Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 71312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71312 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 285(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
But I’m doing this for his safety. He can’t know where I am.
“If you need anything, use the intercom. A servant will attend to you.”
“What if I need to speak to someone?”
“Use the intercom.”
“So there’s no landline in here either?”
“I’m afraid not, my dear. This shouldn’t be news to you. You know how these things work.”
I sigh. “I suppose I do.”
“Your food will be up soon. In the meantime, try to relax. Enjoy your last night of freedom.”
“Being locked in a room isn’t exactly what I would call freedom,” I say impudently.
Again, she resists my gaze, staring at the wall. “You know what I mean, Savannah. You’re older than I was, older than your own mother was. You’ve been allowed to live some of your life. Embrace that. Don’t let anyone ever take the memory of those years from you. Those memories will serve you well when times get tough.”
Maggie is still in the room when I walk into the en suite bathroom and look in the mirror. My cheek is red from Miles’s punch. I don’t see any bruising yet.
“I’ll send someone to attend to you in the morning. If you’re bruised, we’ll cover it with makeup.”
“I’m not going to try to escape,” I say.
Maggie nods. “Good. Any attempt will be futile anyway.”
“You don’t understand. I made a deal with your son. But if he doesn’t keep up his end of the bargain? I will find a way out of here. And I don’t care who I harm in doing it.”
I expect her to look surprised, but she doesn’t. She simply smiles her weak smile. “Try to keep some of that fire, Savannah. Don’t let them douse your light.”
Then she walks out of the en suite bathroom, out of the room. I follow her through the living area as she walks out the door. “Use the intercom if you need anything.”
She closes the door, and I hear the digital lock click.
There’s no doorknob on the door. It can only be opened from the outside.
First thing I do, of course, is go to the window. Assess my chances of escaping.
Because even though I know I have to do this—I have to do this to protect Falcon—my first inclination is to get the hell out of here.
It’s what Falcon would want for me.
But there’s no roof outside my window to crawl onto. No trellis to escape down.
I’m completely isolated, like Rapunzel locked in her tower.
My handsome prince will come for me.
Already I know that.
Falcon spent eight years in prison protecting those weaker than he was. If he could, he would heal his sister.
And he loves me.
He won’t take this lightly.
And again I feel that push-me pull-you thing inside me.
I want him to come. I want him to be my brave knight, to rescue me, the damsel in distress.
But he’s no knight, and I’m no damsel.
I knew exactly what I was doing when I went with Miles.
I turn away from the window and open the chest of drawers.
Panties and bras, all in my size.
I walk to the closet.
Clothes. Mostly dresses and shoes. All in my size.
They’ve been expecting me.
I imagine this room has been stranded in time for the last five years.
I’m still wearing leggings and an oversized T-shirt.
My hair is pulled back in a ponytail, which I’m sure is a mess by now.
I need a shower.
Of course there aren’t any leggings here for me. Not even a pair of jeans. The closest is a pair of navy blue dress pants.
Not too much of a problem. I’ll just put my clothes back on after I’m done showering.
I strip my clothes, head to the bathroom, and start the shower.
And I look in the mirror.
It fogs up from the steam as the shower warms.
Yes. The steam.
Except for the circular shape, right at my eye level.
I’m being watched.
Watched as I take a shower. Watched as I use the toilet. Watched as I do the most private things.
No doubt there are cameras in the rest of the suite as well.
I take care not to look surprised, though I’ve grown up in a family such as this. Surely they know that I know they’re watching me.
I stand naked. Then I get into the shower.
I wash my hair, not just once but twice, lathering it up, trying hard to rinse the dirtiness from me.
Once it’s conditioned, I wash the rest of my body, scrubbing it down with a loofah.
I scrub and I scrub and I scrub until my skin has turned bright pink.
I scrub some more.
When the water has finally turned lukewarm, I turn it off. Get out of the shower.
Look in the mirror again.
And whoever is watching me can see me.
They see me as I see myself right now.
Physically clean, all the dirt scrubbed from my body and my hair.
But on the inside? So far from clean.
I will never be able to wash the dirt of Miles McAllister from me.