by Sadie Grubor
"You should've caught it," Saint growls.
"We need to address the situation,” Jacob interjects, “and this isn't helping."
"I say give her to them," Sketch starts, earning a glare from Saint. "Don't fucking look at me like that. Your goddamn obsession with teen runaway pussy is distracting you from more important—"
Saint's hand around his throat chokes off the end of his sentence.
"I would be careful with what you let your mouth run about," he warns.
The muscles in his forearm flex and his knuckles start to whiten. Sketch drops the iPad to the floor.
This is my fault. If I'd just kept my fucking distance from these people at the club and ignored Tricia, I wouldn't be about to watch someone be choked to death. These two have a fucked up friendship, but it is exactly that. Now, I'm going to be the reason for its demise.
Before I can stop myself, I grab Saint's arm, and scream, "Stop!"
His hand immediately releases Sketch, who stumbles back. Using the dining table to lean back on, he clasps his throat and gasps for air.
The feel of his stare is like a thousand bricks on top of me, and I quickly step away from him. Glancing to his face, I find exactly what I expect: his eyes on me. Without moving them, he orders, "Bring up our guests."
My eyes widen, and once again, I'm trying to figure out who would send the police for me.
The smirk that contorts Saint's face, along with the raise of one eyebrow, tells me he has an idea, and it sends cold realization up my spine. Panic clogs my throat and tears burn behind my eyes. Taking deep breaths, I try to pull myself together.
"Mei, are you okay?" Jacob asks, stepping forward.
I step back, raising a hand to stop him.
"She's fine," Saint rumbles. "She just figured out who's looking for her."
"Who?" Jacob asks.
"The same person sending her gifts," Saint enlightens the room.
"Fuck," Sketch rasps.
"My God," Jacob whispers.
"Sir," Russ appears from direction of the elevator hallway.
One man and a woman follow, both dressed in dark slacks, a button-down shirt, and a jacket. Their curious eyes focus on me, the woman's narrowing at my black eye.
Well, I wanted to leave. I guess my wish will be granted. Escorted from this prison by the police and delivered right into the hands of my past.
No. That can't happen.
"Marcus," Saint greets. "What do I owe the pleasure of you and Darla's visit?"
From anyone else, it would sound cheesy, but Saint makes it sound almost threatening.
"What happened to her face?"
"Darla," Marcus warns.
"A misunderstanding," Saint freely answers. "One that I will have taken care of soon."
At his admission, I straighten my back and fight the urge to search his face for answers.
"Good to know," she states, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Now, the business of your visit?" Saint presses.
"Mr. Ruggiano, we have reason to believe you have a Meissa Winters in your possession." It's a statement, not a question, and the detective's eyes shift to me.
"As you can see, Miss Winters is perfectly well," Saint says, motioning over my body.
Both their eyes come to me.
"Miss, a report has been filed that you have been missing for some time now," the one called Marcus says. "Do you know why they would think it wasn't of your own choice?"
"I have no idea," I say, making a choice that keeps me from my past, and even I'm surprised by how calm I sound.
"Miss Winters," Darla beings, dropping her arms from her chest. "If there is something wrong, if you need help—"
"What help could I possibly need?" The question is so flippant and snobby, so unlike me, I can only pray my own shock doesn't show.
To prove my point, I turn, making my way to Saint. At his side, I lean into him, wrapping an arm around his bicep.
"You can—"
"Darla," Marcus warns again, "she said she doesn't need help and we can both see she's fine."
She glares at him before spinning and stalking away.
"Thank you, Sain—Mr. Ruggiano," Marcus says, then turns to me. "Good evening, Miss."
Russ and Vincent follow them out of the room toward the elevators.
Adrenalin pumps through me making every muscle twitch and my heart beat rapidly.
"They're gone," Vincent announces upon his return.
Releasing Saint's arm, I stumble back and catch myself on the back of the couch. He turns, facing me.
"You finally have your chance to escape," he taunts, stalking toward me, "and you don't take it?"
Silence fills the room as tears pool at the inner corners of my eyes, lingering like a threat to my sanity.
"Good," Sketch rasps, "fucking thing it was Marcus."
"Why is that a good thing?" I ask, avoiding Saint's observation.
"You're terrified of him," he states, thinking he has it all figured out.
Ignoring him, I focus on what Sketch said, piecing it together.
"Marcus works for you," I say, then accuse, "Did you send them here just to scare answers out of me?"
One thick brow arches over his right eye, amusement dancing in them.
"Maybe," he shrugs.
"You bastard," I shout, pushing away from the couch. "What…who are you?"
"Remember," he says in a low warning, "you chose me over freedom."
Giving a half grin, he takes a step back.
"Vincent, get Frank and the car. We're going to the estate," he announces.
"Are you sure about this?" Jacob asks, inching closer to my side.
Saint's eyes narrow on him before he reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me to him. Glancing over my shoulder, I don't miss the way Jacob stares at our intertwined hands. His face scrunches like he's trying to work through something in his head.
"You don't need me to go, right?" Sketch asks with a hint of nervousness.
