Page 16 of Surprise Baby for the Enemy

I spend the rest of the day organizing patrols through the neighborhood Raleigh and I were found in, crafting a statement to the press to explain my disappearance and soothe the public over the attack made against me, and making phone calls to the mayor, the forensics lab, and a dozen news outlets. It’s gratifying work, and I’m glad to be doing it again.

But the entire time, my mind keeps circling back to Raleigh. How she tasted, how she smelled. The prickly way she spoke and the soft way she whimpered. The way she thanked me for making her feel safe, and my entire body woke up.

With any luck, I’ll never get the chance to feel that again.

CHAPTER 9

Raleigh

Thomas hasn’t shownany sign of ending his glorious honeymoon in Europe, even though the three months he said he’d be gone are over. At this rate, Clara will be giving birth in Vienna, and I’ll be meeting my niece or nephew too late for “Auntie” to be their first word.

I’m not jealous, obviously. I’m not feverishly checking my phone for new pictures from Clara, dreading the little notification ping that’ll show me how much more pregnant she is, or how much brighter my brother’s smile is when he’s standing next to her. The fact that he’s smiling at all is still a shock to the system every time I see it.

I’m not jealous. Not atall. Certainly not of Clara having to walk around all those gorgeous European cities with swollen feet… with a husband more than willing to sweep her off of them so she can rest for a bit.

I gulp my strawberry latte, wondering if it’s my not-jealousy making me sick, or the fact that I’m drinking this massive thing of ice, sugar, and espresso on an empty stomach.

Maybe I’m depressed. Or not getting enough sun. Or maybe I’m just bored to absolute death, and my brain is looking for anything to feel at all.

Iris might not hold what happened with Silver against me, and she’s agreed to keep it secret and kept that promise. But since then, I’ve stayed on the estate. In fact, I’ve mostly locked myself in my room if I can help it. I don’t want to risk putting her through all that trouble again.

Not that feeling trapped is anything new to me. It’s basically been my whole life. I was always the precious little prize, kept hidden away and pure, waiting to be traded off in some political mafia marriage like I was a business deal.

When Dad died and Thomas took over, I thought, finally, I’d get some freedom. And for a while, I did. I started pushing boundaries, seeing what I could get away with- just to feel like I had control over something. It wasn’t reckless; it was... necessary. I even ran away once, but that didn’t exactly work out.

And now? There’s nothing. No clubs, no shopping sprees, no looking for guys to celebrate my lack of virginity with.

Just me, stuck in bed, watching TV dramas on my laptop, and snacking on chips, olives, and chocolate. I mean, how much longer can this go on? I’m supposed to be living my life, not hiding away waiting for something exciting to happen.

Maybe it’s the chips. Maybe I’m eating too many chips and that’s what’s making my stomach do somersaults. Is that a thing?

I flip open my laptop and start typing the question in the search bar, then delete it. Am I so bored that I’m looking up dietary inflammation? No, never. I tap my fingers idly against my keyboard, then type something far worse than that.

I typehisname.

Part of the vow of secrecy between Iris and me has meant not even talking about Derrick fucking Lindman. Not a word. I’m sure she’s been keeping an eye on him over the last few months as part of her work to maintain the estate’s safety. But she hasn’t said anything to me about what he’s up to, and I haven’t asked.

Because I don’t care. I don’t give a shit about that two-faced scumball and the fact that he left me on my back in a cell and then never called.

He could’ve at least fucking called. I might not have left him a cell phone number to speak of, but he’s a sneaky bastard. He would’ve figured something out if he’d given a shit.

I grind my teeth as the page loads, bringing up a slew of headlines, pictures and videos. Maybe it’s my enduring hatred for Derrick that’s making me sick. Would meditation help? Yoga? Hypnosis, to erase the memory of his face and his naked body from my brain?

I click on a video at random, a town hall meeting or something where he made a statement behind a podium under cheap fluorescent lighting. It doesn’t do his blue eyes any justice, and neither does the camera quality. He’s in the middle of making some promise or other, one he’ll probably break. Then a journalist asks him a question, and I perk up at the words.

“What progress have your officers made in hunting down Silver?”

Derrick’s pleasant smile hardens, his face setting into a suitably grim expression. “At present we know more about what we don’t know,” he says. “We don’t know his legal name or place of residence, and we don’t know his pattern of movement, except to say that there is no pattern. But we do know that street thugs are continuing to use his name and appearance to organize behind. We’ve made several arrests, but so far every one of them has claimed to be Silver only to deny it after further questioning. All of these men have been young, between eighteen and twenty-five, wearing similar clothes and speaking with a similar pattern. These could be copycats, or they could be followers. Unfortunately, we just don’t know, but we continue to widen our patrols and raise awareness within the neighborhoods these people operate in-”

“Bullshit,” I murmur. It’s all bullshit. The way he talks, the way he moves his mouth and emotes with his eyes, like he’s some saint. He’s fake, and so is everything he does. He’s not serious about finding him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t tracking Silver at all, but secretly helping him and feeding the publicjust enoughto keep them distracted and Silver hidden. If the guy’s even still alive at all.

After all, it would be just Derrick’s style to organize his own chaos for the sake of getting ahead.

This is making me nauseous. I should stop staring at this worthless excuse of a man and listen to some calming music or something. Instead, I scroll through the article below the video, skimming over more quotes, more promises, more calls to action, nothing of value.I can’t believe this. He’s not doing anything.Does he not care that Silver kidnapped us? That we almost lost our lives because of him? That his fucking goons forced us to have sex?

My stomach churns harder. But it’s not just Derrick. It’s everything- being stuck here, doing nothing, while heplays heroand Silver runs wild. My family is at risk,my brotheris at risk, and what am I doing? Nothing.

Something fierce and reckless is ballooning in my chest, going from a roiling feeling to a plan of action. Derrick isn’t taking this seriously. He never did. If he won’t stop Silver, then I will.

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