Page 29 of Sugar Baby
Dammit.
I stopped the attack this morning, but it is going to come out whether I want it to or not. Placing my hand on my chest, I try to regulate my breathing, but it’s not happening without my inhaler, which is currently in the smashed-up van some forty minutes' drive away.
“Cara?” Enzo’s voice cuts into my panic. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “Asthma. No inhaler.”
As soon as I say the words, it makes it more real that I’ve been dragged into a situation without my inhaler when I need it most.
“Get her inside,” he barks to one of his men, calmly taking me by the arm and helping me out of the van.
Trent is hovering nearby, keeping his distance after I purred at him. I don’t know what came over me. What an idiot. He must think I’m some crazy nympho or something.
I look up to see a big country mansion with a circular driveway. Very fancy, but now is hardly the time to take in the beauty of the place. My breath is coming in shallow pants now, and the panic is becoming real. Tears prick my eyes, and my hands start to flap about as it becomes impossible to draw air into my lungs. There just isn’t any.
“Help,” I rasp, looking around frantically for anyone to fix this.
“Here,” Enzo says, appearing by my side. He uncaps the inhaler and places it in my mouth. He pumps as I inhale, and together we manage to sort out the attack before it gets any worse.
“You have asthma,” I accuse him.
He smirks. “This is my spare inhaler; keep it while you are here.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking it from him and taking another puff.
We are standing in an ornate entrance hall with a large chandelier over our heads and a deep red Windsor print carpet beneath our feet.
“If you haven’t changed your mind about the basement, the room’s this way…” He heads up the sweeping staircase, and I follow slowly, still trying to catch my breath.
He’s waiting for me outside a door near the top of the stairs when I catch up to him. Enzo shoves it open and insists I enter in front of him. It’s a gorgeous room with a double bed and a beautiful bay window that overlooks the front garden. The curtains are heavy green brocade that matches the carpet and bedcovers. The furniture is old, dark wood and absolutely beautiful. It’s just like my room at home, minus the bay window, but twice the size. There is even a fireplace over on the far wall below a mantelpiece that appears to be made from marble. It’s not surprising. This is an old English country manor and something I love and wish I could live in one day.
“It’s lovely,” I rasp, still feeling out of breath and out of sorts. “Rented? Or yours?” I turn to him with my eyes narrowed.
He chuckles and taps the side of his nose. “You will find extra blankets and pillows in the drawers under the bed. Ring the bell if you need anything.” He points to a buzzer on the wall by the door.
“Uhm, okay. Thanks.”
So far, this is hardly a hostage situation. It’s the opposite. Despite the savage way in which Uncle Lorenzo ran us off the road, thus injuring me, shot my bodyguard, and grabbed me to stuff into a van, I don’t exactly feel assaulted or abused in any way.
“I’ll see you later,” he says and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
The frown forming on my face turns to an eyeroll as I hear the key being turned on the other side of the lock.
“Riiiight,” I mutter. “There you go. Still a hostage.”
Like I was expecting anything else.
Okay, I was, but come on. He has outright said he thinks of me as his daughter.
With a sigh, I turn back to the window and look out over the gardens. By now, my parents will be frantic, and Cain is probably dead too, alongside Nico. I dislike the fact that it hurts my heart. Feeling overwhelmed by all of the death, I push it aside. If I break down now, I will never piece myself back together, and I need to be strong. Stronger than I’ve ever been to handle this situation with grace and fortitude with my wits about me. A small voice in my head screams at me that I'm being cold, but it’s not that. I’m shutting down the emotions so I can think clearly. I didn’t know I had the capacity to do this, but it seems to be working so far. Who knows how long it will last and what will happen when it ends?
I try to avoid thinking about a complete and utter mental breakdown.
Reaching up, I turn the lock on the sash window and raise it, wondering how Enzo missed this obvious exit, when the window suddenly jolts to a stop, jarring my arms. I shove at it to raise it higher because the three centimetres currently letting in a bit of air is not enough when I’m suffering an attack. Not that the air itself helps, but theideathat there is air around me helps me deal with it. When it doesn’t budge, I look closer and see that two screws have been driven into the wooden frame at the top on either side to stop the window from opening more than three centimetres.
“Ugh,” I spit out. I should’ve known better. I could probably work them free with time, but that time is not now.
Letting go of the window, it slides back down, so I take my shoe off and open it again, shoving the shoe into the gap to wedge it open. Satisfied that this is the best I can do, I remove my other shoe and pad over to the bed to pull out the extra blankets and pillows. Not that I feel like I need them right now. This pre heat, or whatever it is, is very erratic—coming in fits and bursts. It’s not pleasant.
