Page 57 of Trapped By the Blood Ruby

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

“It would, if it draws unwanted attention.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

Laurent sighed. “Fine. See what you can do. I’m more concerned about this missing journal.”

“Perhaps it’s all connected.”

Perhaps. The word echoed in his mind. He didn’t want to consider it. But Marco was right. If there was a connection, it could mean only one thing. Someone in his family had betrayed him. And that left him the unfortunate job of discovering who.

16

The bed beneath me was plush fabric, not cold metal. I was surrounded by soft lighting, not harsh fluorescents. The air was warm and comfortable, not cold and sterile. I was…me. Lily Winifred Shaw. I was alive. Each breath was painless, deep and rich. A gift.

Had it all been a dream? Or was this the dream? Some desperate hope conjured to escape the pain?

My sleep had been fitful, filled with nightmares. Blood and sex, feeding and fangs. Death. I’d made others hurt. I’d felt myself hurt, too. I’d relived my pain. Relived the torture. But there were other memories too—foreign ones that felt like a virus implanted in my mind. Moments that belonged to someone else.

As if my mind was breaking.

I spooned another bite of chicken noodle soup into my mouth. Zola had offered to feed it to me, but I was desperate to maintain what little dignity I had left. She sat beside me, rubbing my back, filling the silence with her calming voice. I needed that, because the silence was where my memories lived.

“I don’t think I can eat any more.” I stared into the bowl, still only half empty.

I’d been with the witches for three days. Zola had kept the details of my rescue to a bare minimum. She’d promised to tell me everything once I was better. Including why I had memories that weren’t mine. They belonged to…to… I couldn’t say his name. Could barely think it without hurting. But I knew they were his.

“Just a few more bites, darling,” Zola begged. “Vittorio spent hours on it. I’ve never seen him so focused on getting something right. The perfect chicken noodle soup.”

“Oh…”

Had he really cared that much? I wanted to feel something over the effort he’d made. I tried to muster the correct emotion, but nothing came.

“Oh, darling. He’s been beside himself!”

“Right.”

I thought of that fateful day when I was traded for information. The sight of Vittorio in the entry hall. He hadn’t even looked at me. Had it been an act? Part of the charade?

“He cares for you,” Zola said. “The moment you returned, he set about chopping and dicing. He made an entire pot of this stuff. Refused to cook anything for anyone else. Told Laurent”—my muscles jerked at the sound of his name—“that he could eat soup, or nothing.”

I sighed, looking down at the soup and fresh sourdough. I broke off a chunk and dipped it into the broth, lifting it to my mouth. Chewing. Swallowing. I was certain the soup was excellent, except I didn’t really taste it. I was merely going through the act of feeding myself because it was a stipulation of my agreement with Zola.

“You’ll really let me talk to Ania?” I said at last.

“Yes. I meant what I said, darling. Whatever you want, I will see that you get it.”

“Good. Then I’m ready to call her.” I handed her my tray. She set it aside and gave me her phone. I studied her, waiting for her to yank it back. She simply waited. I knew Ania’s number by heart—we’d both memorized them in case our phones ever got stolen. I pulled my knees up to my chin beneath the blankets. I hadn’t moved since Zola had come—didn’t have the courage to leave the bed. I clenched the phone to my ear as it began to ring.

“Hello?”

Tension fled my body at the sound of her voice. “Ania?”

“Lils? Is that you?”

“It’s me⁠—“

“What happened to your phone? Did it die?”