Page 13 of Wanted
I froze.
“I owe Jordan my life.” He didn’t speak in anger, which intimidated me the most, the fear of the unknown. What was he talking about? “He’s the only reason you’re still breathing. Make sure to remember that.”
I wanted to ask a million questions. I opened my mouth, but no words left my lips.
He stood up from his seat. He towered above me once again. The room had grown cold.
“What do you mean?” I dared to ask. I had fucked it up with him.
“If it weren’t for him, you’d be dead now.”
I swallowed.
He slammed the door behind him as he left me alone, with death looming all over my soul.
♥♠♥
“Wake up.” Fylox’s voice rattled me awake. I spent the entire night on the sofa, continually shifting. Unable to find peace in my tears, I willed myself to sleep.
I needed to stretch. My body felt weak and hungry.Wake up, sweetie. It’s time for your lessons. Don’t let mommy down.
“Good morning to you, too,” I replied, croaking.
“Cut the pleasantries.” He stepped away from the sofa. “We’re leaving in an hour. Do whatever you need to do and be ready.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“That’s none of your business.”
An hour later, I had showered again, eaten whatever I could scrap together in the kitchen, and dressed in Fylox’s citrus scenting clothes. My hair was tied up in a ponytail. The roots were already showing only half a week after I painted my hair blond. The cheap dye couldn’t help but be cheap.I disapprove of your hair changes, sweetie. That’s not what a princess should look like. You need to be a constant in your peoples’ lives. They rely on you… You’re the opposite of your father, sweetie. While he flutters with the wind, you stand still and proud. I love you, you know that, don’t you?
I sighed as I waited at the elevator. I had fucked it up with Fylox. I went and confessed the one thing I was most ashamed of. Why did I ever open my mouth? I should keep it closed. Dad always said I was only good for one thing, after all. Fuck. Aram Wraith wasn’t here to patronize me. I’d opened my mouth because my withdrawal made me irritable and needy for attention. I never shut up in the past, and I wouldn’t shut up now either.
I stood next to the elevator when I saw Fylox approach. He didn’t bother to look at me, but that didn’t stop me from gazing at him. His bleached hair was gelled back. His skin looked flawless, just like his sister’s. I usually had faultless skin, but Chicago air made my skin sticky and red. I’d tried to fix it in front of the mirror earlier, but it turned even redder. Fylox’s cognac eyes were mean as they ignored me.
Today, he finally revealed the skin of his arms, and it freaked me out. They were covered in intimidating scars that made me feel pain, although I hadn’t been the one who had experienced these wounds. I wasn’t an expert on scars, but most of them seemed self-inflicted careful, almost straight lines. The only comfort I found was that they were faded.
He wore a black short-sleeved t-shirt coupled with raven sweats. His sneakers were pearly white. There was a duffel bag in his right hand, and his left hand carried his keys.
He typed in the password, and then we made our way out.
Two hours later, we were in the middle of nowhere. He had this big fancy car, but he drove excruciatingly slow as if he was doing it on purpose. If he would just give me the wheel, I’d get us where he wanted to go. On top of all that, Fylox decided to behave as if I didn’t exist. I doubt he even checked if I was breathing, sitting there next to him.
I was. Breathing, that is. Barely, but I managed. I had started sweating again, but at least there were no seizures to be had.
Eventually, I had enough of the silence, and I turned on the radio. An old Backstreet Boys song played on a popular radio station. I smiled, remembering my brothers at their high school prom. They had been drunk as hell, making fools of themselves in front of all the girls, but said girls still worshipped the ground they walked on. They had something charming to them, and then there was their title, of course. Weston had invited me in secret, and I’d dressed up with a wig and all to go, staying undercover. I’d never had a high school experience. Mom had homeschooled me.
Fylox didn’t make me turn the radio down, so I let the radio play. More old songs played, and I felt myself loosening up.
“Daniela, rumor has it Chicago’s very own is involved in serious negotiations in the East. Spencer Rawlins has posted selfies with all the important leaders of the area. The move can be interpreted as a display of power. Rawlins is one of the wealthiest men in the States, and his properties in the East allow him, let’s put it mildly, to do whatever the heck he wants to do,” a male announcer claims. He and his co-host chuckle at the statement, but I shiver in my seat.
“There’s not a man on earth that can tell Spencer Rawlins no,” the female hosts adds. “He’s promised to bring stability back in the area by expanding his business ventures. He plans to invest ten billion dollars over twenty years. It’s a huge deal.”
“He has done so much for the city,” the male host comments. “But I find it unfortunate he’s going to waste his money on foreign soil. I know a lot of causes that could benefit from his billions.”
“Don’t discredit the man.” These radio personalities sound way too happy. Dial it down a notch. “He employs thousands of Americans. He’s helped the economy of Illinois tremendously…”
“They’re paid to do this,” Fylox informed me, talking over the radio. “He doesn’t do anything for the city. He’s tearing down buildings, and he replaces them with unaffordable properties that only the top one percent can purchase, among other things.”
