Page 17 of Ruthless Savior
Old habits die hard, I guess.
Someone brought up a pitcher of water and a glass while I was in the shower, and a plate with a sandwich on it, cut diagonally. My mouth is so dry it hurts, and I go for the water first, gulping down two glasses before I reach for the sandwich without thinking whether or not I should eat it. I’m halfway through it before I realize it’s chicken salad. It tastes like the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten, my stomach cramping at the food and water suddenly filling it.
I sink onto the bed, letting my hair air dry. I end up dozing off, until I wake to find that it’s dark outside and the clock by the bed reads six—thirty. I jump up, wondering a moment later why I’m so worried about being late to dinner with my captor.
But I’ve always been an on-time kind of perfectionist, and I guess that’s not going to change now.
I opt for the black dress, which I think is meant to be knee-length but falls awkwardly to a little below mine. I cinch it with the chain belt—the woman who wore this was fuller-chested, too—and look around for shoes, but there aren’t any. I guess I’m going to dinner barefoot.
The lock clicks, and the door opens to reveal Ida standing there. “Mr. O’Malley is waiting in the dining room for you,” she says, and I take a long, slow breath, trying to calm myself and organize my thoughts.
This dinner is my best chance to get answers and find a way out of this. I need to be rational. If I scream and fight and throw things, he’s not going to take me seriously.
“Okay,” I say quietly, and follow the housekeeper.
Ida leads me out into a hall with flocked wallpaper, gleaming floors, and old-fashioned sconces, all the way to a curving mahogany staircase that takes us down to the first floor. We stepout into a marble-tiled foyer, cold against my bare feet as she leads me to the back of the house—a mansion, really—and to a smaller dining room with a six-person mahogany dining table and a crystal chandelier hanging over it. The wallpaper is striped dark and lighter green, and the room feels surprisingly small and cozy, with large windows that look out onto the snowy landscape beyond.
Whoever Ronan O’Malley is, he’s not hurting for money.
The man himself is sitting at the head of the table, wearing dark chinos, a deep blue button-down with rolled-up sleeves, and loafers. He looks up at the sound of our footsteps and smiles at me.
“Leila. I’m glad you came down for dinner.” He stands up, which might be chivalrous under other circumstances but feels more like a power play right now. "You look better. How are you feeling?"
“Like a prisoner.” I realize Ida has melted away, leaving only Ronan and me standing in the entryway to the dining room. “Although the prison is very nice. Top-notch. And you still haven’t told me how you know my name.”
“You told me.” His expression doesn’t change.
I blink at him. “Itold you?”
Ronan nods. “You woke up briefly on the car ride from the warehouse to my home, where you are now. You gave me your name.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. I was out of it at the time, so there’s no reason to question why I would have done such a thing.
“Are you hungry?” He pulls out the chair to the right of him. “You must be.”
I am, I realize. The sandwich from earlier is long gone, and my stomach growls at the mention of food. But accepting food from him directly feels like accepting the situation, like admitting that I'm going to be here long enough to need meals.
"I want to talk to my mother." I clench my jaw, glaring at him. Ronan looks like he wants to pinch the bridge of his nose, but is holding back.
"After dinner,” he says after a moment.
"Before dinner."
"Leila." There's something in his voice that makes me look at him more closely—not threat, exactly, but a kind of weary patience that suggests we could do this all night if I want to. "How long have you been gone? How long has it been since you were taken by… whoever sold you to Rocco?"
I swallow hard. “I don’t know. What day is it?”
“December 2nd.”
My chest squeezes. I went to see Neil for that fateful last time the day after Thanksgiving. “It’s been almost a week.”
“I thought it might have been.” He gestures at the bruising on my face. “I’m surprised they damaged your face. But the bruises are yellow. Either you have problems at home, or they kept you for some time.”
“The bruises are from the meeting I had with Neil just before Thanksgiving.” My jaw tightens, my eyes welling up despite myself at the memory of that terrifying meeting.
Ronan’s expression hardens. “Neil who?”
“I don’t know his last name. He runs a loan business out of Flanagan’s Bar.” The words spill out before I can decide whether or not to tell him.
