Page 25 of The Queen (Masterpiece Duet 2)
The code translates into two words: COME ALONE.
It feels much more sinister now, and my throat clenches as I imagine all the horrible things that could be happening to her. It feels wrong to have a bed—even a small cot—when she might be in danger. Wrong to eat when she might be hungry.
Should I wake up Damon? Except he already sent me away.
And besides, the code isn’t completely solved. There’s still a bottom row of numbers that could mean anything. A signature? A location?
COME ALONE isn’t something we can act on.
Come where?
I fall into a restless sleep and wake up when faint light seeps under the door.
When I step outside, I find an empty bedroom and a tray of breakfast. French toast made from thick brioche bread, fresh cut berries, a small carafe of coffee. This must be what it’s like for Avery to have room service delivered, I think with a flash of envy. And then immediately shiver with guilt.
Wherever she is now, she probably doesn’t have room service. Every bite of the delicious breakfast fills me with both illicit comfort and terrible dread.
I take the empty tray downstairs, half expecting to find Damon lurking in the corner or an army of maids and cooks at his service. It’s eerily quiet, almost like I’m walking through a museum.
In the kitchen there’s a woman reading a magazine.
She’s wearing a black T-shirt and blazer with jeans, her dark hair pulled into a strict ponytail. She looks up and smiles at me. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I say, a little wary. She’s beautiful enough to have been one of the women dancing in bikini tops and leather skirts that first night, but I wouldn’t recognize her if she was. Not with my memories of that night hazy, lights flashing, smoke in the air.
Not with her face scrubbed clean of any makeup.
I put the tray down on the counter beside an empty sink, wondering if I should do the dishes.
“Do you need anything?” she asks, her tone neutral.
It feels strange that I don’t know whether she’s Damon’s guest or servant. Then again it’s strange that I don’t know that about myself. “I’m sorry, who are you?”
She gives a tinkling laugh. “My name’s Hiromi, but you can call me Hiro. I’m your personal security.”
Personal security. Does that mean she’s keeping me in the house or defending me from what’s outside? With Damon it’s probably both, the same way he uses the small room to possess me and protect me.
I sit down across the high kitchen tabletop. “Well, hi.”
“Hi,” she says back, as if nothing could disturb that calm composure. Probably nothing can.
“So you work for Damon?”
She nods. “I’ve done a few jobs for him, but this is the first time I’ve provided bodyguard services.”
“You weren’t by chance the person who made that French toast for breakfast?”
“My version of cooking is peanut butter on toast.”
Who made the tray for me then? “So what other jobs have you done for Damon?”
“You would have to ask him.”
Her answer doesn’t surprise me, but I have to try. This is one of the few people I’ve had access to who knows Damon outside of my father and Avery. “Are you the only guard here?”
“The only one inside the house.”
“Isn’t it kind of a big property to have only one person?” The security procedures at the Emerald had been akin to an airport, probably tighter. Armed guards on rotating patrol. Background checks. Security cameras. All the things Gabriel Miller had done to keep Avery safe, but it didn’t work.
“I think Damon Scott has the best security system there is,” Hiro says. “Reputation.”
No one would dare attack the Den, except the one person I fear the most. His father. But Jonathan Scott is long dead. My last memory is of him strung up, being tortured, Gabriel and Damon’s joint retribution for the man’s misdeeds.
A shiver runs through me. “Do you know where Damon is?”
“Yes.”
She doesn’t offer anything more than that, and it makes me smile a little. “Okay.”
“If you need to get in touch with him, I can call.”
The memory of last night’s kiss is too fresh in my mind. “No, thank you. But do you mind if I just… talk to you a little more? I know that probably isn’t in your job description, but it’s a little isolating upstairs.”
Her expression softens. “Of course not. I get so used to working alone, but there are times it’s hard.”
I glance at the glossy page of the magazine that I can’t quite read. “I guess you have a lot of time to pass. Then again I guess boring is a good thing in your line of work.”
“This is related to work.” She flips the magazine back to its cover, revealing the stark letters GUN DIGEST. Something silver and terrifying is pictured on the front.
