Page 40 of Pride
– I’m not hiding. I’m right here.
Where was he? Alice sighed and slumped. What a strange question to ask, anyway. He’d attempted to get to know her once, and maybe this was another olive branch, in his weird way. Then again, maybe it was manipulation, or some veiled attempt at asking her about her intentions. She rested her fingers lightly on the keyboard and watched the sun setting beyond the computer, through the top-floor window. The city buildings cast long shadows on one side, each structure a black silhouette against a turquoise and orange sky. A little ping sounded on the computer, and she glanced back at the screen.
– ?
– I don’t own any other clothes except my… other uniform.
A flush of embarrassment hit her cheeks. This was stupid. The man had so much money he could practically sleep on a bed of gold, and she had nothing. Why did she feel she had to justify her fashion choices?
– Do I not pay you enough that you can afford more clothes?
– You pay plenty. I think it’s time for me to go home. Goodnight. Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.
– I’m not done talking.
– Alice?
– Alice?
16
Parker satat his baby grand, silently fuming at his laptop on the closed piano lid, the messaging app still showing his last attempt at contacting Alice. She’d ignored him. He flicked the screen to view the security footage of his office and watched her tidy before presumably heading home, all the while handling the soft but strong jute rope he’d used to secure Alice to his bed. He hadn’t been able to tie proper knots since his accident, and out of everything he couldn’t do, this bothered him most.
When he weaved rope, it calmed his mind. It drew him into the quiet, a place of peace. If the right woman was involved, then this process was beautiful, cathartic and sometimes erotic—for both parties. But Alice had brought chaos into his quiet, and since then, he’d not been able to reverse it.
He also used to play the piano, but both pastimes had been neglected since his accident. He lifted the fallboard to reveal the piano keys, dusty and neglected. He tapped one. The solitary note filled his penthouse, chasing the loud silence away.Still in tune.
But the rope unraveled from his hand. With a frustrated growl, he hung it on a hook in his bedroom, next to a row of other bundles in all sorts of thicknesses. One handed, he tried to tidy the length he’d just played with.
What did Alice mean, she had no other clothes? He paid her an exorbitant salary. Where did it go if not for her wardrobe or her apartment? That, too, was in the poor area of town. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her spend her money on anything apart from food. But, then again, he knew little about the woman except from what Sloan had dredged up in her background report. He’d gone through the paperwork this morning.
Alice had been an orphan since the age of four from a brutal car accident. She was with a distant aunt and uncle for a few years, but that didn’t last long. By the age of nine, she was in foster care. By the age of ten, her foster care records had vanished. Parker could only assume she went to the Hildegard Sisterhood.
Ten.
She’d been trained as an assassin from an earlier age than him. Despite being made in a lab for only one purpose—to fight sin—Mary and Flint allowed the Lazarus siblings a normal childhood up until they turned fifteen. Sure, Mary had taught them how to manage their strength and skills at home before then, but it was at fifteen they’d begun their official deadly training. Mary had always told them she’d never had a real childhood and didn’t want the same for them.
A knock came at the door, interrupting Parker’s thoughts. He left his room, closing the door behind, and let the small welcoming party inside the penthouse. His father and Sloan, both with their toolkits in tow, followed by Grace and Mary, the latter with a casserole dish in her gloved hands. She lifted it to show him.
“I already ate,” he said, frowning.
“Oh?” Mary’s brow rose and gave his at-home attire a disapproving once over. Satin lounge pants and no shirt. “You cooked?”
“No.”
“You ordered takeout?”
“Not exactly.” He paused. “Alice sent something over.”
