Page 166 of Ruthless Creatures
This suffering is my penance. However long her silence lasts, I’ll wait.
She sleeps in the king-sized bed. I lie awake on the sofa, my heart aching, and listen to her breathe.
The next morning, we fly to New York. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. I think she’s in a state of deep shock at seeing Damon.
I should’ve shot that prick when I had the chance.
When we arrive at La Guardia, she’s sleeping. I unbuckle her seat belt and smooth a hand over her hair. “Baby. Wake up. We’re here.”
Eyes closed, she mumbles, “Where?”
“Home.”
Her lids flutter, then lift. She gazes up at me for a moment, then looks out the window.
It’s obvious she can tell by the view that we didn’t land at Reno-Tahoe International.
But she only takes a deep breath and stands, avoiding my eyes.
She refuses to look at me on the drive into the city. She doesn’t look at my driver, either, or show surprise at seeing the Bentley waiting for us on the tarmac. She just stares out the window, her gaze far away.
I have to keep my hands curled to fists at my sides so I don’t pull her against my chest and bury my face into her hair.
When we get into Manhattan, she cranes her neck to look at the skyscrapers we pass. She looks very young, gazing out the window with wide eyes, her lips parted in awe.
I want to take her everywhere in the world so I can see that look on her face over and over again.
As soon as I regain her trust, I will.
She keeps absent-mindedly toying with the ring I gave her, twisting it around with her thumb. That she hasn’t taken it off is a good omen.
I wish like hell she’d tell me what she’s thinking.
When we pull into the parking garage of my place on Park Avenue, she sits back into her seat and grips the door handle, looking straight ahead. Even in profile, I see her anxiety.
I feel it, coming off her in waves.
I say gently, “This is my home. One of them. We’ll be safe here until it’s over.”
She swallows, but doesn’t ask what I mean by “it.”
I reach out and grasp her hand. It’s cold and clammy. When I squeeze it, she withdraws, sliding both hands between her thighs, out of reach.
We take the private elevator to the eighty-second floor. The doors slide open, but she doesn’t move. She stays frozen in the corner, blinking, looking out into the foyer of the penthouse.
“It’s the whole floor. Eight thousand square feet. Three-hundred-sixty-degree views of New York City. You’ll love it.”
After a moment, she steps forward hesitantly. I hold the doors open for her, ignoring the electronic alarm bell when it starts to chime. She walks out of the elevator and into my home, not stopping until she’s crossed the living room and is standing at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the opposite side of the elevators.
For a long time, she silently takes in the view of Central Park.
Then she turns to me and says quietly, “I’m not going back to work, am I?”
Knowing I can never hold back a shred of the truth from her ever again, I answer without hesitation. “No.”
“Or Lake Tahoe.”
“No.”
