KATE
Flushed from a steaming hot shower and wrapped in the most luxurious towel I’ve ever seen in my life, I’m squeezing water from the tips of my hair as I return to the bedroom. I yelp to find a man in the corner, positioning a silver cart beside a pair of armchairs.
“Madam,” says Nilsson, because of course it’s Nilsson. He straightens like a soldier and stares at a point two inches above my left shoulder. He seems completely unaware of the jagged, angry letters scrawled across my chest:Fuck you.“I heard the shower running,” he says. “And I took the liberty of delivering your breakfast.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound as if I’m accustomed to servants wheeling in my food, oblivious to my privacy.
There’s a lot to get used to in this house, beyond the feckin’ dungeon. There are four wings, two on the ground floor and two up here. I lost count of the rooms after we climbed the stairs from the basement last night. My head seemeddisconnected from my body, like I was floating or I’d just stepped off a ship. Maybe like I’d landed back on earth after a long trip to Mars.
Wolf cut short whatever tour he’d planned and brought me straight to this bedroom. There’s a painting on the wall above the bed, a gorgeous red poppy with a secret black center. I blushed when I saw it. Or maybe I blushed because I tripped over the doorsill.
Wolf smirked as he turned me around to face the bed. He worked two of the tiny buttons on my dress before grabbing the fabric in both hands. I shouted as he ripped it open, but he said, “Nilsson will get it repaired.”
Now, Nilsson raises the window shade, revealing a garden that looks like it stretches forever. Studying the lawn, he says, “I’ve taken the liberty of leaving my card on your tray, madam. Please text me if there is anything you require, at any time of the day or night.”
Annoyed by his efficiency, I say, “I don’t have my mobile.”
Nilsson’s head inclines a millimeter, toward the breakfast spread. “Your phone is on the tray, madam. Mr. Wolf arranged for your belongings to be collected from St. Brigid’s earlier this morning.”
Sure enough, my mobile sits beside the cutlery. Mam returned it yesterday, when she finally released me from the cellar. The case is cracked from O’Brian’s heel, but the phone charged properly before I took it to church.
“Earlier?” I squint at the window. “What time is it?”
“Half past ten.”
Half past feckin’ ten. I’ve been having a lie-in while Wolf manages my belongings and Nilsson prepares a breakfast spread fit for a queen.
I’m embarrassed, like I’ve been caught doing something nasty. My shame boils over to the far more comfortable emotion of anger. “Here’s something Irequire,” I snarl at Nilsson. “Irequirevisiting my grandmother. Did Mr. Wolf arrange forherto be collected too?”
“Yes, madam,” Nilsson says, as if I’ve asked whether ice is cold or the sun is hot.
“Where is she then?”
“Across the road, madam.”
“Inyourhouse?” I demand, because I remember that’s where Nilsson and Anna live.
“Mr. Wolf thought Mrs. Lynch would prefer the privacy of the guest house, madam. The converted carriage house across the road.”
“She’s over therealone?” My voice breaks on the last word, and I start to break for the closet. Fuck breakfast. I need to get to Granny.
Nilsson sounds utterly unconcerned, like he’s reading the score from yesterday’s football match. “Mrs. Lynch is currently accompanied by Maya Sutton, a registered nurse on Mr. Wolf’s roster of preferred medical staff. Of course, you may replace her with your own choice.”
My own choice, my arse. Da has a sawbones on call, like any self-respecting mob boss. But he’s never kept aroster of preferred medical staff.
And even if he had, I wouldn’t trust them with Granny’s health.
“Fine,” I say grudgingly.
Nilsson remains standing at attention like a military doll. As if someone has pulled a string at the back of his neck, he says, “Is there anything else I can get for you now? Doctor Patel will be here at two.”
“Doctor—” For just a moment, I think Patel must be checking in on Granny. But then I remember Wolf’s orders from last night. He wants me verified clean and on feckin’ birth control.
I flush so hard my head hurts. “No,” I say to Nilsson. “There’s nothing else.”
“Madam,” he replies, nodding once before he leaves the room. Only after the door latches do I ask myself what Breagha would have said if she were in my situation. Of course, Breagha would neverbein my situation—married to a man she hates, waking in a stone-cold mansion instead of some exotic honeymoon hotel, towel-clad and talking to a robotic butler instead of her adoring groom.
But Breagha would have saidthank you.And I should have done too.
