Page 49 of Brutal King

“Wow,” I whisper, riffling through his clothes. Gucci, Dior and Armani, all tailored to fit him perfectly, I’m sure. And his shoes…

My thoughts are cutoff as, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of something that seems out of place.

Between two black long coats, is a light-colored cotton material sticking out. I go to it, and yank on the sleeve to reveal a gray hoodie.

I gasp in horror/indignation. “It was him!”

Still unable to believe it, I turn the thing over and over again while simultaneously dredging up the memory of the guy that saved me from the fall that day outside the mall. Then, the morning Victor went to pick me up at Columbia, he was there.

“It was him,” I say, this time more calmly.

Has he been following me around? How long was he following me? How close did he get? Was he there just to spy, or had he planned on killing me?

If he’d wanted to, he could have. A chill crawls up my neck when I realize how very close to me he was, indeed. God, he was so near, that he was able to wrap his arms around me before my knees hit the pavement the day I fell. Close enough that I clearly heard his low rumbled “Morning” when he jogged by. Luca’s men were already on campus, probably too distracted by making sure I didn’t escape to notice Gideon was a mere two feet from me.

“The audacity,” I say. He’s got some serious nerve.

Well, I’ve got nerve too.

I pull the hoodie off the hanger and put it on. The constant chill I’ve been feeling since I arrived here dissipates immediately. Now, I’m not just warm, but hot. And it’s not the sweater. It’s thathisscent is all over it. All over me.

My first reaction is to yank it off and throw it far away, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I burry my nose into the sleeves and inhale. God, he smells good, like vanilla and cloves and myrrh. It’s intoxicatingly sinful and dark.

Like him.

“Horrible man,” I say, taking another breath.

I step in front of the standing mirror and aim the camera at my reflection to snap a photo in the huge sweater.

For a while, I stay like that, staring at myself. It’s like being in Gideon’s skin. If only it were as easy to get into his head. Maybe I’d be able to figure out a way out of here.

My vision blurs and I rub my eyes and yawn. I’m suddenly so tired that when I glance at the bed, my feet move toward it out of their own accord.

The plush velvet comforter is as soft as I imagined, cushioning me like a cloud when I lay in it. No wonder the cats like it. I peer up at the canopy. A night sky has been painted on the underside, one that’s both beautiful and eerie, with a bright moon and foreboding black clouds.

This is what Gideon sees as he drifts off to sleep.

“Beautiful Nightmare,” I name it and snap a photo.

Then, I rest my camera against my chest and stare at the painting. I stare at it until the moon dims and the clouds begin to roll and form into eyes that stare back darkly.

I cling to my last dredges of consciousness, aware that if I go under, he’ll be there waiting.

“Why are you afraid of me?” His voice sounds in my head, deep and gravelly, sending a delicious shiver across my skin.

“I’m not afraid of you.” I stop resisting, and the clouds drop from the canopy and envelop me with their inky tendrils.

The last thing I hear through my mind as he takes me farther into this dark dream world is his satisfied praise.

Good, Little Bird.

13

SOFIA

Isleep twelve hours straight. I’ve always been a good sleeper, but this is abnormal, even for me.

Sitting up, I glance around. Through one of the windows I glimpse the first rays of sunshine appearing behind the trees. There are no cats in sight, but their indentations are still there.

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