Page 21 of Wild Devil

Somehow, I managed to keep the documents tucked under my arm all this time, but I feel a growing sense of dread at the prospect of discovering just what they contain.

Namely, why in the hell is Silas interested in Frey?

EIGHT

FREY

I’m worried. The guards have left me alone for hours this time, without even the customary sandwich or trip to the bathroom—a bad sign. Despite my full bladder, I am not the slightest bit relieved when I hear footsteps finally approach. In fact, I feel more like a soldier on D-day, grimly resigned to the horror I might face in the moments ahead. How I react will not only determine my own life and freedom but the welfare of every person I care about.

There is no turning back. No time to rethink my only course of action. The razor blade is already in my grasp, and all I can do next is act.

And pray.

I’ve already made peace with what I must do to avoid being dragged to some creepy altar—because if I let myself be taken beyond this dingy room, there won’t be any meaningful future for me afterward.

I’m ready.

As the doorknob turns, I still feel a sick, heavy dread settle in my stomach as I rise to the balls of my feet. I step forward as the figure pushes the door wider, all while manipulating the blade between my fingertips. There’s no time to think. No room to second-guess. Lunge! I tell myself as a slender figure steps into the doorway, serving as my only obstacle to escape.

It should be Colton, his expression contorted in a cruel, menacing sneer.

Not…

“C-Catherine.” I barely manage to tuck my hand behind my back before she can see the razor blade. As a result, it bites deep into the flesh of my palm. Damn it! I just hope it didn’t break the skin. Fighting to keep my expression blank, I croak out, “What are you doing here?”

“Hello.” Her voice is as welcoming as always, though her smile resembles more of a grimace than anything joyful. My apprehension only grows as I crane my neck to fully take her in. For once, she’s slacked on her primary duty of being Michael Heywood’s polished, perfect wife always. The illusion has cracked. Her eyes are sunken, her hair a lifeless and dull mass coiled into a low bun. She’s wearing one of the outfits my father insists she be seen in public in, but it’s ill-fitting, practically swallowing her narrow frame. In only the past few days, she’s lost an alarming amount of weight.

“It’s so good to see you, Frances,” she says softly. I can tell from how her eyes widen that she’s as shocked by my appearance as I am by hers. Self-consciously, I start to smooth my filthy skirt, not that it will do any good. Nothing can hide the bruises covering my body from head to toe.

“Michael thought that you would like it if I helped you get ready,” Catherine explains. Despite her gaze darting around the room, I can’t tell if she’s shocked that I’ve been held here for so long.

Watching her chips away at the steely resolve I’ve built up since Silas left. God, the razor blade in my grasp seems to burn, demanding to be used. But could I really attack Catherine? I want so badly to lump her into the same category as my father and Colton, but…

It’s not fair. The concept of freedom seems so fragile, drifting further out of my reach with each passing second. All I have to do is stick to my plan and seize the moment.

But I don’t have Daze’s fighting spirit and his fierce ability to remain focused.

I’m weaker, prone to pathetic second-guessing—like the fact that Catherine never harmed me once. Though she’s married to my father, I don’t have any ill will toward her, either. I’m sure he knows that, and he sent her here in his stead on purpose.

To keep me from doing anything rash that might disrupt his meticulous planning.

In response to Catherine’s expectant stare, all I can muster up is a single, breathless question. “Why?”

“I’m going to go with you to the wedding venue,” she says, avoiding the question directly. “Your dress is already there, and it’s so pretty, Frances. I know you’ll like it.” Tentatively, she reaches out and fingers a long tendril of my hair with another strained, labored smile.

I duck out of her reach. “Are we going back to the house?” I ask, feeling my hope rise. That could be a better location in the end than here. I know the area well enough, at least, to find an escape without potentially resorting to violence. Maybe this will all work out for the best?

“No, Frances,” Catherine says as she slowly shakes her head. My heart sinks. “Not at the house.”

There’s no point in hiding my confusion. “Then where?”

She pats my shoulder, still forcing that painful grin. “Let’s not worry about that now. Have you been eating okay?”

I nod. It’s obvious that this isn’t some charming weekend away. Even though she appears exhausted and haggard, I look just as bad, if not worse. If I had some hope squirreled away that Catherine might resist my father’s antics, then her pretend act now thoroughly dashes them. She’s determined to play along, no matter the cost.

And yet, I still can’t force myself to raise the razor blade.

“I’m fine,” I choke out, instead.

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