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The day after I murdered my father.
God have mercy on my soul because I’d prefer to tie myself to this stranger for the rest of the days I was granted, than to be at his beck and call again.
I’d done the right thing, even though it was so beyond wrong.
Brennan had made out like, once we were wed, we’d become the underworld’s Jackie-O and JFK, but even he couldn’t protect me from a murder charge, could he? If it ever came out, I was screwed. Literally. I was putting everything on the line by trusting him, but the alternative was to run again. I had no place in West Orange anymore, which meant I’d have to start over, which further meant I’d have to leave Victoria behind which was something I wasn’t willing to do.
In a flurry of movement, I surged out of the bed. My bare feet padded as I rushed out of the bedroom, and down the carpeted hall.
There was little to no illumination—this high up, there wasn’t that much light pollution when you were peering down at humanity rather than looking up at it—and a burst of speed had my feet thudding against the carpet as I moved down the line of doors, shoving them open as I tried to find him.
He was in the middle, on the opposite side of the hall to the room he’d put me in, and I knew that because the scent of him overwhelmed the room.
Bergamot. Lemon.
Like my favorite tea—Russian Earl Grey.
I inhaled deeply, letting those grassy notes sink into me, and I had no idea why, but his essence calmed me.
For all that I felt alone, for all that he was a stranger, he was going to tie himself to me for life.
No divorce, he’d said.
We were stuck with each other.
Thank God.
His room was different than mine, which made sense because his was the master bedroom. There was a slim hall, and an open door revealed a connecting bath. When I made it to the end of that small corridor, I peered out onto his bed.
I couldn’t see much in the dark, but it felt warmer in here than it did in mine. I could see the shadows of furniture, felt carpeting beneath my feet, and knew that my room was for guests and was anonymous, like a hotel room.
This was his place.
He’d bothered to fill his bedroom with home comforts.
“What are you doing, Camille?”
A sharp gasp escaped me at his question. He sounded drowsy, but also like he was aware. Had I awoken him? Maybe that made sense. I’d made some noise rushing through his apartment like a crazy person as I hunted him down, and I figured a guy of his stature would be used to having to sleep with one eye open, but those husky tones of his, dear lord. They sent shivers down my spine.
There was a rumble of warning, a slumberous drawl, and a genuine note of concern within those initial four words, but it was how he said my name.
Like my mother used to say it.
Not like Ca-Meel. But Ca-Me-Ull.
The difference might not seem that much, but to me, it was profound. He said it with a Russian accent, which told me she’d spoken of me. At least, by name.
But at that moment, the weirdness of how this was coming to pass wasn’t what I needed to discuss. The desire to atone, to repent for my sins wasn’t something I needed either.
Every single reason behind why I’d come here disappeared into the wind. I just needed to be in his arms.
To feel his warmth.
To be in this room where it felt cozy and lived in.
To be at his side.
I knew, right then and there, that I couldn’t handle the kind of marriage my mother had. Having affairs that would result in my brutal murder. Being beaten and hiding those bruises. Dealing with jealous mistresses who would call and send photos to me. Being a broodmare until I had a son to take over the mantel before my womb gave out and my health with it.
