Page 30 of Brutal King

But just in case the message doesn’t hit the mark, I send a note to Arran. It’s short, sweet, and to the point.

Turn him in, and I might spare you.

Best regards,

G. Black

For nights, I have watched Sofia from the comfort of my suite through one of the hundreds of near invisible cameras I have throughout the manor. She creeps through the dark house likea wraith staying close to the walls, the black cat a shadow at her feet. At first, I thought she would attempt another escape. Though the men guarding the estate won’t let her get to the tree line again, my muscles tensed, ready to bolt toward her.

It was a mistake letting her get as far as she did the day I brought her. I hadn’t alerted security to the possibility that she might get away from me and reach the woods because I didn’t think it would happen. She’s faster than I thought. Bolder too.

I won’t make that mistake again. My men might be invisible to her, but if she ever enters the forest again, she’ll be scooped up and brought back.

So, I’ve given her a muddled sense of freedom, letting her test the limits of her cage.

Each night she’s gone to the front door and opened it, slipped one foot out and stared into the night. But in the end, she comes back in and shuts the door.

Then, she proceeds to explore the first floor—the dining room, the library, everywhere but the great room with the fire I set just for her.

She heads to the kitchen, ignoring the plates of food, choosing instead to steal something from the pantry she thinks will go unnoticed. Yesterday, it was a protein bar. Tonight, two oranges.

Her journey ends at my study, where she stands for minutes on end, peering through the glass of the French doors as she peels one of her citrus fruits and consumes it.

She’s dying to get inside, I can tell. Her fingers twitch on the lever and she prods the lock with her nails.

It occurred to me yesterday that she might actually know how to pick a lock. Perhaps she might try to use that knife she pilfered on her first venture out.

Part of me wishes she could let herself in and find out how right she is in calling me a monster. All it would take is a peekinto any one of the files sitting on my desk for her to confirm what she already believes.

After she’s glanced out every window, she returns to her room where I watch her fret for hours, until she succumbs to her body’s need for sleep.

On the fifth night, however, she does nothing. I pull up the feed from one of the cameras hidden in her room.

She’s curled around the cat, fast asleep.

Rubbing the edge of my mouth with my thumb, I study her. It could just be the shadows cast by the bedpost that are making her cheekbones seem sharp and her eyes hollow. Or it could be that she’s stubbornly surviving on a piece of fruit a day.

Either way, I don’t like it one bit.

I haven’t dared go in since the first night, when she fell asleep against the window at such an awkward angle, it could have resulted in permanent neck damage. I risked exposing the alternate entrance to her room and moved her.

It seems, tonight I’ll have to do it again.

I’ve traveled the world, seen every wonder of it, and never wanted to return to it as much as I’ve crave watching Sofia sleep again.

Beautiful. Little. Bird.

With the blaze of her cobalt eyes hidden behind her lids, her face changes entirely. While she’s awake, the intensity of her gaze is enough to mesmerize even a strong man like myself. Like a siren, it hypnotizes and forces attention on them.

In sleep, the draw is still there, but it’s different. It’s a time to trace the delicate lines of her face, the contours of her brows and curve of her jaw. Time to count the freckles that dust her nose and the soft breaths coming from her parted lips.

I’ve memorized her features, able to look away and still see her etched in my mind. And yet, I can’t bring myself to look at anythingbuther. I haven’t wanted to since the day her photograph was sent to me.

If I haven’t returned to her room, it was for fear of giving away my advantage. Something that seems ridiculous now, given the fact that she sleeps like the dead.

Perhaps it’s because of how malnourished she is now. Her body is tired and it shows. Even in the dim light of the lamp she left on, the dark circles under her eyes are a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. Her hair shines from several days of going unwashed, and she’s still wearing that damned Columbia hoodie she refuses to part with.

Standing, I pull the covers over her shoulder, disturbing the cat in the process. It lifts its head and gives me a blue-eyed glare.

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