Page 52 of Darkest Deception

“I think it could be just one more hour now,” I say.

A small part of me wants to ease her restlessness. Why do I want that to happen? I don’t know. I should be happy she is feeling on edge; in fact, I should be encouraging it.

“Shaking because you can’t handle being alone with me for too long?”

She looks at me, her eyes jittery as she manages to scoff. “As if. Not everything is about you.”

“Really? Here I was thinking you are regretting stopping what could have happened—”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep at night,”

A chuckle slips past my lips. “I’ll be getting plenty of sleep tonight, and I’ll enjoy it.”

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t ask me why.

“Ask me why.”

“Why?” She finally looks at me again after staring at the floor for too long. Those profound eyes that are usually bright and full of her passion for keeping her company, for standing up straight in front of a man like me, are dull. Seeing them flick around, in fear or even in wariness, leaves me confused.

“You will be in it.”

She groans and covers her face. “Stop it.” The trembling in her hands starts again.

Her whole body starts shaking, and worry takes over me.

“Ambrose?” I finally say.

She lowers her hands, and her eyes are wide as she looks at her hands. Her fingers still tremble, and the blue veins are prominent beneath her pale skin. The colour drains from her face, and her breathing turns into abnormal pattern of short pants.

The elevator shakes, and lights die, pitching us into complete darkness. Ambrose’s panicked gasp is loud in the tomblike silence.

For the first time ever, I hear her whimper.

“No. I need the light. Please keep it on,” she begs.

I fumble for my phone and tap the flashlight icon, then set it on the floor; but her shaking doesn’t stop.

I slide over to her and grab her shaking hands.

She’s ice cold.

Shaking.

Panicking.

The faint light from my phone reveals tears in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

“Ambrose,” I say firmly. “Look at me.”

“Tell them to open it. Please, please,” she begs.

I freeze in shock.

Ambrose would never beg. Not like this.

My Ambrose is strong and a fighter.

My chest tightens in worry for her, my own thoughts not making sense as I watch her tremble in my hold. She looks so small, so fragile and frail, that I fear she may break apart like cracked glass in front of me.

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