Page 9 of Eternal Surrender

My attention returned to the woman, and I focused in on the small notebook she was clutching. I eased it out of her grasp. On the last page was written yesterday’s date and beneath that were lines of scribbled notes.

A hand came from behind me and snatched the book away. I spun round to see Jacob tucking it into his pocket. He gripped my arm and guided me out of the room and along the corridor.

“Who is she?” I glanced at the tip of the notebook.

He nudged it further in. “Ingrid.”

Considering returning to her, I wondered why I felt so drawn to the young woman.

“We agreed to meet downstairs,” he said firmly.

“Memory’s been a little shaky lately.”

“You must be thirsty.”

“Who’s Sunaria?”

“You haven’t fed since you woke up.”

“I nearly left with her.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Sunaria told me it’s too dangerous to stay here.” I folded my arms.

“She’s misinformed.” He glanced back toward the bedroom. “We have to get you fed, before you do something rash. . .”

“Are you suggesting I might bite her?” I broke away from him and headed off. “I’ve got a feeling this place will tell me everything I need to know.” I ambled away down the sprawling corridor, sensing Jacob was willing to give me the space I needed.

Within a minute, I’d found the room Alex had told me was mine; the oak door swung heaving on its hinges.

The decor was simple, understated, with a four-poster bed in the center, a writing desk pushed up along the left wall, a large window to the right, black drapes pulled across its arched frame.

My fingers slid along the well-tailored suits hanging neatly in the wardrobe; none of them were my size.

On the writing desk lay a book titled Voltaire, a feeling of familiarity as I picked it up and peeked inside. Closing my eyes, trying to grasp the intricate details, I could remember from reading this that I’d derived pleasure from François-Marie Arouet’s work. He’d died in 1778, an outspoken writer and philosopher, having changed his name to Voltaire to distance himself from his family. He’d dared to criticize both France’s politicians and its religious leaders, which had resulted in his banishment from his homeland. I considered why I’d found his work appealing. Perhaps I was similar to him in nature, a risk taker, a bohemian.

A man whose name didn’t fit.

Clutching the book to my chest, grasping it tightly as though this small piece of my past might be a key to the rest of it, I strolled over to the window and pulled back the curtain, peering out at the night, admiring the sprawling well-tended gardens and then gazing out further at the wall I’d passed when I’d tried to escape.

“Are you following me?” I turned.

Alex was sitting on the edge of the bed. “No.” He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”

“You told me this is my room?”

“It is.”

I pointed to the cupboard and its row of shirts and suits.

His expression changed.

“Explain,” I said.

“Clothes?”

“Where are mine?”