Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
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.
Chapter Seventeen
Ashland
Once, I was in a fight, and the bastard in the ring knew exactly how to provoke me. I was a young lad at the time, and he made fun of every one of my goddamn family members.
I beat the living shite out of him until he was crying, begging for mercy, and covering his face with his broken hands.
Tiernan had to pull me off him. He leaped into the ring and held me back, his arms like bands of steel around my chest, keeping me from swinging.
I can still feel it—the way those steel bands locked me in place and kept me from killing the eejit.
And I feel like that now.
There's a metaphorical band of steel wrapped around me, holding me back from running after Bianca and dragging her back to safety.
But I did that once, and it didn't fucking work.
I told her who Crowning was and what he'd do to her. But she was too wedded to her own sense of propriety, and maybe too scared of me, to trust a word I said.
I understand now that that method won't work a second time.
So I wait. And I watch.
I wonder if she'll tell Crowning that I took her. If she'll spin some story about being kidnapped, giving him a reason to retaliate.
When there's no blowback—no message to Seamus, no bombs at the warehouse, no attacks in the middle of the night—I realize she didn't.