Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128585 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 643(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128585 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 643(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
“Good thinking, darl.” Ronnie pulled out her phone. “I’ll get them brought to me.”
As Ronnie typed on her phone, I watched her, wondering what she had been through. As I did, the reality of what had been going to happen to me sank in. “They were going to traffic me,” I said out loud, a cold chill wrapping around me. “That was the payment they were talking about, wasn’t it? They wouldn’t kill me, because they were going to sell me? Recoup the money my father and fiancé racked up?”
“You would have been a high-price ticket too,” Ronnie said, as if she were talking about general groceries. “I’ve seen enough auctions to know. They’ll be so pissed off that you got away.”
“Then they will want me back,” I realised. If they could have sold me for a lot of money, that meant I was an asset they wouldn’t stand losing.
A hand threaded through mine and immediately chased away an echo of the chill. “You’re an Adley now. No one will get you,” Betsy said, her touch exactly what I needed.
“An Adley,” I repeated. Betsy had said it with such surety, such conviction, that it made me believe it. Made me crave it. Made me want to be worthy of it.
“Where’s Arthur?” I asked.
Betsy smiled knowingly. “He’s out on business for the next several days. But he should be back for the weekend. That’ll give you plenty of time to rest and heal. The doctor said you should be feeling a lot better by then. Almost back to normal, I’d say.”
“Saturday night,” Vera said, her announcement confusing me. She got off the bed. “Let’s see if our Chelsea princess can manage to convince the ‘lord’ that she can come with us on our little night out.”
“Where?” I asked.
“You’ll see,” Ronnie said, clearly confident Arthur would cave and bring me to whatever they were referring to.
As the couple left the room, Vera called over her shoulder, “Let’s just hope that you didn’t lie when we asked if Arthur’s line of work fazed you or not.”
That could only mean one thing awaited us on Saturday. The one thing Arthur seemed to bring to London Town in abundance: death.
Chapter Nine
ARTHUR
I threw my coat on the rack and walked down the hallway. I cracked open the door to my old man’s room. His nurse was changing his nutrient bags. “No change, sir,” she said, acknowledging me, and I nodded. I glanced at my dad’s face. Still pale. Still thin. Still in a motherfucking coma.
I shut the door behind me and headed to the guest room. I intended on walking past my own bedroom door. In fact, I’d promised myself I’d keep my bloody head down and just fucking ignore it. Instead, I stopped right in front of it and turned the knob. It was after two in the morning. It was pitch black outside and I was knackered. But not knackered enough to fight the fucking pull that yanked me inside that room.
I opened the door. The lights were off, but the light from the blazing fire was enough for me to see her. I tried to stay in the doorway, to see her from afar, but she turned in her sleep, rolling in my direction, and I found myself walking inside. I only made it six steps before I stood stock-still.
The bruises on her face were almost gone. The swelling on her lips had reduced to make them normal size, and the cuts on her body were barely there.
She looked like the Cheska I’d always known. My prim and proper Chelsea girl. The one I sank inside week after week. It was never enough. Never fucking enough.
I stared at the open door behind me. Leave, you fucking prick, I said silently to myself. But I didn’t. The sadistic cunt that I was sat in the armchair and just fucking listened to her breathe. Watched her chest rise and fall. And tried not to imagine what would have happened to Cheska if the traffickers had got her. Where the fuck would she be now? Where the fuck would they have taken her?
My fists were clenched so tightly that my bones ached. There was nothing. Nothing that Ronnie’s research had flagged up so far. Nothing that my acquaintances had heard. It was a motherfucking stealth job. No one knew jack shit.
And that was just pissing me the fuck off.
I was a man that needed answers. When it came to Cheska Harlow-Wright, I had none. She had always fucked with my mind. A fucking algebraic equation my tosser of a teacher expected me to work out. Bloody impossible.
Cheska moved, and the duvet slipped down her body. She was dressed in a purple silk nightdress. It made me think of the first time I fucked her in Marbella. She’d been wearing purple that night, looking like a motherfucking goddess as she’d climbed onto my yacht in the pitch black of night.