Page 389 of The First Taste
He disconnects the line before I can say another word. It takes a few seconds of gaping at my phone before I can put it away. I move away from the door, one eye on the tiny window, more afraid than I can ever recall being.
And my vision starts fading in and out. Touching my wound again, I look at my hand. It’s stained dark red with my own wet blood.
Shit.
I sit down in the middle of the bathroom floor, feeling woozy, and wait for my white knight to arrive.
Hades
Iwind our boxy SUV around the sinuous coastal road. The pale sunlight filters through the dark-tinted windows, casting a wide box of light that falls upon still-sleeping Persephone. She’s been sleeping for hours now, ever since the doctor gave her some pain medication.
My eyes are fixed on the still silhouette of her face.
Even in sleep, her face is pale with two heavy smudges of shadow under each eye. I can’t look away.
Ever since I found her, all but passed out from blood loss in that bathroom in Monaco City, I’ve been watching her like a hawk.
As if I could keep her here and alive simply through the force of my willing it to be.
As if I could bind her to my side, make sure that nothing happens to her. My brain knows that is not the way to keep Persephone from leaving.
But my gut is what drove me in the hours after I scooped her up in my arms and carried her away from any danger lurking in Monaco. It helped me to focus my thoughts, calling Linc and demanding the name of a discreet doctor.
I stood by while the woman cut Persephone’s dress off of her body, trying to distract myself from the red slashes carved into Persephone’s delicate ribs. Usually, no mere flesh wound would make my stomach churn like this.
But there are exceptions that prove every rule.
I held her hand and forced myself to think through what our next steps would need to be. Where would we go? How would we hide?
And for how long?
That same feeling still drives me now, as I bring Persephone back to the safest place I can think of. I’m operating by listening to my gut, which is totally unlike me. Usually, I’m so deliberate. If a plan doesn’t work out, there are the second, third, and fourth back up plans. All meticulously planned out, leaving nothing to chance.
But now? Now that I have a wounded Persephone in my care and I’m on the run? I’m a man wandering in the darkness, god damn it, and it’s scaring the fuck out of me.
What else am I meant to do? I can’t call anyone. I can’t ask for advice.
It’s just me and a badly-injured Persephone now. No time for misgivings.
No time for the anger that claws at me, demanding that she be held accountable for fucking up our entire plan in Monaco. No time for my mind to wander over what she said to me again.
I don’t feel safe around you, knowing that you are going to fight every single guy who so much as looks at you wrong.
It echoes around my head, popping into my thoughts at the most inopportune moments.
She doesn’t feel safe around me.
What am I supposed to do with that?
So, I came to the only place that I truly know we will be safe. Now that my father is dead, his house on Blank Island off the northwest coast of Scotland is an unassailable fortress.
It might be an obvious choice for a hiding spot. But with its age-old defenses and its distance from any civilization, I do not have to think twice about its safety.
I turn and look out the window, tensing as the SUV begins climbing the final hill. Rough blocks of white and khaki jut out against the pale blue summer sky. Ancient architecture, older than the dawn of time, indicating exactly where the manor lands begin. The tall, thick stone wall is bordered by long grasses and heather that grow wild at the bottom. My heart begins to beat faster as I drive the SUV under the curved stone archway.
The manor springs into view, massive and sprawling, the edges of its khaki roof and white stone walls worn with age. My fists clench as we pull up at the end the circular drive.
It’s been a decade since I was here last. My pulse pounds as I stare the scene down. The massive oak front door, flaking off tiny pieces of shellac. The same old haphazardly-placed chimneys. The exotic animal topiaries, my father’s pride and joy. They’ve grown wild but remain standing before the house, still fanned out like spread fingers.
