Page 49 of Blood Debt
Her feet stop right in front of mine. I hear the soft swish of silk. The faint shift of weight in her breath.
“I think you’re lying. Every woman would at least lust after him,” she says flatly.
I sniff. Keep my hands still. Let one tear slip out down my cheek. My lip trembles.
“Signora, I swear—I didn’t—he—I serve as asked—I would never want to tempt—”
She crouches beside me.
Her fingers catch my chin, lifting my face sharply. Her grip is firm.
Her nails are polished. Pale pink. Not a chip.
“I’m engaged to him,” she says. “Did you know that?”
I shake my head. “He loves me,” she continues. “But men…” she sighs, as if the words bore her, “have wandering eyes. Especially when something new walks in.”
I draw in a shaky breath. Let it catch in my throat. My shoulders tremble.
“I didn’t mean—I never looked—”
“You don’t have to look,” she says, smiling again. “You’re just there.”
She leans in close enough for her breath to warm my ear. “I want you to resign.”
My mouth parts. “I—I can’t, miss. My contract forbids me from retiring before a month.”
She straightens, yanking my chin upward until I wince. “Then a month it is.” She releases me with a flick of her fingers. “Be gone by then.”
She steps back. Stands tall again.
Her posture resets to elegance, her voice light as air.
“You can even be here for the wedding. You can be a bridesmaid.”
She smiles wider. Then she lifts one bare foot and kicks me. Just enough to knock me sideways.
I catch myself on my elbow, my breath caught between a gasp and a grunt. My skirt bunches beneath me.
She walks past, calm, graceful, chin high. The door opens. Then closes behind her.
I sit there on the carpet for a moment. Let the burning tear trail off my cheek. My hands slowly unclench from where they’d dug into the rug.
Then I wipe my eyes once.
I push off the floor, dust my knees with slow, sharp movements, and roll my eyes.
“She is so lucky I am undercover.”
****
I carry the tray of toiletries against my chest, the tops of the bottles clinking gently together with every step. I enter his room to see windows cracked open just enough to let the early breeze spill through. I reach the en suite bathroom and set the tray down on the marble counter beside the sink.
The shampoo bottle is still there. Empty. Same as it was yesterday.
I left it on purpose. Let him stew. Not that he noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t care enough to throw another insult.
His fiancée—if that’s what I should call her—had left sometime yesterday, heels clacking arrogantly down the hallway, but not without slicing a final look in my direction. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes wanted me gutted.
