Page 6 of Twins for the Enemy

Chapter five

~FARAH~

I've twisted the doorknob and rammed my shoulder into the door enough times that my hand is cramping and my shoulder aches. I rub deep into my palm, trying to think.

When my father would lock me in my room, the four walls seemed to close in on me. I thought it was because I had a smaller room, but this room is immense, and it feels the same.

I comb my fingers through my hair, feeling the hint of dampness from sweat.

The claustrophobia was one of my fears about prison.

I can deal with temporarily being in small spaces, but I don't know if I could deal with it day after day.

But here I am, trapped. And for what? For disappearing on Kieran?

I'd deserve it for running from the fire without checking for anyone still inside, but there is no reason for this man to care that deeply about that. If he's willing to blackmail and lock me in a room, morality isn't a huge hurdle for him.

I need to escape. I am not my father’s daughter, crying for salvation and waiting for Neal to intervene to save me. I will never let a man treat me like a criminal while he’s just a different kind of monster.

And if he’s going to treat me like a prisoner, I’m going to act like one.

I strip off the blankets from the bed. As I tie them end to end, I know it won’t be long enough. I take the curtain rods off and add them to the makeshift rope. With the king-size sheets and ten curtains, I’m fairly confident I’ll be able to reach the ground.

Two armchairs sit, angled toward each other, in the corner of the room with two windows behind them. I test the weight of the chair. It’s heavy enough that I can barely lift it off the floor. I pull the rope underneath it, then tie the end to one of the curtain rods. It should be a decent anchor.

I swing the other end of the rope out the window. I watch it flutter down, an unnerving reminder of how far I could fall.

I twist the sheets around my palm, considering keeping it that way.

If I slip, it might prevent me from falling.

As I look at the white on my palm, the memory of Kieran wrapping up my burned hand slams into my thoughts.

He'd been so kind that night. I must have met Dr. Jekyll, and Mr. Hyde is here to remind me that if it seemed too good to be true, then it was.

I step onto the window ledge, slowly turning myself around as I keep a tight grip on the rope. I press the tip of my shoe against the exterior wall. It slips against the granite. The soles of my shoes are nearly flat from overuse; they’ll never be able to grip onto the side of this mansion .

"I'd assumed you'd wait at least a day before trying to throw yourself out the window."

I nearly fall right out, but my tight grip on the sheets stops me from becoming a pregnant pancake. I spin around. Kieran is standing below the window. He gives me a short wave. I scowl down at him.

"You think too highly of your hospitality skills if you couldn't tell that I'd try to escape as quickly as possible."

He shrugs. "And you think too lowly of me to think I wouldn't know what you would try. I'd prefer it if you didn't do it. For the twins' sake."

I glare down at him, but as the ocean in my brain slows down into calmer waters, I know he's right.

It isn't worth the risk. I'd listened to my panic instead of reason.

I rub my face, angry at myself for not coming up with a better plan.

I shouldn't have walked over to the window when he asked me to look at the stream.

I'd clung to some idea that he’d still be kind to me like the world's biggest fool .

Isn't that what my father said about me? That I'd filled my head with fairytales when reality kept showing me that it was cruel and unforgiving. My current situation proves that.

I look back out the window. Kieran is gone.

I pull the sheets back inside and slam the window shut. I plop down in one of the armchairs. Hunched over, I start untying the knots in my makeshift rope, cursing myself and that man with every movement.

I thought I was a person who would do whatever it took to survive, but having these babies changes the direction of the compass needle.

North isn't survival. It's ensuring the best thing for my children.

Maybe that's escaping. Maybe it's giving all of myself over to a heartless man who wants me to suffer because I turned him into a one-night stand.

As I work on the last knot in my pile of sheets and curtains, I hear footsteps that are brief but heavy.

Someone who isn't small, but isn't careless or lazy with their movements.

I consider running to the door and slamming it shut, but after getting caught already, it wouldn't surprise me at all if he beat me to the door.

Then, what would happen? I'm not under any delusion of how much power he has over me right now.

If he wanted to assault me, he could. I couldn't run to the police.

