Page 47 of Ethereally Redeemed

We need to kill Emilio Ricci.

Chapter 17

Naya

Woods creak in thedistance—a gnawing sound that grates on my nerves, taking hold of every fiber of my being with unease. Floorboards shift, adding a new layer of noise that sends my heart thundering underneath my ribcage—even though I know there’s no real danger. Even though I’m aware nothing can hurt me inhispresence.

Still, my pulse races, sweat beading on my forehead as my cold skin turns heated. I huddle in a corner, afraid that if I move, I’ll alert the person nearby.

Even though I know who he is, and that he poses no danger.

I hug my knees, straining to listen to every noise around me, the worst being the creaking of the old house as it settles in place after being here for decades—perhaps even centuries.

My fingers absentmindedly drift to my foot, where I slowly, quietly, remove my socks, laying them beside me on the cold floorboards. I can’t help but pick at the skin on my feet, poking and dragging on the skin pieces that are uneven—removing them as if peeling a banana. I do so in silence, my eyes scanning the surroundings, nervous at the thought of him discovering me.

Even though I know he can’t see me in the darkness.

“We should be safe for tonight,” Grey says, approaching the window where I’m hiding on the floor, having already ensured all doors and windows are barged inside the motel room.

It won’t prevent anyone from breaking in, but it will alert us if someone tries, giving us a better chance at protecting ourselves.

I nod, even though I wish I could hide from him too. I can’tstandbeing close to anyone right now, fearing that he mightturn into Emilio Ricci and drag me back to the pits of hell where I belong. I continue peeling away the skin from my feet beneath the blanket covering my legs—I don’t want him to notice what I’m doing.

Frankly, I don’t want him to stop me from hurting myself. I needthis to feel in control, to regain some semblance of reality.

Is this all a dream? It feels like one that I’ll wake up from, back at the one place I never want to revisit.

A sharp hiss escapes through my teeth when my heel starts burning from how far I’ve peeled the skin, causing Grey to eye me suspiciously. I pretend nothing is wrong.

“Hopefully,” I mutter in response to his previous comment, observing as he sits down on the windowsill, keeping an eye on the large yard surrounding the isolated motel.

Leaning his head against the wall, he refuses to look at me—he’s as nervous as I am, though he hides it better. He rarely ever allows himself to show emotions that aren’t that of rage and obsession, but I know they’re there, simmering beneath the surface and waiting to erupt like a volcano.

I watch him gaze out at the dark sky, slowly but surely transforming into dawn with the sun on the horizon barely peeking through its first rays of sunlight. It must be at least four or five in the morning.

We barely escaped last night, choosing the first isolated motel we could find, and now the lingering fear of Emilio finding us persists like a swallowing hole. Grey approaches the TV and turns it on, the low volume filling the room with noise, a small comfort that makes us feel less alone.

“Tell me I imagined it all yesterday,” I murmur loud enough for Grey to hear, still hugging my knees close to my chest and rocking back and forth.

Silence ensues for a short second, then a sigh. “You didn’t.” His voice is low, hesitant, yet telling the utter truth.

“Whywould Emilio Ricci want to find us? Why are we that special?”

I don’t mention how Grey didn’t believe me at first, because I don’t blame him.

“I don’t know,” Grey says, continuing to look out the window with apprehension that’s palpable, waiting for something to occur.

“If he sold us to Arthur Grimhill and his Dollhouse, why is he after us? It makes no sense.”

Something catches the corner of my eye, piquing my interest. “Hold up. Can you turn up the volume?”

Grey looks at me, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, as if trying to figure me out, but he does as I ask. I stare at the screen, dumbfounded as the thoughts churn my mind. The reporter, clad in a sharp suit with a tight bun on top of her head, smiles at the camera. Beside her, an image appears—a poster, the same one we saw discarded in a puddle, and then another one pinned outside the convenience store. The illustration is of a manor that bears an uncanny resemblance to the house of my nightmares. The reporter’s blonde curls escaping her bun falls over her face as she subtly adjusts her glasses, and my heart hammers harder than ever when the poster shifts into a portrait of another woman.

If shock were a tangible force, it would crush me from the inside, leaving me dizzy and faint as I stare at the woman on the screen. Her golden brown hair is styled back in soft waves, and her kind hazel eyes shine brightly at the camera, squeezing my heart with a painful intensity. She radiates warmth, a maturity and kindness that wrap around you and leaves a lasting impact on the soul.

“...have sold over ten million copies world-wide with her bookRedeemed, telling the world her story of the awful Grimhill Manor that burned down two years ago.”

I scramble to my feet, rushing to the television with adrenaline pumping through every vein in me, urging me on as if there’s nothing left to lose. A sob tears from my throat, raw and heart wrenching. I barely even notice Grey beside me, his expression a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

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