Page 232 of Chandelier Sin
I would never survive this.
“Eve,” Atticus said, glaring at me. “Allow me to turn your grace into beautiful chaos.”
“Allow me to turn your grace into beautiful chaos.”Atticus had said those very words on the plane.
His way of warning me?
I’d not gotten a chance to run—or walk away in disgust to go look for Eloise.
Two of Aemon’s men had escorted me back into the house before I could detect any remaining loyalty in the man who’d brought me here—the man I’d entrusted to find my daughter.
I’d entrusted Atticus with my own life and safety, too. He’d seen the bruises, knew what Aemon would do to me later when we were alone.
Tears stung my eyes and confusion blurred my thoughts as I tried to rewind the past few minutes, scrambling to remember any sign that showed Atticus had really turned on me.
I placed my palm on my chest, allowing calmness and serenity to enter my soul as I sensed this might be his way of protecting me.
He would meet fire with fire—and he didn’t want me to see it.
I was led down endless dimly lit corridors, familiar steps I’d taken in the past too many times to count. These two rough strangers marched me through the house like a prisoner.
“Where are you taking me?” I snapped.
The bodyguards remained silent, saying nothing, merely forcing me forward.
I’d trusted Atticus and willingly boarded that plane. I had trusted his friends, too. I’d seen the lure of money create monsters out of men. Maybe that’s what this was about.
They would exchange me for an alliance with one of the most powerful men in the world of arms dealing.
I refused to believe I’d read Atticus wrong. The way he’d treated me all this time had been nothing short of gentlemanly.
I’d thought of him as my hero.
I clung to his warning on the plane:“…turn your grace into beautiful chaos.”
That was the only way—to walk into the center of the storm.
I need to believe this.
Surely his ex-military friends had integrity, too. I’d always thought I was a good judge of character, and they’d been nothing but kind.
The men stopped me in front of a door. My prison welcomed me back.
Dread surged inside me.
On the other side of that door had been the room of the head mistress from my childhood. I’d stood outside her door and eavesdropped many times.
Filled with mischief, I’d tried to fight off the boredom after classes downstairs. I’d always been in search of affection from an adult, but none would be found from that sour middle-aged woman, who seemed older.
They opened the door and pushed me inside the room.
I fell to my knees, my legs too weak to hold me up, sucking in the pain of defeat as I landed on the wooden floorboards.
They locked me inside as I looked around the sparse room.
In the center stood a large bed swamped in white sheets, the frame swathed in a mosquito net.
Over to my right the balcony door was open, allowing a warm breeze to chase out the staleness as curtains billowed and danced to the beat of the tropical climate.
