Page 15 of Ruthless Savior
I want to argue, want to tell him he doesn't know anything about my life, or my choices, or the impossible situation I found myself in. But the words stick in my throat, because deep down, I know he's right.
I made this mess. My desperation, my pride, my refusal to accept help from the people who offered it—all of it led me to Neil's door, led me to that warehouse, led me to this moment.
"I need to call my mother," I say finally, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "She'll be wondering where I am."
"Give me her name and number. I'll have someone contact her. Tell her you're safe but that you can't come home right now." He delivers the instructions with a precision that makes my skin prickle, a chill running down my spine. Every word out of his mouth sounds like someone who is used to being in charge, commanding others, being obeyed.
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, fear lacing it. "I need to talk to her myself. She has to hear my voice, or she'll never believe I'm okay."
Ronan considers this, then nods slowly. "Later. After we've talked more."
"Now."
"Later." His tone brooks no argument, and I realize with growing horror that I'm not a guest here—I'm a prisoner, just in a prettier cage than the one Rocco kept me in.
"You can't keep me here against my will!" The words come out as a high-pitched shriek, and I see his jaw tighten.
"Watch me. I’m not going to let you get yourself or the people you care about killed because you don’t understand what you’ve walked into." With that, he turns and walks toward the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the opulent room, my hands still shaking from adrenaline and fear.
"Ronan." I don't know why I use his first name, thinking it will make him turn around, but he does. "How long?"
His eyes glitter with irritation. "How long what?"
"How long do I have to stay here?"
He pauses in the doorway, and for a moment, his expression softens. "I don't know. Until it's safe. Until I figure out how to end this."
“What isthis?” I gasp, staring at him, but he just shakes his head.
“We’ll talk more later.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I hear the lock turn. I'm alone again, trapped in suffocating luxury with no way out and only my thoughts to keep me company.
I stagger back toward the bed, sinking onto the floor next to it with my back to the frame as I pull my knees up to my chest and try to think. My mom will be awake by now. Who is helping her with breakfast? Does she have an appointment today? Who will get her to it? Does she have enough in her accounts? I put the money that I borrowed into my own accounts, not wanting her to look at her balances and wonder where it all came from. But that means she doesn’t have access to it right now. What is Alicia doing? Helping my mom? Looking for me? Badgering thepolice until she gets herself locked up for assaulting an officer or something? It wouldn’t surprise me.
I drop my forehead onto my knees. This is a disaster. A nightmare. This is worse than broken kneecaps or whatever other ideas I had in my head about what Neil would do to me if I couldn’t pay, from watching too many movies. I’ve been kidnapped, hurt, and now I’m trapped with a stranger, with no way out. My mom has all but been abandoned by me, the person who was supposed to take care of her, and I’ve made it all worse—given her something to worry about besides the cancer.
The guilt that floods me, bringing fresh tears to my eyes, is almost worse than the fear.
—
I cryuntil I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to get back into the nice bed again as dirty as I am. I don’t know why I care about taking care of Ronan’s sheets, but I guess it’s some measure of manners my mom instilled in me. I’m not really a guest, but I can’t resist the feeling that I should be mindful that I’m in someone else’s house.
I don't know how much time passes before I hear footsteps in the hallway again, but when the lock clicks, it's not Ronan who enters. Instead, it's a woman about my mother’s age, with grey-threaded blonde hair in a low bun and a kind look on her face, as well as an armful of clothes in her hands.
"Mr. O'Malley asked me to bring these up," she says, a faint German accent in her voice. She sets the clothes on the bed. I see that there are toiletries stacked on top of them—shampoo, conditioner, what looks like body wash, and a tub of body butter. "He said to tell you that you should bathe and then join him downstairs for dinner."
I blink at the clothing.Where is all of this coming from?Does Ronan have a wife that I don’t know about? A sister? A girlfriend? Am I wearing their clothes? I chew on my lower lip, still staring at the pile warily before I look back at the woman.
“What’s your name?”
“Ida,” she says pleasantly.
I frown. “Are you the staff? Does this house havestaff?”
“I’m the house manager, yes,” she says, an amused smile on her lips. “I’m in charge of the staff. Mr. O’Malley asked me to see to your comfort personally.”
Well, that’s interesting.“Did he really?”