Everyone's hesitation worries me. Maybe I've pushed too far and for too much.
"Thirty minutes," is all Saint says before dragging me back upstairs.
Mei
The drive to the estate is long and quiet. A loaded silence not even Sketch seems eager to disrupt. Torn between fear of not knowing where this place is or what will happen when we reach it, I'm also seething about Saint's stunt with the police. Deflecting his touches and avoiding as much contact as possible, I angle my body away from him and lean against the door.
Undeterred, he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling my back to his side.
I hate the way my body heats and skin tingles at his touch. That even when I hate him, he gets this kind of reaction from me.
Closing my eyes, I inhale through my nose, clench my jaw, and growl through my teeth, "Let go."
"As clever as it would make me, I did not send the detectives for you."
Mouth gaping, I repeat his admission in my head. I'm mulling over the words a third time when I blurt, "Why would you let me believe you did?"
"You needed an emotional outlet."
At his deceptively calm response, I twist my body and look up at him.
Seeing the confusion on my face, he explains, "With everything that's happened today, and this new ballsy move of your doll sender, your emotions were all over the place."
"So, you decided anger was the way to go?"
His hand comes up, taking my chin between his thumb and bent fingers.
"You don't cry when you're angry," he explains. "I'll take your anger before seeing you cry."
Turning my face away, I swallow hard. He's making me feel things again. Only this time, it's with his words.
After two and a half hours of watching the scenery change from cityscape to suburb to rural, nothing but dark green forest passes by in a blur. No houses. No passing cars. No sign of human life to be found, and no matter how his words make me feel, apprehension creeps back in, and I find myself sta
ring unseeing out the window.
In the middle of nowhere, who can hear you scream?
As the car slows, I refocus on what's outside the window. A small stone cottage sits on the side of the road. The ivy climbing up its side is well maintained and the face of a young boy peeks over the window sill.
"That's the property manager's house," Saint states as the car takes a left just past the house.
There's a depth and apprehension to his voice, making me worry more about this new location—a destination that creates unease in everyone bound for it.
Settling back into the seat, the trees grow fewer and farther between, until we reach a large house. Dipping my head, I try to get a better view out the front window. The estate is not what I expected, especially in the middle of the all this wilderness.
Circling a courtyard, the car parks in front of four stone steps leading to a large dark wooden door.
The car opens, Frank stepping back to allow Saint to climb out. Before stepping away from the car, he reaches back, offering me his hand, palm up. Swallowing, I slip my hand into his.
He helps me from the car, and I realize how wrong I was. This isn't a house. It's a mansion.
While it's the made of the same light beige stone as the cute family cottage we passed, this place is more like those Italian castle-villa hybrids I've seen in pictures. It's so unexpected, I can only stare up at the imposing dwelling. The longer I do, the more the late day shadows give it an eerie feel.
I jump when his hand comes to my lower back, but allow Saint to guide me through the large entrance. Jacob enters behind us, announcing, "The second-floor guest rooms have been prepared," before opening it.
"The master suite?" Saint asks, standing close at my back.
"Ready," Jacob confirms.
Inside, I glance around a large entrance way. The walls are almost the same color as the exterior, but are a larger exposed stone. Lined with lanterns, they are cast in a warm glow. Tile squares in muted red, brown, and tans decorate the floors.
A press against my back puts me in motion. Walking through a tall stone archway, we enter a large indoor courtyard. It's decorated the same as the entrance, aside from the large plants growing in the center. Glancing up, I find a ceiling made of glass, revealing a darkening sky and the first stars of the night.
"It's retractable," Jacob advises.
Licking my lips, I glance around the vast room. The courtyard looks to be the center of the house, separating different sections and rooms. Each of the four walls have a large archway leading into areas unknown to me. Though, I'm drawn to the one opposite us. There's a clear view of the sky and I can't help but wonder if it's a large window or open to the outside. I also notice the floor drops away to what are probably stairs.
Commotion fills the room around us, pulling my attention from the view. Sketch, Vince, Russ, and a couple other men I've seen, but haven't learned their names, file into the room.
I catch Sketch giving the archway I admired an apprehensive look before quickly looking away. He focuses on the floor, resituating his black backpack over his shoulder.
"I'll be in the office," he mumbles, turning to walk away.
"You have free reign of the house," Saint calls out behind him, more than likely making sure everyone knows I have his permission. Part of me bristles, while the other is relieved and ready to find a way out of here.
"Are you sure you—?" Jacob begins.
Spinning back to face us, he says, "She's free to go where she wants," leaving no room for further argument.
Closing the distance he just created between us, his fingers find my chin and bring my face to him.
"It's thirty-two acres of land," he says, warning in his words. "Forest, crops, a lake, and a lot of land to cover."
He steps closer into my personal space, causing me to raise my head to keep eye contact.
"No one knows these grounds better than me." Definitely a warning. "Especially in the dark."
Sliding his hand from my chin, down the side of my neck, over my shoulder, and down my arm, he takes my hand. Stepping back, he turns, and pulls me behind him.
"Come," he instructs, the same gleam of excitement I saw in him earlier back.
