A crash followed, then shattering glass as the pieces fell and scattered.
Staring down at the shards, I looked for one large enough to cut someone with and draw blood.
Then I’d use the distraction to my advantage and bolt into those woods.
Raising my gaze , I pivoted to see Cassius casually standing in the doorway with one hand tucked into his pant pocket, looking serene. He’d shrugged out of his jacket at some point. Rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt to reveal muscled and toned forearms. His stare flitted to the twinkling mirrored images that lay scattered in delicate slithers.
“Nice lamp.”
He arched a brow. “It used to be.”
“I hate this room.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” He widened his eyes with stark humor. “There are more pressing matters. If you behave like a good girl, I’ll let you eat.” His expression turned dark. “My office.”
I took a step forward.
He pointed to the shards of the mirror. “After you get on your knees and clean up this fucking mess.”
Cassius
Perched on her seat, Anya looked up at me with pure terror.
She was beautifully vulnerable.
A state I shouldn’t have taken any pleasure in, but I did.
I wasn’t a man used to soul-searching, but I did with her and found no guilt for stealing her away.
Triumph was the ultimate sentiment. And usually, sentimentality didn’t factor into anything I did.
She took in the maps in frames. Glancing behind me to the far wall at the TV screen with flashing numbers and names of data that kept changing.
Her expression turned to intrigue as though trying to gauge why I’d need six clocks covering different time zones, including London, Paris, Hong Kong, and Johannesburg .
“If you insist on destroying your room,” I told her, “I’ll arrange other accommodations. A grave, perhaps?”
“I couldn’t bear to look at myself in the mirror.”
“Don’t blame you.” I didn’t care to know why. “Just don’t act out your spoiled revolt on my property.” I waved my hand through the air. “Or I’ll have to kill you.”
“I’m worth too much.”
Rounding the desk, I sat on the edge and fixed a glare on her. “Glad you’re ready to talk.”
She looked like she regretted her outburst. Her head bowed, hair tumbling over her face, limbs tight with tension as though ready to spring up and run.
She’d watched me push up and stroll over to the door to lock it.
There was no leaving.
A sense of familiarity slithered up my spine because I knew what it was to be cornered. To be trapped and unable to escape. Instead of a Glassman doing that to me, I’d taken my power back and was on full assault. Ready to strike this woman down with the kind of words that would crush her spirit. Hating her all the more for this pang of something that could be construed as guilt. It wasn’t, because I was dead inside and all the more dangerous for it.
And to think, all those years ago, her father had unwittingly set a trap for his daughter by creating me.
It’s that kind of philosophical shit that can keep a man up at night.
I returned to the desk and slid the notepad before her. Then set the fountain pen beside it. “Passcodes to your social media. Write them down.”
Soon, I’d know so much more about her. Most importantly, she would be the weak link into her father’s world.
“I’m not allowed.”
That made me suppress a smirk. “It’s not a request.”
“No, I’m not allowed to be on social media.”
Lifting the pen, I offered it to her. “Or would you like me to help you remember?” I responded, not believing a word she uttered.
Glassmans weren’t to be trusted.
“We were never allowed anything like that.” She pleaded with innocent blue eyes. “Dad won’t let us have them.”
Interesting.
Maybe she wasn’t lying after all.
He had been smart. He’d made sure she was safe and not vulnerable.
Let’s try this. “Anya, what’s your father’s routine?”
Her face twisted in disgust that I’d even ask her.
Closing the space between us, I gripped her chin and tipped it. “Let’s start with the morning. Does he exercise? Head straight to his office? Family breakfast?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to answer.
Her inhales became ragged as she sucked in long breaths. I was prepared to hold her like this for infinity until she talked.
“Anya, do I look like the kind of man who tolerates being ignored?”
“He’s hardly there,” she managed.
Her fingers wrapped around my wrist, but she didn’t pull my hand away. Just held on tight as if holding on for something.
I let her go. “Hardly where?”
“Home.”
“How often does he go away?”
Her lips trembled. “When are you going to let me go?”
“If you’re good, soon,” I lied.
“Please, let me call home.”
“No.”
“My parents are hardly there. I don’t talk to my brother much.”
What was she trying to trick me into believing? That this spoiled rich girl knew what it was to be lonely? Knew what it was to grieve a stolen life?