Page 6

Chapter 6

Fantasia

I don’t watch Piers leave. I shouldn’t. I can’t. It’s good that he’s going- I wanted him to go.

As soon as the front door slams closed, though, I’m moving.

I go straight for the kitchen, for the fridge. It’s only lightly stocked with essentials. Milk, eggs, butter, juice. No cold beers. I check every cabinet and find plates, glasses, pots and pans of every variety, but no alcohol. This wretched house doesn’t come with a wine cabinet or a cellar. I throw open the pantry door next. It’s fully stocked with cans and boxes of all varieties, but there are no bottles of whiskey or rum. There’s not even boxed wine, which I’ll stoop to drinking in this moment.

There’s nothing.

I don’t realize until that moment, standing in the walk-in pantry surrounded by everything I don’t have a craving for- that I’m gasping for breath. My vision blurs with tears. My knees buckle. I almost let my legs go out from under me, but I lock them just in time. I don’t want to break down here where Armstrong and Barnes will find me. They’ve made themselves scarce now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t barge in at the most humiliating moment possible. With all my will, I trudge out of the pantry and toward the stairs, my mind on the solitude of my own room.

In Wesley Hall I’d spend my sleepless nights in the drawing room in front of the fireplace. I could drink away my demons in peace, with only the occasional quiet servant passing through the poke at the logs, stoking the flames just a little higher against the chill. Every now and then Achilles would find me there, and we’d argue about what I should or shouldn’t do until we were both screaming. But for the most part, the room was my sanctuary, where no ghosts lurked.

There are no ghosts in this modern suburban home, but I feel less at peace than ever before, even as I close my bedroom door behind me. Maybe I’m the spirit who’s come to haunt the place.

Piers didn’t get a chance to unpack my bag earlier, and I have no interest in it now. I sprawl on the bed without even kicking my duffle off or tucking myself in, too tired and heartsick to care.

I wake to hands on me. Rough, heavy, merciless hands that yank me out of bed before I can scream. My head spins as I’m slammed against the floor, landing hard on my back, the wooden boards cracking under my shoulder.

I thrash wildly, my foot connecting with something solid- a face, judging by the grunt of pain. I kick again, blindly, and catch the same man in the jaw. His curse is sharp and vicious.

A meaty palm covers my mouth, crushing my lips against my teeth. I bite down hard, tasting blood. He jerks back, cursing again, and I suck in a breath to scream, but it’s cut short as another set of hands pins my arms to the floor, pressing down with bruising force.

I twist, buck, slam my heels into the ground, trying to gain leverage, but it’s like fighting against stone. They’re bigger, stronger. My vision blurs, panic surging through me, hot and electric.

I’m trapped.

“Fuckin’ hell -”

I recognize the voice, and it almost shocks me into stillness.

Almost.

Armstrong’s bony hands finally grab my ankles, but I don’t stop kicking against them. I claw at Barnes’s massive hairy arms, getting his skin under my fingernails before he shouts and punches me in the face.

My vision goes white. I taste metal. I hear a bell ringing.

“Stupid cunt-”

Downstairs, someone knocks at the front door. Barnes curses, his hand going around my throat and squeezing. Instinct tells me to scrabble at his grip, but instead I pound my fists against the floor with all my might. My legs are still flailing against Armstrong’s grip, my ankles hammering painfully against the ground. Armstrong releases his grip on my ankles, but before I can redouble my efforts, he stomps down on my right shin.

The pain is white hot. My whole body seizes, trying to curl into the fetal position around my injuries, but Barnes hasn’t released his grip on my neck. Now that I’m limp, he only tightens it.

Then he yanks a knife out of his belt.

I want to scream. It might be the last thing I ever do, but at least I won’t die silently. But there’s nothing left in my lungs and nothing but pain in my limbs. Barnes drags me up by the neck, his hand around my throat and my flailing feet the only thing keeping me upright.

There’s a pounding in my head so loud I wonder if he can hear it.

Armstrong pulls a gun, but he doesn’t point it at me.

Barnes’s knife flies toward me, and agony rips through my side.

Someone is shouting, but it’s not me. How can it? I have no air left to breathe-

My feet hit the ground, jarring through my legs as Barnes releases my throat and catches my shoulder in the same brutal motion, shoving me upright. The pressure shifts- his grip tightening just long enough to steady me, to keep me from crumpling completely.

His hand. On my arm. The other on the knife dripping with my blood. That means I can breathe again, or I could if my throat didn’t feel like a crumpled plastic straw.

There’s someone standing in the door of my room, and my vision is still a little blurry, but I can tell that he’s beautiful. Beautiful and angry, with hair like rust and eyes like emeralds.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Piers snarls, bearing all his teeth.

Armstrong lowers his gun, but doesn’t holster it. Barnes doesn’t release his knife either. My legs give out, and I collapse, my knees slamming against the ground. It hurts to raise my head, so I let it drop, my gaze on the ground a foot below me.

There’s blood pooling on the hardwood floor. There’s a burning in my side and my throat and my face. But Piers is here now, and that makes me feel… better.

“We were ordered by the Ashwoods to execute this woman,” Barnes says plainly. His deep voice is too loud, even in my spacious room. I wince, and fresh pain rolls through my whole body.

“The Ashwoods,” Piers repeats, his voice trembling with rage. “Not Achilles.”

Barnes is silent for a moment, but before he can answer, Piers repeats, “Not Achilles. He would never order this. So which Ashwood told you to do this?”

“Harold Ashwood gave us these orders,” Armstrong answers, his narrow chin jutting out defiantly. “He demanded this woman’s life in exchange for his brother Skylar’s, who’s still in a coma after the fight at Wesley Hall. The one she’s responsible for.”

I don’t remember that night well. I don’t remember much of the last few weeks before my withdrawal ebbed enough that I was no longer trapped in my bed. From what I’ve gleaned, though, Achilles and several Ashwoods routed Wesley Hall to reclaim it from me. They were up against dozens of mercenaries that I’d surrounded myself with, and… yes, I remember a cousin of mine being badly wounded in the fight.

“But since she’s here,” Piers says, clearly fighting for calm, “I’m guessing Achilles denied his request.”

“He had no right!” Armstrong argues. “And to be frank, sir, I don’t understand why you aren’t here exacting the same kind of revenge. Weren’t you on the run for a year because of this bitch? She ordered the Warwicks to be killed, including your own predecessor. You should want her dead more than any Ashwood.”

Piers’s silence is deafening. I can feel his gaze on the back of my head. He can’t meet my eyes because I can’t bear to raise my head, but still, he’s searching me.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “I should.”

My heart squeezes, but I’m not surprised. I don’t even bother to raise my head. This is what’s right for him to feel after everything I’ve put him through. It’s what I deserve. It’s what I first expected when I saw him on the bus going out of the airport.

Vitriol and vengeance.

Piers takes a step forward. If it’s him putting a bullet in my head, then I won’t complain.

“Truth is, I wanted to wear her down slowly,” Piers says, approaching slowly. His voice is hollow, unfamiliar, but I’m too tired to be afraid. “I was gonna spend years tormenting her, forcing her to look every day into the face of the man she betrayed more than any other.”

The toes of his shoes appear in my vision. I hear the rustle of fabric and feel my attackers tense. A gun cocks.

Everything else drops away. My pain, the other men, even the room itself. All I’m aware of is Piers above me, and the gun in his hand.

“Is this how you would’ve done it, Fantasia?” he asks softly. “Did you want me executed like this, on my knees with my head bowed?”