Page 7 of Chain Me
Meaningless words. No matter what, he wouldn’t have the last say. I would drown him in parchment if I had to. Anything to prove I had already caught on to his little game.
Because I’d come to the conclusion that he was trying to kill me again. How dreadfully uninspired.
I barely had the energy to care. Oh, no, Dublin didn’t consume my sole attention. I was much too busy tending my household. There were sheets to change. Puddles to mop. Floors to wear down by pacing circles over them. Most of the time I spent pacing in Mr. Tinkle’s room, muttering to him as he watched from his corner.
“It doesn’t matter,” I insisted, my hands clenched at my sides as I stormed across the Persian carpet. “It doesn’t. I mean, even if he is that stupid D.H. donor, I don’t care if he ever shows up at all. All he’d want is that stupid book, anyway. Right?”
My cat flicked his tail lazily through the air and blinked.
“Exactly!” Groaning, I paced faster, swaying as my stomach roiled with every erratic movement. “I mean it’s not like… It’s not like we were a real…” I gritted my teeth rather than hiss the wordcouple. “It was a transaction. I knew that… Iknowthat.”
My future husband—should the universe decide not to make me a spinster—would be a creature far different from Dublin Helos. Some smug rich aristocrat who would fall hopelessly in love with my wallet. Together, we would suffer a bitter, stiff existence within Gray manor until the day he slipped too many sleeping pills into his nightly brandy.
It was the wholesome, ideal partnership my parents had modeled.
“It wasn’t like I even liked him,” I added, slowing to a stop. What woman would? Who would consider a man who looked like a pale Adonis attractive? Especially when he ran hot and cold. One minute he claimed to be only interested in money. The next, he had you pinned to a wall, demanding you submit yourself to him fully.
The memory stole into my thoughts, so potent it tore the breath from my lungs. His mouth on mine. His hands, ruthlessly grasping at parts of my body. Him inside me…
Shaking my head, I banished the images. “Who would want that?” I croaked, turning to Tinkles. He extended his tiny forelimbs into a laborious stretch and promptly darted deeper into his corner.
“I wouldn’t,” I whispered, watching him go. “I don’t need anyone. I need… I need to get out of this house.”
Every second spent within the ancient dwelling heightened a growing sense of paranoia. That I was being watched, followed and haunted, despite all evidence to the contrary. The walls themselves seemed to be hissing to me, a million admonishments. Secrets and lies.
This was all some elaborate trick, obviously. I wasn’treallysick. These symptoms were designed to make me seek him out on my own, placing myself right in his trap. Because that’s all he really wanted: revenge. Or, more specifically, payback of something more vital than money.
And he would never, ever find it—his precious contract secretly in my possession.
In retaliation, he wanted me panicked and desperate. Paranoia was his goal. Just like before he’d waltz right in with all the answers.
And I would be ready for him.
* * *
The following day, the phone in the old servant’s alcove rang, breaking the monotony. I took my time answering it. Dr. Goodfellow was probably desperate to deliver another vague update as to my health status.
Sighing, I held the receiver to my ear, prepared to humor her. “I hope the test results came back conclusive this time—”
“Hello?” someone replied and I nearly dropped the handset in response. He was… Well, he wasmale. “May I speak to Ms. Gray?”
I held my breath, my fingers tightening over the rim of a nearby table as a single thought set in.Not him.I was still sane enough to know that much.
This caller wasn’t an ageless figure with a musical baritone and a laugh like the devil. Considering I wasn’t the type to get phone calls from strange men, there was only one explanation for this occurrence.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “Georgie isn’t here. However, I could take a message if you’d like.” Though only God knew when she might receive it.
“I beg your pardon,” the man replied. “But I’m looking forEleanorGray.”
My eyes narrowed. “Why?” Rudeness, aside, it was a valid question. No one ever asked for me. Certainly not by name. Unless, of course, they had souls to buy and sell.
Or money for whoring themselves to an heiress.
“My name is Gabriel Lanic.” His suave tone betrayed him as someone used to schmoozing with the upper class. “I’m the chairman of the board of directors at St. Mary’s—”
“Oh, y-yes,” I croaked, fighting to stamp the suspicion from my tone. “How can I help you?”
“I heard from one of our doctors that you were interested in becoming a core donor?”
