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I don’t know why the thought of that pisses me off, but I sneer at him. “For your slaves?”
“For you. I had them installed for you, that weekend I asked you to stay.”
“To keep me imprisoned?”
“The thought crossed my mind.” There isn’t a trace of humor in his voice when he answers. He sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Aside from your ankle, how are you feeling?”
The question makes me snort a laugh. How am I feeling? To know my father is a murdering bastard who killed my mother? One who probably had every intention of killing me, as well. “It’s a lot to process.”
“It is. You could’ve died. One stray bullet. That’s all it’d have taken.”
My thoughts quickly sober with the serious tone of his voice, and the gravity of the situation presses down on me again. “How did you find me?”
“The bracelet. I gave it to the investigator.”
“I should’ve never taken it off.” A dull ache throbs in both my ankle and my head, and I turn to the side, where a glass of water sits on the nightstand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes. There’s a pill there, if you need it. It’ll knock you out, though.”
“Any chance you can un-cuff me? My fingers are starting to tingle.”
He stares back at me, as if hesitating, and his comments from before, of keeping me imprisoned, slink back into my thoughts. After idling a minute more, he pushes up from the chair and crosses the room, coming to a stop beside the bed, and traces his finger down my temple. “I thought I was going to lose you. That’s a level of insanity I don’t ever want to experience again.”
Another moment of staring, and he unbuckles the restraints at my wrists.
I rub my irritated skin for a moment, running my finger over the ligature left there, before I reach for the glass on the nightstand, tipping back the cool fluids that coat the dryness of my throat and practically sizzle when I swallow. “He’s my father,” I say into the glass. “Is he dead?”
“No. I insisted that he remain alive. But I promise he won’t hurt you again.”
Two weeks ago, I would’ve insisted on knowing why. How. I would’ve inquired about the group that pays to torture others. But having been at the mercy of a psychopath, I’ve come to the understanding that there are some questions that don’t need answers.
“I was so scared.” Setting the glass in my lap, I take notice of the bandage at my forearm where the IV must’ve been placed. “The moment he pulled up beside me in his car, I knew something was wrong.”
“Of course you did.”
“What?”
“Most predators harbor natural instincts like that. It’s how we survive.”
“We? What are you talking about?”
“Tell me something, Isa …” Lucian stalks around the perimeter of the bed, dragging his finger across the blanket, and comes to a stop opposite me. Perhaps it’s the light of the moon that makes his eyes flicker like a burning flame, as he stares back at me, fingers curled around the footboard. “The night those boys attacked you at the party. What happened next?”
A tickle at the back of my neck is a warning, though of what, I’m not sure. “Why are you asking me about this?”
“Because I want to hear it from your lips.”
I told him what happened weeks ago. Surely, he hasn’t forgotten already. “I … I gathered up my friend and drove her back to her house.”
“And then?”
“We called the police.”
His frown breaks to a partial smile that’s plagued by disbelief. One that tells me he knows more than what I told him. “You skipped too far ahead. Go back a little. What happened immediately after you drove Kelsey back to her house?”
Panic blossoms inside my chest as I stare back at him, the memories of that night crawling out of their airtight boxes, the tiny compartments I’ve constructed inside my head. “Why?”
“Tell me.”
