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“Because I never read the files.” Irritation is evident in my answer, but it’s short-lived. I could have searched other areas of the house before I came in here. “And she asked me not to.”
He holds my gaze and I see it—I see it. Suspicion. A shiver grips me. Does he know about the arrangement I have with Ella? Has he already figured it out? Damon, of all people, would be the one to notice. He’s here at every shift change, since we’re paired for this job. He sees me the most. And he knows me the best.
I could tell him, here in this too-quiet hallway with the strange wrappings on all the artwork. That was the suggestion Harrison made, and he had a point. Telling Damon would protect The Firm.
But I keep my mouth shut.
I’ll sort through the why of it later, when I’m alone. I’ll come up with a plan. But I’m not going to tell him now. Not when I crave her so much that my chest hurts. Not when my hands ache to touch her again.
Not now.
“This is the main wing,” he says finally. “Where she sleeps now is the guest wing.”
It explains the hotel-like quality of her bedroom. I’ve noticed the richer the client, the less clutter in general. They can afford a cleaning staff to keep it neat, and the items they buy tend to be fewer but better quality. Still, they have small details that belong to them as people. Who they are and what they cherish most. Ella’s room is devoid of almost all the personal items I’d expect. I should have known it wasn’t just because of her wealth, or her status. I should have known there was a deeper reason.
She sleeps in a room that’s not her own, while her memories are locked away behind packing paper and dust.
“Because all this is too much for her.”
“Yes,” Damon agrees, although then he adds, “Potentially. The circumstances might have changed. Her progress has been consistent. Ella’s taking her meds and having longer conversations. She’s more active during the daytime than she was before she was admitted. We spent some time in the yard today, talking as we walked.”
“Yard” is an understatement. The estate is grand with a sprawling lawn in the back, fenced in white and bursting with plants and gardens and a chestnut tree. It must sit on at least two acres and backs up to a picturesque mountainscape. I haven’t been out there with her much as the fall is rather bitter and she seems to prefer our blue room.
“How did she handle that?” It’s hard to picture her out in the sun, strolling with the dappled light in her hair. Her face tipped up to look at the clouds. Her fingertips brushing over a hedge going brittle with autumn. What I really want to know is if the sun warmed her up. If she seemed free on the outside, or if she was still a little bird in a cage.
Damon can’t tell me that.
He nods, considering. “She did well. We took it slow.”
He’s protective of her too … and for the second time in the space of this few minutes I think about confiding in him. Because the Ella he describes, this woman who needs to move slowly in the yard, this delicate, fragile thing—it’s not the Ella who looked me in the eye and consented to spanking with a gleam in the dark centers of her gaze. There are many sides to a person’s humanity. Damon is willing to help her, and he can help her in ways that I can’t. If I can offer insight, I should. If it will help her. Only if it would help her.
She’s stronger than she appears. But also … maybe more broken than I’m seeing.
“And the conversation? Did she share anything I should be aware of?”
“No,” he says and shakes his head. “Just small talk mostly. But she’s opening up.”
“That’s good.” I force myself to focus and get out of my thoughts. “Where is she now? I was looking for her.”
“Resting in one of the guest rooms.” I walked right past those doors on the way here. Didn’t even bother to look because I thought she’d be in her own room. “She came up about an hour ago. I think the curtains are thicker in one of the other rooms.” He shrugs.
I follow him, talking as we go.
“She’s been more tired recently,” he says.
“She’s been staying up later, maybe till two or three.”
“Really?” Damon seems surprised. Our footsteps are heavy as we descend the staircase.
“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate although his gaze is prying. “What time is she waking up?” I question.
“Around nine. I guess that’s why she wanted a nap.”
“What time did she lie down?”
“’Bout … two hours ago maybe?”
We go downstairs to the kitchen and Damon shrugs on his coat. I try to ignore the disappointment gnawing at my gut. I wanted to see her. I wanted to hear her voice. I want to know what she sounds like when she whimpers because her ass is red and she’s falling into that loss of control.
