Page 51 of Taming Achilles

But she was still mine.

I repeated that train of thought over and over. It hardened as I drove back to the penthouse. By the time I was in the living room, sitting in what was becoming my favourite armchair, the seed was fully planted. She was mine. I would protect her. No matter how much she protested, she needed me too.

A smile tugged at my lips as I sat on that same chair she had ridden me on. I leaned back in the seat and let the memories of her naked body wash over me. How she had grown wet with my commands and came when she was ordered. She could be such a good girl when she was aroused.

Now it was a game, and she was going to lose. She’d surrender to me, and she’d adore doing it.

Her cream Burberry bag was on the coffee table in front of me.

She would come for her things. I knew that. She’d live under the illusion that she’d be out of my life. That I’d let her walk off like I had in Venice.

Regardless of what I told Delgado, I would shoot anyone who came for her things. Because I needed her to come to me. Preferably on her hands and knees.

Her bag taunted me. She was a diligent neat freak, always packing her things like she was ready to bolt, eliminating any evidence of her presence in my room after she showered and changed. As if she was keeping us a secret again, sneaking into my dorm and carefully ensuring all traces of her were gone before the morning.

The expensive designer bag was very “on brand” for Pippa. She loved white, cream and light colours. It made her feel clean, and warm. She liked winter and snow. It suited her frosty personality. Though I now worried, after fishing her from a frozen bath.

I shouldn’t look inside the bag. I shouldn’t take anything of hers, and keep it as a memento of our time, sneaking it into the box of Pippa’s items that I kept in the back of my closet. But the absent ring was burning a hole in my pocket and I felt the urge to replace it with something. Another sacred object that I could keep with me.

I carefully unzipped the top, and it fell open under the pressure of its contents. The top layer was clothes, neatly folded into identical squares.

There was a white g-string, and it glistened under the overhead lights. I drew it out and stuffed it in my trouser pocket. I knew I was a pervert, but there was no help for it.

I opened it further, careful not to unfold her items. At the bottom was a black box with a silver latch. Her typical makeup box of assorted powders and whatever the hell else she used to hide the tiny freckles that splattered sweetly over her nose. I picked it up by the handle, and stopped. It was a lot heavier than I had anticipated.

What the hell is she keeping in this thing? Lead?

I flipped it open, and there was the usual assortment of powders in cylindrical jars, and a lot of brushes. What the hell were all these brushes for? Jesus. All of that so that she could look like a slightly photoshopped version of herself? Ridiculous.

But there was something suspicious about the textured bottom. I scanned the outside, then the inside again. The container wasn’t as big as I had thought it would be. It was as if there was a lot of padding on the bottom.

I knocked on it, and it sounded hollow.

“Oh, Pippa,” I narrowed my eyes as I regarded her little case. “What are you hiding now?”

I poked and prodded at the bottom, hoping that it was nothing. Just a structural stupidity of the cosmetic industry. Fashion was, by definition, a waste. It preyed on insecurity and inadequacy to stay afloat. So it’d make sense to create a box that didn’t fit as much so they’d have to buy another one, or upgrade, or … whatever.

But Pippa wouldn’t fall for something like that.

I pursed my lips, poking at a corner. The edge popped up.

I carefully peeled it, and inside was the last thing I expected to see. The separated parts of a Ruger Light Carry Pistol (LCP). Beside it lay a single stack magazine, which I inspected. It had six .380 calibre bullets. It was one of America’s smallest pistols, famous for being able to fit in a pocket. It had even sparked a sub-compact pistol arms race back in its day, inspiring entire lines of concealed carry weapons.

So what was an anti-gun, anti-violence woman doing with it in her fucking makeup bag?

It wasn’t a simple self-defence weapon. No. There was more to this. This was not a weapon someone simply picked up at a gun store, or at the range.

“Pippa, what have you been lying about?” I pondered out loud as I re-assembled her makeup box, minus the Ruger. I placed its individual parts on the seat beside me.

I was staring at the bottom of her weekender bag, and I poked at its corners too. Was there a false bottom under the cardboard? I wasn’t sure, but when a corner peeled up like the corner of a worn page, I knew …

My heart sank to the floor, worried about what secrets I would find. Was I ready to know her lies?

I peeled up the black cardboard and cloth bottom, and it gave way easily, having been used over and over again.

I gasped when I realised what I was looking at. A Swiss passport, an American passport, and several large bills in multiple currencies. About a thousand euros, two thousand dollars, and five hundred British pounds.

I glanced at the red Swiss passport. It was definitely her picture on the inside. Her strawberry blonde hair and crystal eyes looked back at me from an unsmiling face. But the name was wrong. Amalie Maillard.

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