Page 35 of The Tallest Tower (Underbelly Enchanted)

“I’m gonna uncuff you.” I hold her hands in my left, and with my right, reach into my pocket for the key. “I’m being nice, because you haven’t hit me since this morning.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she growls, though she eagerly presents her hands and keeps still for me. “You fill me with homicidal rage. I might try to hit you again… with a bullet.”

“No you won’t.” I unlock one side and remove the shiny steel from her already raw wrist. Then I go to work on the second. “Despite your temper and royal attitude, you don’t hate it here.”

“Wanna bet?” She yanks her now-free hands from my reach and slings her arms through the sleeves of my shirt before dropping her towel. “I don’t intend to stay here a minute longer than I must. You have to sleep eventually.”

“Uh-huh.” I head into my bedroom, specifically, the door leading to the rest of the house, giving her my back so she can rid herself of her wet underwear—or not—in privacy. But I stop just before opening it and turn back to find her stepping out of the soggy lace.

Her face pales when our eyes meet, both of us wildly aware she wears my shirt and absolutely nothing else. But when I allow my eyes totrack along her delicious legs, the revulsion in her expression is enough to remind me she doesn’t want to be here.

She wants nothing to do with me.

Turning on my heels, I swing the door wide and grit out, “It’s time for dinner, Darling. Don’t make me wait.”

9

CHRISTABELLE

A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

Felix leaves his room, steps into the hall, and closes the door most of the way. Which is…

Surprising?

I think that’s the emotion that passes through my mind. Though it’s hard to tell for sure, considering the panic that lances through my veins at the same time, triggering my body to attempt to work through the sudden sensory overload.

I cast one last look to the gardens outside, but my legs shake already. My arms ache. My throat burns, and my stomach whooshes with the early pangs of nausea.

The chances of breaking both my legs after jumping is high… and even if I survive the fall, I won’t get far before Felix’s men, the soldiers walking the perimeter of his property, sweep me up and bring me back.

So I set aside the thought of escape, and move to the walk-in closet instead.

Felix’s room is massive. Ornate. With a four-poster bed larger than any one man needs, and an office area made up of a desk, a flatscreen monitor, a leather tall-backed chair, and a sofa. Then there are two doors aside from the one that connects to the hallway: one for the ensuite bathroom, and the other for the closet I explore now.

Every walnut oak wall is made up of drawers, so many drawers, all closed and uniform. But I know I’ll find something useful, so I begin opening them two at a time and in a rush that only makes my swimming head hurt that little bit more.

I find ties. Belts. Socks.

Useless.

Finally, I hit pay-dirt and find underwear. Whipping out a pair of black boxers, I step into them with fast movements, frantically tugging them up—and exhaling in exasperation when I find the elastic waistband is too large.

I flip the waistband and roll it down once, then twice. And twice more, until the shorts hike up on my thighs, and the band tightens around my stomach, ensuring they’ll stay on; at least, assuming I don’t run or jump.

Feeling less exposed, I shove the drawer closed with a snap, charge out of the closet and into the bathroom, and grab a water glass, filling it under the tap until liquid sloshes over the side and wets my hand.

My wrists ache, red and oozing. But I have bigger issues right now. More pressing matters to deal with.

I bring the glass up and chug two thirds of its contents in one go. My body, screaming for hydration, and my throat, weeping as the cold liquid slides along it and fills my belly.

“Ms. Cannon?” Felix singsongs. “You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?”

“No. Shut up.” I set the glass back down and look into the mirror, cataloguing the absolute mess I am.

Wet hair. My makeup, washed away—all but the mascara—so now it stains the skin beneath my eyes and makes me look like a panda. I’m wearing another man’s shirt. My teeth are furry with filth. And though I don’t much care if my breath smells, the texture on my enamel is just another thing added to my already overwhelming sensory overload.

Nausea beats at the very base of my stomach. But I’m not sure eating a meal with this man, who is the epitome of all things evil and disgusting, will help soothe my belly.

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