Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

Leon’s eyes bulge. “You’re willing to break up the gang over a girl?”

He better believe it. “You have three seconds to decide. If you decide to go your own way, I won’t hold it against you. If you’re not out of that door by the time I get to three, it’s my fucking rules and my way, and I don’t want to hear another goddamn word about it.”

The silence that follows is toxic. They glare at me, hating me, but neither of them makes a move.

“That’s settled then.” I walk to the door and turn in the frame. “I consider the subject closed. Whether you like it or not, Cas is here to stay. Make a damn effort.”

Concern flickers in Leon’s gaze. He may be one year short of turning thirty-five, but he’s never outgrown his childhood insecurity. “Where are you going?”

I’m as much to blame for his fear of abandonment as our parents. I soften my voice. “To install the cameras and the microphones.”

“What do you want us to do?” he asks.

It’s his way of offering a white flag.

“Set up the infrared alarms inside.” I address Ruben. “Think you can handle the perimeters?”

“Sure thing,” he says, grabbing the box with the sensors.

I stomp outside to get my toolbox, my insides still shaking at the thought of seeing Cas dead. That’s where Ruben and I differ.

I’d much rather it’s me.

Chapter 4

Cas

My last thought before falling asleep in Ian’s arms is my first thought at waking alone.

I’m not ready for this day.

I’m not ready for this new development and everything it’s going to bring. Of one thing I’m sure. This situation is complicated, and it’s only going to get more complicated. There’s no easy way forward, but there’s no way back.

I wrap the sheet around my body, get up, and look around for my bag. It’s placed on a chest at the foot-end of the bed. My handbag is on the chair next to the bed and my shoes are pushed neatly underneath.

The first thing I do is go through my handbag for my phone. I already know it’s not there before the search produces nothing but my makeup and other knickknacks, which include a messy collection of old, crumpled receipts, restaurant mints, chewing gum, business cards, hand sanitizer, tissues, pills, earrings, bracelets, and perfume. Ian wouldn’t have been so careless as to leave my phone and passport.

A clean glass and fresh water stand on the nightstand, and next to the glass is my bottle of pills. I check the label. It’s not the label from the pharmacy in Rustenburg. Ian got these from a pharmacy in Johannesburg. I don’t recognize the name of the doctor. Maybe he had them flown in when he decided to rescue me. Even as I think it, I recognize the lie. He didn’t rescue me. He kidnapped me. If he wanted to rescue me, he would’ve helped me to get a new identity and get across the border into Botswana.

I swallow the pills and take my time to study the room in the light that falls through the double sliding doors. The space is huge and handsomely decorated. With the carved wooden furniture in animal themes, ethnic rugs, and wildlife paintings on the walls, it looks like a Safari lodge. I drag my fingers along the rough surface of the wall as I make my way around the room. A writing desk is pushed in front of the window. Porcupine quills are arranged in an antique clay inkpot on the desktop. A huge bouquet of pink and violet roses with a white card stand on the dresser. I remove the card and read the message. The handwriting is messy, the R a flat line and the T not crossed through.

Welcome to your new home.

The message hits me straight in the gut. A home is permanent. A home is a happy place, a safe place.

Discarding the note, I continue my exploration. The view from the sliding doors takes my breath away. A broad river cuts through green grass. The brown water is framed by giant Ebony trees on either bank. Beyond the river, the land is dotted with Baobab and thorn trees.

I delay a much-needed shower to slide open the doors and walk outside onto the terrace. No other bungalows are in sight. It’s just me dressed in a sheet on a gloriously sunny morning on the banks of the Zambezi river. From the size of that river, it can’t be any other one. The gush of a waterfall sounds in the distance. I’d love a dip, but the water will be infested with crocodiles and maybe even hippos. A shower will have to do.

A double wooden door with an intricate carving of a lion hunting buck doesn’t give access to a bathroom like I expected. It exits onto a closed deck that extends to an open part with a view of the river. I cross the deck and try the double doors on the other side. The artwork on the doors is a continuation of the hunting story. In this one, the lion has made the kill. I push them open to find a bathroom as big as the bedroom. A tub benefits from the view visible through the floor to ceiling windows. No blinds. Not that anyone can see inside, unless they’re in a boat passing by on the river. Half of the space consists of a dressing room. The familiar smell of tobacco and leather lingers in the air. I expect motorcycle gear, jeans, and leather jackets, but when I flip through the hangers, I find dress shirts and suits with fancy labels. There must be at least twenty pairs of shoes. Apparently, Ian likes to dress well.