Page 98 of On Edge

She lets out a small moan and burrows deeper into the duvet. But she doesn’t wake.

Slowly, I stand and stretch every muscle in my body, relieving a few aches from having stayed still so long. Then, moving efficiently, I tidy her shoes and the first-aid kit away, wash the empty whiskey glass in the sink, and put a can of water on the bedside table, close to her in case she gets thirsty in the night. And prepare to leave.

She’s safe here. The penthouse is locked, and security knows not to let anyone up. And I have work to do. Dr. Geoffrey Fogg thinks he can walk into my hotel, put his hands on my fiancée, and walk out again.

He’s wrong.

I grab my coat from the chair, take out my phone, and text Mundel as I head for the door.

Find Dr. Geoffrey Fogg. Don’t let him leave the city.

The reply comes a few minutes later:

Tracked him. He’s at The Langham.

Perfect.

I take one last look at Sage, curled up in my bed, safe and sleeping.

Then I close the door behind me and go hunting.

23

SAGE

Ilie in bed, refusing to get up. Why should I? What’s the point?

I take my time, soaking up the sun’s rays pouring through the vast penthouse windows, letting the feeling of a new day and new place heal some dark part of myself that hates what I’ve become.

Troy Severin is an asshole.

It’s not a revelation, but I let the anger build slowly anyway, a spark catching flame as I think of the lies he’s told and the way he made me feel safe to remind me I’m not. That he got so angry when he assumed I would just let Fogg…and then dragged me into his office to…

And I let him…

You let him touch you, dear Sis. Naughty. Naughty.

Sod this.

Maybe if I keep myself busy and just focus on killing him, I’ll feel better.

But how? I don’t have a gun, and unlike Laine, I’m not a slash-and-run kind of girl. Last night was proof. Too much blood instantly puts me off.

Could there be a book that could help? Something about plants, maybe? I lost the vial of poison Nola gave me, but aren’t there wild plants that can drop a man in thirty seconds?

With a sigh, I make a note to head to the library when I get back to Grayfleet, to do the one thing I’ve abstained from doing the moment I got off the boat: pilfer Troy’s pristine shelves.

Then I get out of bed. But I stop short when I see there’s a dressing gown on the chair and a set of fluffy slippers waiting. Last night, on the bed, I was tipsy, and Troy was tending to my sore feet.

Was that real?

Oh God, I thought I dreamt that.

Troy touched my feet and painstakingly put Band-Aids on them.

Horrified, I take a long, hot shower, letting the blasting water and bilious steam cleanse my mind and soul from the shame. The fluffy slippers and the snuggly robe help, perfect for cocooning my body in soft cotton denial when I step out and wander onto the balcony.

Troy is nowhere to be seen, but it’s still early from the looks of things. The sun is rising over the city, smothering it in a ruddy haze.