Page 73 of Knot a Thief

As they leave, I’m left alone with the wreckage of the lamp, the untouched breakfast, and a gnawing sense of guilt that not even my anger at Max and Silas can fully overshadow.

Chapter 20

Max

I lean forward, adjusting another camera. I’ve been watching her now for the past two days. The bank of monitors before me flicker with different angles of Ava’s room.

I’ll always be watching.

My fingers drum restlessly on the armrest as I recall how she broke one camera, launching the lamp from her bedside table with surprising force.

The screen went to static, then black, and I had to suppress the flare of annoyance that I didn’t want her to feel.

Somehow, I think she’d have liked that.

I was more annoyed because it was the camera with the closest view of her face, the one that let me see every minute expression that crosses her features.

Despite her being here for the short term, I still like to know how she’s feeling.

I don’t know why I care.

I don’t know why I want her to be the one who wants to stay.

To choose me.

After kidnapping her and the anger she is sending through the bond. I doubt that will happen.

She's defiant whenever Silas or one of my staff enters her room. Her back straight, chin lifted, eyes flashing with anger. But when she thinks nobody is watching, she breaks down, silently crying.

In those moments, when her shoulders are slumped, her face crumpled, and her silent tears track down her cheeks, I feel a tug in my chest, an urge to go to her.

An urge I ruthlessly suppress.

I stand, pacing the length of the room, my reflection ghosting across the wall of windows overlooking the sea.

The vast expanse of blue does nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me.

Returning to the monitors, I see she’s standing by the window, her forehead pressed against the glass.

Her eyes are fixed on Silas’ daughter Lily, who sits playing on the grass with her nanny.

Every time Ava sees Lily, her gaze rarely leaves the child.

I rub my chest as a wave of sadness seeps through our bond. Though it’s hard to discern if the feeling is for herself or the child, its intensity takes me by surprise.

Leaning closer to the monitor, I study her face and try to read the thoughts behind her eyes.

Then I tear my gaze away.

I don’t want to see it.

I press my hand on the monitor, and abruptly I turn the camera angle to search the rest of her room.

Anger blooms and my fist clenches at my side, my fingernails digging into my palms as frustration wars inside me.

The tray of healthy food sits untouched on the side table. Another day without sustenance, she’s getting weaker.

Though, that surprises me.

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