple and comfortable. Welcoming and unfussy, like Clare herself.
Other than a few watercolors and an oil seascape, the only ornaments were the delicate glass figurines set on the fireplace mantle. Sitting at the very edge, as if it were about to take flight, perched a nightingale.
I picked it up, the fine glass resting weightless on my palm. If I closed my fingers around it, I could crush it to powder.
Instead, I slipped it carefully into my pocket.
I find myself touching it now, taking a strange comfort from the cool glass, like a talisman.
Other than that, I feel like shit.