Page 66 of Exiled

Watching through tear-blurred eyes as you back away. Hand still raised, as if still wrapped around my throat. A step back, another. A third.

A moment passes, in which I attempt to breathe, and you merely stare at me, jaw flexing, eyes narrowed, a blaze of emotion bleeding through your normally-flat brown gaze.

And then you reach into your pocket. Bring up your cell phone. Dial a number. Hold the handset to your ear. “It is time.” And then you end the call, replace the device in your pocket.

A tableau, then. You, staring at me, hands fisted at your sides. Me, on my knees, robe coming open, hair in my eyes, breath rasping painfully through a bruised windpipe. Staring back at you.

Hands lift me to my feet. Pull me away. I do not take my eyes off you as I am drawn onto the elevator.

I see you, as I so often have, through the narrowing perspective of the closing elevator doors:

Tall, straight. Broad shoulders. Night-black hair swept back. Tailored suit clinging perfectly to your godlike physique. Hands at your sides, fists clenched. I see them trembling, see the way your jaw muscles flex and tense. Your brow is furrowed. Your gaze is rife, fraught, wild, molten brown.

You are a god.

You have beenmygod.

And I am walking away from you.

I have turned away from you. Denied you.

Chosen my future.

I put my palms on my belly, cup the slight bump. You see this gesture, and you flinch. Your head rocks back on your neck. The doors close, and I catch one last glimpse of you.

I cannot be sure, but it seemed as if you were falling to your knees, head drooping.

I do not believe that, though.

I close my eyes and I see you. Standing tall. Imperious. Gorgeous, perfect, cold, a statue carved from living marble. A Roman god made flesh.

You are my god no longer.

Chapter

Fourteen

The helicopter flares with sickening abruptness to hover twenty feet above my rooftop terrace. A man kneels in the open doorway, holding a rifle with a scope butt to shoulder, scope to eyes. Trained on Logan, who stands on the rooftop, effortlessly withstanding the battering down-blast of the rotors.

There is a winch, thousands of yards of thick rope, and a sort of foothold attached to the dangling end of the rope. A harness made of rough webbing is fastened around my torso and thighs. The rope is lowered a few feet, and a second man gestures. I am meant to climb out of the helicopter and cling to the rope, bare feet on the round metal as I am lowered to the ground.

The man, wearing a black helmet that obscures his features, clips a hook connecting my harness to the rope.

With steady hands and a thundering heart, I inch on my bottom to the edge of the doorway. Touch the soles of my feet to the cold skid. Stand up on quavering knees, grip the rope in both hands. Breathe in, hold it, and out. Twice. And then step away from the safety of the aircraft to stand on a tiny circumference of ridged metal. Despite the hook and harness, I am terrified. But there is no time for fear, because the winch whines and I descendrapidly downward. My heart is in my throat, and I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the sight of the rooftop growing larger and the helicopter smaller.

Down-blast buffets me, sends me swaying side to side and spinning in circles.

My gut rebels, and I clench my teeth, swallow hard, breathe through the nausea.

And then warm rough familiar hands clutch me: Logan. I can only shake and shiver as he strips the harness off me with the ease of practice. A moment of noise and howling downforce, my cheek to Logan’s chest, his heartbeat under my ear. The helicopter ascends, the wind dies down, and then we are alone.

And I weep.

Shoulders shake, tears flow.

Logan scoops me up in his arms and carries me up the curving staircase and into our bedroom. Lies down with me, pulls blankets over us. I focus on his heartbeat as the only real thing in the world:

Thrum-thrum . . . thrum-thrum . . . thrum-thrum.