Page 77 of Disorder (Elite of Elmwood 2)

She looked… afraid. Scared. Alone. Terrified. Damaged. And I didn’t know how long I could stand feeling that way before something cracked within me.

It wasn’t just the bruises that looked worse than they felt.

For a split second, I wished I had snuck a bottle from the liquor cabinet, anything to numb the emotions. I hated that my first thought was to reach for a drink just like Angie. That would not be me. I would find some other way to deal with my shit. Might not be less toxic, but alcohol would not be my vice, I refused to be anything like the woman who stole me—who pretended to be my mother—who lied to me my entire life.

At least I understood where some of her ridicule and emotionlessness toward me stemmed from. The unconditional love I should have felt from Angie had never been there.

I steered clear of the walk-in closet and all those expensive clothes waiting to be worn. Instead, I went straight for the dresser full of comfortable pieces that according to Angie never should be worn outside the house.

After slipping on some clothes, I plopped onto the bed, checking my phone. I don’t know why I expected to hear from someone. I told myself it didn’t matter that Brock hadn’t texted me, but it was a lie.

It did matter.

I did care.

I shot a text off to Micah; I needed information, needed outside contact from the house of horrors. It was stupid to think Micah would sit outside my house all day, but since he was taking too long to text me back, I ventured out into the balcony. Just a quick peek. I also wanted to test how far I could get, test the boundaries. Could I just walk out of here anytime I wanted? Would someone stop me? Would she call the cops again if I took off?

The grounds echoed in emptiness as I walked down the wooden stairs. I welcomed the silence.

I paused at the bottom landing, my fingers gripping onto the banister. Glancing over the lawn, I headed to the patio on the right side of the house.

No Angie in sight.

No staff.

“Going somewhere, Ms. James?” a deep voice asked, stopping me dead in my tracks.

Spoke too soon. I whirled around, staring up at Edmund in his wrinkle-free black suit. His dark hair was slicked back, giving him mafia vibes. “At ease, Sergeant. I just need some air.” I faked a mock salute.

Did his lips just twitch? Certainly not. Edmund was incapable of facial expressions. “I’ve been advised to keep you safe.”

“Is that so?” I choked out. “Or do you mean you’re being paid to keep me inside this house?” My eyes darted to the open patio. Freedom. So close I could smell it. Would he stop me if I made a mad dash to the door? How much force would he use? I had a split-second vision of Edmund tackling me to the ground. It wasn’t a pleasant sight.

From his stony expression, I predicted a big yes to detaining me by any means necessary. “It would be best if you stayed inside.”

“This is utter bullshit, Edmund,” I spat, letting him see my outrage.

Edmund lowered his voice, his eyes bearing directing into mine. “A word of advice. Keep your head low until you turn eighteen.”

“That might be some solid advice, Sergeant. That’s assuming I make it to eighteen. Have you seen my face?” I made a circle around my head.

His expression remained neutral. “All the more reason to stay inside.”

Fists clenched, I made a shrieking noise in my throat before spinning on my heels. I returned to my room, intent on staying there for the rest of the weekend. To pass the time, I texted Mads and Ainsley, the two people who never blew me off. We had a lot to catch up on.

Deep in my bitch-fest texting to my besties, I didn’t hear the door to my room open. Angie announced, “Dinner’s ready.”

I jumped, dropping my phone quickly on the bed, screen down. “I’m not hungry,” I retorted, despite not having eaten anything since this morning. My traitorous stomach growled at the mention of food, and I scowled.

She stepped into the center of the room, her long dark hair gathered into a sleek bun low on her head. In a cream cashmere sweater and tailored black pants, she almost looked sophisticated, but there was something off, something in her face, a sexiness that denied her from achieving the look of polish she craved. “Josephine, it’s your first night home. I had all your favorites prepared; a little welcome home gathering.”

Was she fucking with me?

How many ways did I have to express or say I didn’t want to be here before it sank into her thick-ass skull?

The last thing I wanted to do was sit down to a fancy fake-ass dinner where we all pretended to be a family. Yeah. Not happening.

Couldn’t she see how tired I was?

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