Page 12 of The Castle (Endgame 3)
He’s getting too close. Some things should never be spoken aloud.
My mother learned that lesson.
I’m afraid history might repeat itself.
“Checkmate,” I say, my voice hoarse.
He stiffens. “What?”
“The game. I won.” I sigh, almost sorry to have won now that I know what it means to him. Not sorry enough to take it back, though. “You have to let me out.”Chapter FourIt’s hard to focus on the lecture streaming on my tablet when I know I get to go out tonight. This one is about Prodicus’s “The Choice of Heracles,” where Virtue and Vice represent the two sides of a woman. The popular view of Rome includes orgies in the public baths, but women of stature covered most of their faces. The veils symbolized modesty but also appear in scenes of seduction. That dichotomy portrays women as both demure and lustful, both submissive and destructive.
There are two pages of scrawled notes by the time the professor gives us a reading assignment. In the past week I would have immediately opened my books, eager to begin. Today I bolt upstairs for the shower, determined to make the most of my brief foray outside.
The soaps I use are imported from France, made from roses grown by the family farm. The scent makes me feel grown-up, alluring, so different from the strawberry shampoo I used at home or the discount body wash I had at the motel. I love it, but I also hate it—the way it feels like a dream. All my clothes, all my things. All the nights in bed with Gabriel Miller.
I could wake up tomorrow, unable to return.
My throat feels scratchy, a physical reminder of the nightmares.
Wrapping myself in one of the oversize white towels, I pad across the warm tile to the closet. There are more clothes than I could ever wear. Elaborate gowns and comfy leggings.
A sound from the hallway draws my attention. I gasp, pressing the towel to my damp skin.
It’s only Mrs. B, her eyes averted, looking flushed and embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” she says, out of breath. “This came for you earlier, but you were in the shower.”
She holds a bag from a high-end department store, black with an emblem engraved on the side. She sets it down on the carpet and flees from the room as if it contains something dangerous. Snakes. Maybe a bomb. Instead I find an emerald-green sheath that will bring out the flecks in my hazel eyes. It fits my body like a second skin, perfectly smooth over my breasts, my waist, falling above my knees.
I feel like an old-world actress, Audrey Hepburn if she had dirty blond hair. I use the hair dryer to fold in large curls, making my hair fall in waves. I add a swipe of ruby-red lipstick to complete the look.
Little Avery James, all grown up.
“Gorgeous,” comes the low murmur.
I whirl to see Gabriel standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. How long has he been there?
His expression is severe—the way it has been every time he returns, doing whatever dark things he has to while he searches for Jonathan Scott, the things he never quite explains.
But his eyes are bright with hunger. “I want to take it off you.”
He crosses the room, and I back up. It’s a natural reaction, done without thought—the movement of prey away from my predator. And for once I don’t want to be devoured. The prospect of going out is too appealing. “After dinner.”
He prowls closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Not many people tell me no.”
“I’m not saying no. I’m saying later.”
A low laugh. “Not many people tell me that either.”
I raise my chin. There’s only so long I can stay inside these walls. Even he knows that. I’m desperate enough to do anything. Even defy him. “Well, I’m telling you. And that’s final.”
He grasps my hair and pulls. “I should make you go to dinner naked for speaking to me that way.”
My stomach clenches. The worst part is that he could probably make me like it.
There’s no middle ground with him. No compromise. It’s all or nothing. “No.”
His hold tightens, dragging my head back, exposing my neck. Like the animal that he is, he lowers his mouth to my throat. The edges of his teeth drag over the tender skin. A whimper escapes me.
“We’ll wait,” he murmurs. “Though you might regret it, in the end. When you fight, it only makes me harder. Rougher. And you’ll have to take it, however much it hurts.”
Gabriel places a soft kiss at my collarbone before releasing me, his large hands smoothing my hair. “You have five minutes,” he says. “I’m going to make a phone call. Then we’re leaving.”
He turns toward the door, giving me privacy.
Leaving. The word echoes in my gut, half euphoria, half dread.
Avery! Stay there! Whatever you do, stay inside!
