Page 17 of Empress of Ruin
How long can I hold out? How many days, weeks,monthsdo I have before the pressure crushes me?
And what will be left of me then?
“How did you cope?” he asks out of the blue.
I blink. “What?”
“After you left. After…” his eyes slide down to my stomach. A pang of grief tightens my muscles, and the aching emptiness that’s eaten me up these last months returns.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Alright.” He pauses long enough for me to be surprised. “We’re talking about it regardless.”
My eyes flutter. There it is. I know how this goes if I refuse; he gets the belt and persuades me to respond. “I didn’t,” I admit. “I haven’t. I’ve been focused on other things.”
It’s easy to stave off grief when it’s replaced with terror for your life and freedom. Now that my worst fears have morphed into my reality, I expect I’ll have to face the full implications of my loss.
“And you?” Shut up, idiot!Why am I asking him that? God, what iswrongwith me? I should be taking a vow of silence, not inviting him into this conversation.
“I didn’t, either. Also had things to focus on. A Little Bird to put in a cage.”
I already knew this penthouse was a cage, but hearing him say it only reinforces the dreariness of my circumstances. Unless I find a parachute and jump out of a window, I don’t see myself getting out of here until Killian lets me out. And I don’t know whenthatwill happen.
“What was it like?” he asks after another long silence. “When it… happened.”
If I didn’t know better, I think I might detect a note of sadness in his voice.
“It hurt,” I say honestly. “It hurt a lot. There was… a lot of blood. And then…” I let the rest of my sentence trail off.
“How did you get away?”
“I have an investigative reporter background, Killian. I know how to shy away from cameras.”
“And how did you get out of the country?”
I shrug. “I know people who know people. Some sections of our country’s borders are notoriously porous.”
“My clever little journalist.” He sounds almost fond. “I might have never caught you, you know. If you didn’t come to that graveyard.”
“I thought I was careful,” I mutter.
“You were,” he assures me. “I got a tip-off from a friend. I wouldn’t have found you if not for that. The game was rigged.”
The game isalwaysrigged to the benefit of the Killian King’s of the world. It’s a harrowing reminder. The underdog may miraculously win in books or movies, but in real life, we always get the short end of the stick. Our fate is to lose… it’s just the magnitude of losses that differ.
“Did you eat dinner?” he wonders.
“Strangely enough, being kidnapped and forced into your territory—on one of the worst days of the year for me—wasn’t kind to my appetite.”
“No issue. We’ll eat now.”
I don’t know if he deliberately chooses to misunderstand me, or if he’s justthatobtuse. I do know that fighting is futile. I need to compose myself and make a plan. I know I won’t think as well on an empty stomach.
He lets me shower—though he staysin the bathroomwith me—then gives me a silk bathrobe to wear, which serves as flimsy protection from his gaze, and his touch should he decide that he hasn’t had enough for one night.
Being back in his apartment brings about memories that I’d much rather avoid altogether. The night Killian drugged me—which, despite being so wrong it’s almost incomprehensible, was also probably the best sex of my life. The night I was mugged. All the nights I was summoned here for a marathon of pain and pleasure.
Instead of taking me to the dining room, Killian brings me to the kitchen. There are several dishes sitting on a heating plate next to the stove; steak, some sort of pasta, and sautéed vegetables.