Saint tugs me along, down a hallway to a stone staircase. We climb to the second floor and find another hallway. Reaching the end of the corridor, Saint opens a set of double wooden doors and leads me inside.
"This is the master," he explains, releasing my hand. "This will be our room while we're here," he adds. "The bathroom is through there."
Following where he points, I walk into the bathroom. On my left, in an enclave, is a claw foot tub. Identical sheer panels line the entrance, a privacy curtain. To my right is a double sink vanity and large mirror. At the far end of the bathroom is a glass shower with a bench. Yet, the largest extravagance in this room is another set of glass double doors.
Moving to them, I push them open and find another sunken in room. This one holds a built in hot tub that could seat at least six.
"My mother called it her sanctuary."
Saint's admission surprises me. I turn, meet his eyes, and wait for him to tell me more. He doesn't. At least, not about his mother.
"I have things to handle," he states, turning around to leave.
My curiosity getting the best of me, I follow him out of the bathroom, and blurt, "Why are we here?"
Figuring I opened the dialogue, I might as well keep going.
"And why is everyone so nervous about this place?" I add, trying to understand what the hell is going on.
"You want to know who I am."
It's not a question, but still, I nod. "Yes."
"Everyone else," he straightens to his full height, lifting his chin, "already knows what I am."
Without further explanation, he exits the room, leaving me standing in the middle of the bedroom.
Exhaling a breath, I cross the room and open the French doors. Stepping onto the patio, motion lights bring it to life. I'm drawn to a stone wall and plant my palms on it before glancing over. A twelve foot drop down to a covered swimming pool that looks like no one has used it in years.
Following the concrete walkway around the pool, I find a stone staircase leading down from the patio. My flight instincts kick in and my feet itch to run down the stairs. I close my eyes, curling my fingers into the stone.
Freedom. Grab your backpack, unlatch the lock, and go, I mentally instruct. It would be as easy as…
Opening my eyes, I scan the privacy fence around the pool area, looking for a gate. When I find it, my body tenses, ready to flee, until I glance at the dense forest around the house. Saint's warning echoes in my mind before I shake it off.
You've survived worse than trees, I silently argue with my apprehension. You survived the dirty, cold, dark streets of Chicago. He only wants to scare you—or he'd prefer to hunt you down and kill you.
Running my hands through my hair, I take a deep breath and exhale.
At least test the gate. You're only checking the place out, right?
Just as my body starts to move, a figure in black emerges from the shadows just outside the fence. He's hard to see in the dark, but his suit alone tells me he's one of Saint's men. Beeps break the silence before the gate swings open.
Releasing the stone wall, I take quiet backward steps to avoid being seen.
Before the gate falls out of sight, I watch the suited man open a wooden box and punch a code. Three loud beeps fill the air, a small light turns red, and he closes the box. He glances around, probably curious about the motion lights, so I duck into a darkened part of the patio.
Well, there goes that idea.
As I return to the master bedroom and close the doors, I hear, "Perimeter check complete."
Leaning my forehead against the doors, I resign myself to my newest prison. Pushing off the doors, I take a deep breath before leaving the master suite.
Descending the stairs, I'm back in the first-floor hallway. My sto
mach announces its neglect the moment my feet hit the stone floor and I search for the kitchen.
Upon entrance into the large courtyard, my eyes lift to the glass ceiling. It reminds me of doll cases. Shaking my head, I push the memories away and rush through the archway I watched Sketch disappear into earlier. On my left is a long credenza with picture frames. It's the first time I've found any type of photograph and my curiosity sets my feet in motion.
Starting on the right, I lean down and glance over the frames. They're mainly of a man and woman. Two are candid photos taken somewhere outside this house, another is the same couple's wedding picture, and the rest are posed formal photographs.
Assuming they are Saint's relatives, perhaps his parents, I straighten. Turning around, I find another hallway, like the one on the other side of the house that leads to the bedrooms.
Halfway down the corridor, a muffled scream stops me, sending a chill up my spine. Twisting my neck, I look behind me and find nothing. Pressing my back to the wall, I look back and forth, waiting. Nothing enters the hallway and no more screams follow.
Gathering all my courage, I push forward and enter a massive kitchen.
"Are you hungry?" Jacob's question startles me, and he puts his hands up, palms out. "I didn't mean to frighten you," he reassures.
His words are sincere, but I don't miss the look of pity on his face. I open my mouth to ask what's going on, but my stomach once again protests how long it's been empty.
The pity is washed away by a smile.
"I have roasted chicken," he says, making his way to a pot on top of the stove. "As well as potatoes and carrots," he adds.
In practiced moves, Jacob retrieves a plate, silverware, and a glass. After plating the food, he turns to find me unmoved.
"Please sit, Mei.” He motions to the island with a dip of his head, and I tentatively take a seat at the very end.
Placing the plate and cutlery on the counter top, he steps back, and asks, "What would you like to drink?"
"Water's fine," I respond.
With a nod, he sets to it and fills the glass before placing it in front of me.
Picking up the fork, I move the food around. I know it's not rational, but I can't help to wonder if it's drugged or poisoned in some way.
