Page 12 of Owned
And despite all that, I care for him so deeply that it shakes me to my core. I may even love him, blood and gunpowder and all. But if I stay with him, will I just be another possession, just for a different man this time? Adrian brought me to paradise, showed me what it was to feel cherished, but what did any of that matter if I was just another shiny thing to claim?
I'm suddenly homesick, longing for the only home I've ever known. A cage, sure, but at least it didn't break my heart to live inside of it.
I cry until there's nothing left, and fall into an exhausted, heartbroken sleep, not even bothering to take my shoes off.
I don't knowhow long I sleep, but it's a few hours at least. If someone hadn't knocked on the door, I likely would have slept until the next morning, but I wasn't that lucky. There was no escaping the situation I found myself in, at least not for long.
I expect to see Maria, the housekeeper, when I open the door, but instead, I find a silver platter sitting on the floor at my feet, covered with a matching lid. I can smell the rich food, but I’m distracted by the other items on the plate–a cream-colored envelope with a black smartphone sitting on top.
A phone. The first real connection with the outside world I’ve been allowed to have, and he’s just giving it to me with no strings attached?
Sitting the tray on the bed, I open the envelope first, my mouth dry. Inside is something that’s almost more shocking than the phone, a plane ticket back to NYC. First class on a commercial airline. Alongside it is a note, written in Adrian’s heavy script,
Elena,
The choice is yours. The driver will be here to take you to the airport in the morning, and the phone is unlocked. I suggest you look up Charles Beaumont before you make your decision.
-Adrian.
A choice? The idea of flying back into my old life feels impossible after the last week. Not ready to decide, I power on the phone,opening the browser as soon as it boots. I almost don’t want to look up Charles, afraid that his body will have been found, but I do it anyway.
The first result is a news article from just an hour ago. The headline makes my breath catch in my throat. "Beaumont Heir Found Safe in Dubai After 'Bizarre Disappearance'."
I skim the article so fast I have to go over it twice to really understand what I’m reading.
"...reappeared at a luxury resort in Dubai late Tuesday evening, seemingly unharmed. When asked about his captors, Beaumont claimed, "I was treated well, but I have no idea who I was being held by. I'd like to leave it in the past and get on with my life."
I scroll down, my eyes wide. There's a picture of Charles surrounded by law enforcement and hotel staff. Other than appearing confused, he looks healthy and whole. Uninjured. My first thought is a rush of pure, clear relief. He's alive. Adrian didn't kill him.
The article is timestamped. An hour ago. Adrian must have released him right after our fight. He’s showing me that he can bend if he wants to…if I want him to.
Torn, I take a few bites of food, not even tasting it. The decision should be easy. I should go home, back to NYC, back to a life that I understand.
But…what if I don’t want to? What if, for once in my life, I do the dangerous thing? The impulsive thing?
The selfish thing?
Feeling both defiant and terrified, I tuck the ticket into the pocket of my jeans and leave the room, heading for the terrace where I know I will find Adrian. It’s where he always goes when he needs to think.
He’s sent all the staff home, and the villa is quiet. As expected, he’s halfway slumped in a chair overlooking the beach, lit candles on the table beside him the only light besides the moon. He’s got a half-empty glass in his hand, but he sits it down when he hears me approaching.
“Come to say goodbye?” His voice is rough.
I don't speak. I just walk around the table, pull the plane ticket out of my pocket, and hold it over the dancing flame of one of the candles.
"Elena, what are you?—"
I don't let him finish, letting the ticket catch fire, curl, and blacken. Once the flame reaches my fingers, I let the scrap of paper go, floating to the terrace floor.
“Elena,” he repeats, “What does this mean?”
"It means," I say, my own voice shaky, “It means I don’t want to leave. I’m not afraid of you. And…I love you.”
I don’t even see him move, the chair scraping against the floor, and Adrian is suddenly in front of me, his hands cupping my face. “You love me?”
"I love you. I don't know if that makes me a fool, but I do.”
Then he’s kissing me, and it’s frantic, possessive. I give as good as I get, raising up on my tiptoes and fisting my hands in the fabric of his shirt, desperate for contact.
