Page 24 of Captive Promise

This is literally some Truman Show shit. This is a grown man who apparently spent two years building a highlight reel out of my very existence, and I never felt it.

Except…except I did, didn’t I?

Outside the hospital.

On my own front steps.

That crawling, hairs-up feeling I told myself was exhaustion and paranoia.

I was right both times. I just didn’t believe myself.

I don’t sleep again that night.

Somewhere around three I catch myself still turning over the last two years of my life and feeling sorry for myself, and something in me goes cold with a different kind of disgust—disgust at myself, this time.

There’s a two year old somewhere in this state who doesn’t get to sleep in her own bed either, and I’m lying here feeling sorry for myself.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Seraphina doesn’t care how many people watched me buy coffee.

She cares about going home and being back with her parents.

That’s the goal.

That was always the goal, from the second I picked up that phone.

So I stop asking why me and start asking a better question.

Where is she?

He won’t tell me? No matter. I’ll find out myself.

He’s already at the table when I come down, coffee at his elbow, scrolling on his phone with the unbothered ease of someone who isn’t holding a two year old captive.

Morning light is coming through the tall windows behind him, catching the dark hair falling over his forehead and the line of his jaw.

His sleeves are shoved up again to show off his forearms, like he’s daring me to look.

I can’t help myself and glance quickly at his toned, tattooed arms before I mentally slap myself.

Focus, Kat.

Two years, I think, sitting down across from him, and the thought sours any other thought in my head.

This fucked up man has been watching—no, stalking—me for two years and he seemingly finds nothing wrong with it. I want to throw the water glass at his head.

Instead I fold my hands in my lap and breathe deeply.

I refuse to let him know just how much he’s pissed me off. Somehow, I think he would find that amusing.

“Sleep well?” he asks, without looking up.

“Fantastic.” I do my best to keep my voice even as I pour my own coffee before he can reach for the pot. I will not allow him to serve me anything. “How’s Seraphina?” I set the pot down with more force than I wanted, the delicate China rattling.

“She’s well,” the asshole responds. “She woke up at six thirty and immediately demanded breakfast. She was given pancakes, eggs, and fruit.” He sets the phone down and gives me his full attention, and I nearly shiver at the full weight of his gaze. “She ate her pancakes, rejected the eggs, and threw a fit about the fruit.” A corner of his mouth twitches. “She’s very opinionated about fruit. I guess strawberries and kiwi aren’t acceptable to Miss Santoro.”

My fingers curl around the handle of my mug. “Where is she?” I breathe.

Nico smirks. “Safe.”