Page 114 of Savage Daddies

“Maybe not.” This brings a smile to his face. “You have a bad case of sleepwalking, and that could send you to your grave. You’re a bit of a looney at the moment, aren’t you? When men try to rape women, the woman doesn’t tend to go back and entertain them further. You’ll end up killing yourself. Think about it. The delusion paired with the sleepwalking will send you straight to your grave. One night, maybe you’ll walk across the road during one of your sleepwalking episodes and collide with something. A car? No.” He searches the floor. “A truck would be more devastating.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Please, microphone, be loud enough to amplify this conversation.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Why not? It’s like you say—the only thing tying us together is a contract, and I can opt out whenever I want. This doesn’t have to be forever. You said that yourself.” He looks at me for a moment, and then continues, “Should I kill you first, and let your sister and biker friends watch, or vice versa?”

Tears prick my eyes, and the urge to punch him again rises.

He’s not bringing Sammy up alone.

She’s not losing her mother like I did.

“And by the way.” He wanders over to the microphone. “Nice try. This is a condenser microphone, so it needs to be plugged in first.” He squats. Reels in the lead.

The plug dangles from his hands.

“It was recording! The red light was?—”

“Flashing, exactly. And red, not green.” He cackles.

And it’s a laugh that chills my blood.

I knee him in the gut. Press the two plug spikes into his chest.

But it’s not enough.

Felix grabs my leg, wraps his hands around it, and I hobble, unable to control myself anymore—not like that’s anything fucking new.

I’m about to lose my balance when Felix throws me into the wall.

I brace for impact.

Except it’s not a wall. It’s a curtain.

I land on a marble-polished floor.

A pain shoots through my head, and I look up.

Either I’m severely concussed, or I’m lying on the lobby floor as people snap photos from a bazillion different angles.

Gasps fill the air.

I turn around and see Felix standing center stage like a deer in headlights. The microphone failed, but our conversation must’ve been picked up from behind the curtain.

The room breaks out into chaos. Paparazzi flood the scene and start live news feeds, cameras flash from every direction, and people cover their mouths in shock as they turn to their equally startled peers to try and comprehend the turn of events.

I stand, and two suited men come to wrap their arms around mine to help me up.

The one on the right just so happens to be the French representative Felix was in conversation with earlier.

Avoiding the cameras and interviewers, I pick up my full glass of wine. Felix no longer stands on the stage, but I catch sight of him making a run for it—or trying to, anyway. He’s moments away from leaving, but three bodyguards deny him exit.

Not three bodyguards.

My chest lightens.

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