Page 68 of Tower

Peter turned a cool eye on him. “Go take care of Johnny. Then I want every bit of fucking information you can get me on that fucking Gothel bitch.” Peter pointed at his men standing at the door. “No one leaves. We are going back to get her. She is not to spend one fucking night in that witch’s house! Not one fucking night!” Peter made his way up the stairs to his room.

He needed his fucking gun.

He needed to start making plans.

He needed to get a fucking grip and remind himself he would get her back. He would.

She belonged to him.

She belonged with him.

Chapter 21

Something died nearby. The rancid smell of rot consumed the small room where Azalea had been stashed. Not quite a cell—there were painted walls, clean sheets on the bed, but nothing like the comforts of her old suite at home.

Because her mother hadn’t taken her home.

After she’d pulled her away from the safety of Peter’s presence, she’d shoved her into the back of her mother’s Cadillac and driven several hours outside of the city limits. She had tried to ask where they were headed, but her mother had simply ignored her.

For two days, she had been alone in her current room. A small attached bathroom had enough room for a toilet and a stand-up shower. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet; the thin tiles long ago had lost any texture or coloring, leaving behind a dull, egg-colored floor. At least she’d been given a blanket and a pillow for the bed.

Her mother hadn’t bothered to explain anything. Hadn’t said a word after marching her from Peter’s life. And, now, she’d stashed her in this room. For what? To live out the remainder of her life in solitary confinement?

Was this a punishment? Or was something worse coming her way?

She could try to bang on the door again, call for someone—but, so far, her cries had gone unheeded. She knew someone was out there, on the other side, because every so often she heard footsteps.

The confinement reminded her of the first time she found herself locked in her suite. She’d cried for hours before calming down. Her mother had explained it was for her safety. She had been having a party and wanted to be sure Azalea was kept safe.

Fear had welled up in Azalea’s seven-year-old chest. Tears ran down her face, and when the darkness of night came, she crawled under the blankets and cried herself to sleep.

Only this time, Azalea was well past seven, and she knew the darkness wasn’t going to signal bedtime. This time, it would signal something much more sinister.

If only she had pressed Peter for more information about his suspicions about her mother.

I don’t think your mother is your real motherhe’d said. How could that be? She didn’t remember there being anyone else in her life. Not even her father. There hadn’t been anyone.

The doorknob jiggled, startling her. Azalea stood, folding her hands in front of her, expecting her mother to breeze in as she always did after a stint of putting Azalea under lock and key.

“Get cleaned up. You’re expected upstairs in half an hour.” A man—one Azalea had never met before—with a large scar covering his left cheek, and beady black eyes threw a bundle of clothes on the narrow bed.

“My mother wants to see me?” she asked, attempting to keep the hope from reaching her voice.

The man sneered. “Bellatrix requires your attendance. Don’t dawdle. I’ll be back for you.” And with that, he slammed the door shut again, and locked it.

Azalea looked through the clothing, a soft linen dress, crumpled by his manhandling, and undergarments. If she went with wrinkles, her mother would be agitated.

Finding two small nails jutting out of the drywall, she pulled on them to make a hook and hung the dress. The steam from the shower should help get some of the wrinkles out.

She made quick work of washing her hair. The smell of the dank room had to have seeped into the strands. There was no hair dryer or curling iron, so she did the best she could with the thin towels she’d been given and her fingers as a comb.

Although she had no way of telling the time, when the lock unlatched again, she had no doubt the man had arrived at his promised time.

She stood in the center of the room, the dress mostly wrinkle-free, and her hair loose around her shoulders. He gave her a once-over, grunted, and motioned for her to follow him.

It had been dark when she’d been dragged into the small room, and she hadn’t been able to see her surroundings. But now that it was light, and she wasn’t being forced to move, she took in the dungeon-like appearance. Rooms lined the hallway on both sides. No windows on any of the doors, only large bolts.

She paused when she heard a whimper coming from behind one of the doors.

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