Page 39 of The Tower

A shadow passes over his face, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. Then he looks up, his blue eyes hard on mine. “I’m not helping you out of the goodness of my heart, Princess. You know that. This is a transaction.”

The cold calculation in his voice should repel me. Instead, it sends a strange thrill through me—the honesty of it, the absence of pretense, is so different from my father’s elegant manipulations that I have to fight not to smile. “I haven’t forgotten.”

He studies me with an expression I can’t quite read. “You should rest,” he says, all business now.

I almost argue that it’s not even noon, but there’s no denying the wall of exhaustion bearing down on me.

He walks me to the bedroom door, his hand hovering near the small of my back but never quite touching. The distance feels deliberate. Controlled. As if he’s setting boundaries for himself.

I step into the bedroom, aware of his presence behind me, solid and imposing. Will he follow me in? Is this the moment when he claims the first installment of his price? My heart races at the thought, a mixture of fear and something else I’m not ready to name.

But he remains in the doorway, his expression giving nothing away. “I’ll check on you in a few hours,” he says, and then he’s gone, closing the door with a soft click that sounds oddly final.

I sink onto the bed, disappointment and relief warring within me.

Everything.

The word is determined to linger in my mind, and I try to push it away. Try not to imagine his touch.

I remind myself that this is Liam Grimm. Manipulative. Cruel. A man who isn’t helping me out of the goodness of his heart. On the contrary, I’ve traded my father’s control for Grimm’s. I’m nothing more than a pawn in his plan to destroy my father.

And I’ve played enough chess to know that pawns always get the raw end of the deal.

Eleven

Possession

I jolt awake, then sag back when I remember I’m safe. Or, at least, that I’m safe from my father.

For the moment, anyway.

I’d closed the blinds before sliding into my nap, and now I look around the near-black room for a clock.

No such luck.

With a small sigh, I roll to the side table and switch on the lamp. I’d intended to grab my phone to check the time, but I remember that Grimm took it.

Frustrated, I toss the sheets aside and sit up. Liam Grimm may have rescued me from my father—and, yes, I might be having some scattered fantasies—but that changes nothing. He’s still the enemy. I’m nothing to him. And I need to keep that one simple fact firmly in my mind.

I stand slowly, my body feeling both leaden and strangely weightless. My head starts to throb, but I can already tell that my thoughts have been getting clearer and clearer the last couple of days.

My father has been drugging me. My own father.

There’s a control panel built into the bedside table, and I press the middle button. I stiffen as the blinds rise, but the bed is between me and the unknown void, keeping me safe.

Based on the dim, golden light that fills the room, I’m guessing that it’s early evening, which means I’ve slept for hours.

Dr. Chen would say that’s a good thing. And my headache does seem to have faded.

I move slowly toward the bathroom, noting the fuzzy, itchy way my skin feels, and the way the floor tilts slightly beneath my feet. Detox, I tell my reflection once I’m safely at the bathroom counter. It’s all part of the detox/withdrawal/getting-the-hell-over-it process, which means this weirdness is a good thing.

I fill the glass with water, down it, then repeat that process three times. I’m not particularly thirsty, but if I can wash away the crap my father shoved into me, then all the better.

Next, I splash some on my face, then meet my own eyes. “You’ve got this,” the girl in the mirror says. “You’ll get through this. You’ll be free.”

And the girl in the mirror is right.

But I can’t help but wonder if she’s talking about withdrawal … or about the deal she made with the devil.