I could run to Neal, but while Neal would make a big show of protecting me, Kieran could break Neal faster than he could break me.

It's not that I'm more resilient than Neal, but Kieran evidently cares about our children.

As long as I'm pregnant, I have some level of protection.

After that, I have no idea what he'll do to me. I don't plan to find out.

He steps on the threshold, leaning against the doorway.

The intensity of his expression makes me feel like he can see all the pieces of myself that I've hidden away.

But if that's true, then he'd know what happened during the fire, and I can't allow that to happen.

I look down, pulling the last knot free.

I flinch at a loud thud. I look up to see he's thrown a hammer and an array of nails between the two of us .

"You're going to nail shut the windows," he says.

I feel my lip curl up in a snarl. "And what will you do if I don't?"

He strides over, easily sidestepping the hammer and nails, and kneels down in front of me.

For most people, kneeling in front of someone would be an act of subservience, but with the way he looks at me, there is no doubt that I'm not the one in control.

His hand rests on my knee. I think of jerking it away, but I don't know what he'll do next.

I don't know if I'm intimidated by the thought or excited by it.

My thudding heart doesn't seem certain either.

"If you don't, I have another room in mind that doesn't have any windows at all and is only large enough to hold a small cot," he says, his voice eerily calm.

"It also doesn't have a thermostat in it.

I gave you this room because I wanted the mother of my children to be comfortable.

But if she's a threat to those children, I'll choose their safety over her comfort. "

I glare at him. "I'm not a threat to them. I would never hurt them. "

"Prove it." He swivels around, grabbing the hammer and two nails in one quick movement, and places them on my lap. "Prioritize them."

I could use the hammer to bash against his head. I could run out of here. I glance down at his legs. I can't see them under his pants, but from our night together, I'm fairly certain he could outrun me, even if I had a head start. But if I hit him hard enough...

"I should tell you that I know the Chicago Superintendent of Police.

The police buy tactical gear from one of my companies, so whenever we're at the same charity events, he reminds me that if I ever need a favor, he'll gladly do it for me. If I tell him that some woman stole from me—say, an expensive compass—I’d have the whole police force to track that woman down. "

"Do you think he'd still feel that way if he knew you were holding a woman captive?" I ask.

He smirks. "You must not be familiar with our justice system if you think a billionaire philanthropist would be questioned over a fugitive who tried to commit murder."

I lurch forward, so our faces are barely an inch apart.

"I didn't try to commit murder," I bite out. "What kind of man tries to flaunt how his wealth makes him seem more innocent than he is?"

"This isn't a question of innocence, but you aren't winning that battle either."

His eyes flick up and down my body. "No matter how naive and harmless you appear."

His eyes linger on my lips longer than the rest of my body.

When he looks back into my eyes, my breaths are so shallow that I feel lightheaded.

He picks up the hammer, still settled on my lap, and his thumb brushes against my thigh.

My hands jerk slightly, almost ready to press his hand closer, but I grab onto the hammer, enclosing his hand under mine.

Our eyes are locked and my thoughts slip away like small wisps of air. I want his mouth on my mouth. I want to feel the strength of his tongue against my tongue. I don’t care about right or smart. I just want what makes me feel alive.

His expression darkens, and he slowly pulls his hand away.

The hammer almost falls, but I snatch it before it can.

The nails still scatter on the floor. Our heads nearly hit as I scramble to pick them up.

As soon as I've gathered two, I turn my back to him and head to the window furthest away from him.

I use the hammer carefully, unfamiliar with the mechanics of how to not smash my own thumb.

As I'm distracted, I hear hammering. I turn to see him quickly nailing a different window shut. I try to work faster, but by the time I'm done, he's finished the other nine windows.

"I have something else for you too," he says, moving back toward the door.

I expect him to slam it shut—some sick joke about giving me privacy or a room—but instead, he picks up some folded clothes from outside the door and places them on my bed .

"They're my clothes, so they'll be too big for you, but it's better than nothing. The cleaning staff changes the hamper in your bathroom once a week."