Page 62 of Pride

“Fine,” I said with little enthusiasm, and then I felt guilty because he was doing everything in his power to help me. “Thank you,” I added.

“I just want to help you, Emma,” he replied as we walked away.

We arrived backat Alex’s estate later that day, and he carried my case in for me, telling his footman, who was waiting at the door for us, “I’ll take the case up to Emma’s room later. And we’ll get our own drinks. Thank you, Clive.”

He was making it clear that no one else would touch my things or tamper with anything. He was letting me know I was safe.

But I had my guard up.

I had to stay alert.

Nowhere felt safe to me anymore.

S.K.A.M. had told me I was next, but I had no intention of being hung on a wall as his next piece of fucked-up art.

We entered the foyer, and Alex directed me to a drawing room to the right. I followed him, clutching my bag tightly as Iscanned the hallway for any signs of danger, before walking in behind him. The room was wood-panelled, like a gentleman’s smoking room from days gone by. It had a warm and cosy feel, which was in stark contrast to my current erratically fearful state of mind. On the far wall was a huge fireplace, with a roaring fire that billowed heat out into the room. Directly above the fireplace was a stunning landscape painting.

“It’s a Constable,” Alex remarked when he saw me looking at it, giving me the name of the artist as he walked over to a side table full of glasses and drinks bottles.

“Wow,” I replied. I knew who Constable was. I also knew how much his works sold for. “Is it a reprint?”

“No. It’s an original.”

“Holy shit,” I couldn’t help but blurt out. “I bet that cost a bit.”

Alex hummed in thought.

“About twenty million, I think.”

“And you’ve hung it over an open fire?”

“It gets cold in here.” He shrugged. “And it’s well insured.”

I had no words.

So, he was a risk taker.

My terrified heart couldn’t handle any more risks.

I sat on a sofa by the window as Alex picked up a crystal decanter and poured out two glasses of amber liquid, whisky, I guessed. Then he picked them both up, walked over to me, and handed me a glass before he sat down beside me and took a sip of his own. I placed mine on the coffee table without drinking it and he frowned.

“You are safe to eat and drink here, Emma.”

Am I?

I’d thought I was safe the last time. Look how that turned out.

I kept my thoughts to myself and smiled, saying, “I know. I’m sorry. I’m not much of a whisky drinker.”

And I’d prefer to drink something that came from a bottle with a secure cap, that I could twist off myself.

Why was I feeling so neurotic?

I was acting jumpier than I had been at my house, with the threats painted on my wall.

Because he can get to you anywhere. Give yourself a break.

“I can get you something else if you like,” he went on. “Or some food, if you’re hungry. I can fix you something to eat, order something in, or if you prefer, you can make it yourself.”