Page 33 of Taken By Raider Kings
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“Let’s have a talk,” Marc said, pleasantly.
Sophie’s mouth went dry.She stood in the kitchen, sunlight bright through the bay window with its neat collection of neatly terracotta-potted green herbs.The dishtowels on the rack were carefully folded, and she had dried every plate twice before putting it away.She frantically reviewed everything done today—if she could anticipate and apologize, he might take it easy on her.
Just this once.
Marc ran his hand back through a blond razor cut, the shark-charming smile showing his pearly whites.Everything about him was expensive, from the Oxford button-down to the immaculately pressed designer jeans; he was barefoot, his pedicure resting against the granite tiles he’d had installed the summer he almost broke her wrist and did crack two of her ribs.The same summer he’d almost drowned her in the big cast-iron bathtub upstairs.The granite had been his grand gesture—as if she wanted stone growing around the room where she spent most of her time.
“Are you listening, Sophie?”
“Yes.”She searched for the right answer, backing up into the angle between the corner sink and the counter.The porch door was eight feet away, and the kitchen island was between them.Copper-bottomed pans glowed, hung on a rack overhead.
Sometimes in the middle of the night they would rattle and buzz, rubbing against one another like they were alive.Marc never heard them.
“I’m a little worried.Your friend Lucy called last night.She left a voicemail.”He paused.Sunshine gilded him, turned him into a statue, and he was wearing that most dangerous of smiles—the friendly one.Other people thought Marc charismatic, but that smile always chilled Sophie’s skin, sending a prickle of alarm down her back.His bright ice-blue eyes were calm, thoughtful, and just a little bit amused.“She seemed to think you were having coffee with her on Wednesday.”
Of course she was, Wednesday was always her coffee day with Lucy.Sophie was getting closer and closer to blurting something out, though; each time they met and the bruises twinged, she would tell herself to keep her mouth shut.It wasn’t that bad, she would repeat to herself, over and over.Millions of women dealt with worse.And the house was so beautiful, Marc was so rich—what right did she have to complain?
She said nothing.It was the safest course at the moment.
“I think your time would probably be better spent volunteering.I’ve spoken to Delia Armitage at the Child Relief Fund, and she said they’d be glad to have you.You’ll start Wednesday, 3:00 to 5:00 p.m.I don’t think I need to tell you to dress appropriately, do I?”
“No.”The word escaped her, a breathless refusal.
“No, what?”
“No, Marc.Of course not.”But that wasn’t what she meant.
She meant,No, I’m not going to put up with one of your mother’s fellow old-biddy harridan who’s always checking my clothes and reminding me you married beneath you.She meant,No, Lucy is my friend, my last friend, and you’re not going to take her away from me.
Marc, thank God, heard what he wanted to hear.“That’s settled, then.Good girl.”But his eyes were the same, bright and paralyzing.“I don’t think Lucy’s a proper friend, Sophie.She seems a little… déclassé, if you know what I mean.You’re flying with the eagles now, you shouldn’t spend time with the sparrows.”
Another one of his goddamn clichés.“Yes, Marc.”
He slid around the corner of the kitchen island, and the copper-bottomed pans metal-muttered.They were polished each week by the maid service, and their buzz was a rattlesnake’s mouthless warning.
“I can’t see why you’ve allowed that to drag on so long.”He sounded thoughtful; Sophie braced herself—for all the good it would do.“You’re a new person now, Sophie.You don’t need your old life.Do you?”
He wouldn’t stop until he’d made her say it.“No, Marc.”
“All you need is me, and I’ll take care of you.I’ll tell you what to do.”He was within five feet, and getting closer.
Her throat was dry.Her hands wanted to twist together; she kept them dangling by her sides only with an effort.If she flinched now, it would be waving a red flag in front of a bull.“Yes, Marc.”
He took her shoulders, almost gently.His hands were warm and manicured, and a fresh bruise on her right biceps ached as his thumb rubbed it.“Now, there’s one other question.We know how… forgetful you are.”
Oh, God.He wasn’t going to let her go until he really hurt her.
“How,” he continued, fingers tightening slowly, “am I going to be sure you don’t forget?”His grip dug in until it rubbed against her bones, and Sophie gasped.Next would come the slap, and the yelling—and she knew she was dreaming because this had already happened, she had fled, she knew she had escaped, and this was a nightmare but it wasn’t stopping, and Marc’s enraged face twisted into something plum-colored and horrible, the pots rattled and the sunshine pouring through the window dimmed, became a flat darkness?—
—and she sat up, her mouth filling with a rancid scream.Someone had her shoulders, light filled the room, and for a moment she thought everything had been a hallucination, that Lucy was still alive and she was trapped in the kitchen with Marc right before he knocked her to the ground and kicked her, shouting, the red explosion of pain in her belly enough to make her cry, at last.
“It’s okay,” someone said.“It’s all right.You’re safe, it’s just a dream.”
Sophie froze.
Zach’s hair was mussed; he looked about as far away as it was possible to get from Marc’s manicured blondness.He’d shaved, but was still in the same rumpled navy-blue T-shirt and jeans as last night.Sophie stared, struggling for breath as the panic attack descended.
