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“The beer here is…not bad.” That’s the sign that he’s got eyes on our bait.
“How did she seem?” Percival asks.
Our plan of action didn’t quite get his approval, but if Chapman is going to work with the United Republic to take us down, we need to incapacitate him. Fast.
“Fine,” Simon replies as I check my phone to make sure the tracker we put on her is doing its job.
“Tracker is working.”
“Good. Net’s out; let’s see what we catch.”
“Simon?” Percival calls as he’s about to hang up.
“Percy.”
“Don’t leave until you’re certain Chapman’s taken the bait,” Percival sighs. “If he doesn’t, bring her back.”
“No.” That’s not going to happen. Lizzie isn’t coming back until she has the intel I need. She’s going to tell me every fucking move Chapman makes. “I don’t care if you have to spread her legs in front of his face—make sure he laps her up.”
“Fuck off and get fucked, twazzock,” Simon grunts down the phone. “This isn’t my first fucking rodeo. It’s what I do, and I do it really fucking good.”
“Get it done, then,” I tell him, ending the call as the maid finishes setting up dinner.
Before she leaves, I hand her Eve’s sodden jacket from the coatrack and point down at the shoes. It’s almost seven in the evening, and shops are beginning to close, but somewhere, something will be open. If not, I’m sure there’ll be something in this place that will do.
“I need clothes in that size.” I nod at the coat in her hand while pointing down at the trainers on the floor. “And shoes in the size of those.”
The maid lets out a sigh before she nods. “Yes, Your Grace. Anything else?”
Actually, yes. “An umbrella.” This storm is going to continue for the next few days at least, or so the Met Office has warned. “Make sure the clothes are warm.”
“Your Grace,” she sighs again, looking like there’s a tonne of pressure on her shoulders.
She doesn’t know what pressure is. If there’s one thing Percival has made certain of for the staff, it’s that they are well paid and looked after. There was a big upheaval when my father named him the new secretary, and it only got worse when he started changing things. But Percy is a good man, or at least he has good intentions for those under his care, and he believes that keeping the staff happy is a means to keeping them loyal. I’m not sure that’s true anymore, given where we’ve found ourselves, but I admire him for the sentiment and wherewithal to make change to the archaic working order of things.
The suite door closes, leaving me to check on the maid’s setup. It’s all very last minute, but everything I asked for is here. While I wait for Eve to join me again, I put the ancient television on. It looks like it could be older than me—it’s so bulky, and the picture is grainy—but it works and serves the purpose of distraction as I flick through the channels.
Five minutes feel like hours. The slow drag of time makes it seem an eternity before Eve appears out of the bathroom. The gold strands framing her face are flicking wildly in all kinds of directions while the rest is tucked into the collar of the robe. It’s huge on her, swamping her tiny figure all the way to her toes. It makes her appear smaller.
“I’m washed,” she states quietly with a shrug. There’s an obvious discomfort in the way she’s rocking on her toes. The flush of her cheeks is brighter than I recall it ever being. But the one thing I notice the most is the way she’s staring at the ground, as if she’s too embarrassed to look at me. Or maybe she can’t bear to. Regardless, I don’t like it, and I won’t stand for it.
“I can see,” I tell her, hoping that she’ll look up at me. When she doesn’t, I add, “I can smell it too.”
That addictive sweetness of almond echoes around the room, and I wish that I could breathe it all in, gulp it all down into my lungs and steal it all for myself. I wish that it was enough to satiate the hunger clawing deep inside me to have her. Especially when her eyes flicker to mine.
Fuck. My muscles tense at the needy haze in her stare, making it overwhelmingly clear that I’m in trouble. I shouldn’t be here. At least not with her. But all the woulds, coulds, shoulds, mights, and all their fucking relatives don’t mean shit compared to the way it feels to be in the same room as Eve. To share the same air and feel the warmth of her soul light up this fucking black-and-white world.
I miss colour and freedom. I miss the burn in my lungs and the spark of electricity in my blood. She brings it all back. Her presence is like a drug, except I’m not addicted. My life is dependent on it. On her. I need her to feel something other than the demand to wreck and ruin.
“Come.” I beckon her towards me with a wave of my hand. “Sit.”
Eve looks down at the coffee table. Confusion pinches her face as she takes in the dishes. She’s impossibly quiet as she sits on the other end of the sofa, as far as she can from me.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
Eve shakes her head in reply, but she burrows deeper into the bathrobe until she’s practically buried by it. Her skin is so pale that she looks ghostly. Then there are the bruises I left on her neck. As much as I like my marks on her, they look severe. A lot more than they should. I may have grasped her roughly, but not enough to mark her so that in contrast to her ashen complexion, they appear so savage.
Although she’s told me she’s not cold, I stand and put the fire on. It takes quickly enough that I can get back to feeding her.
