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“Asshole.”
His smile spreads, finger crooking at me to follow.
I sneer at it and his attitude, but follow languidly anyway because why not? Maybe if I keep asking I’ll get my answers. And even if I don’t I’m not sure what else to do at the moment. I could leave. He told me I could this morning when I found him sitting in the bedroom window. I’d almost cried when I woke and found Gray gone, but I think I knew that might happen so instead I just stared at the spot he should have been in and pulled this comforter closer. Gold chain gone – Gray gone with it. And then Malachi spoke.
I listened without turning to face him, not overly surprised that he would be in there for some reason. I listened to the dark tone of his voice murmuring and the quiet morning chirps of birds outside the room, as he spoke about the meaning of love and whether it was worth fighting for or not. And then I listened as he left the room with another few sentences that I can still remember now.
“I can organise for the plane to take you home, Mrs Tanner, or you are welcome to stay for as long as you’d like. Better to go too far than not far enough.”
I wish I knew what that last bit meant.
I end up following him through empty hallways and down back staircases into what seems to be old staff quarters. Dust and remnants of living lie around, the occasional piece of clothing that seems as if it was made a hundred years ago. I watch his body clad in jeans and a black shirt move decisively, wondering who he really is, or what this place used to be, until we end up in a pristine, large kitchen decked out with all the usual things modernity requires.
A maid walks passed him, nodding, and then disappears into another room before coming back out. “Sir, what can I get for you?”
He turns to look at me, a brow raised in question. “Food?”
“Oh. Eggs. Scrambled please.”
“Of course, Mam,” she says, looking back at Malachi.
He shakes his head, muttering words about the morning room, and dismisses her to move us through the room towards another one. More old things, more clutter and disused remnants of a time before now, and we climb back up into the grandeur.
“How do you own this place?” I ask, eventually following him into a bright airy room.
My eyes glance around, taking in the feel of old and new mashed together. It feels lived in, unlike some of the other rooms, as if he spends normal days in it. A book lies face down, its pages open to keep the reading spot secure. Reading glasses. A vase of flowers in the window – red roses. Several newspapers stacked on top of each other. A jacket hung on the back of chair by a small dining table. I smile at it and loosen the comforter wrapped tightly, comfortable in the space around me.
It all seems so normal, but for the high ceilings and huge windows and possibly silk wallpaper depicting Chinese themes of war. I turn to look at him and find him looking me over, a wry smile on his face about something. I don’t know what, nor do I care in reality. Everything here is quirky, unusual, and him being a conundrum I wasn’t ready for is anything but surprising.
“Family,” he eventually says. “Oil.”
“Oil?”
“Hmm. It’s worth a lot of money.”
“And so you run a sex club for millionaires that haven’t got anything to do to relive your boredom?”
He chuckles and moves to sit at the dining table, waving me over to sit opposite him. “Not quite. Are you trying to delve into me? I wouldn’t. We’re not friends, Hannah.”
I shrug, unsure if I am or not. “And yet you’re using my name and bringing me into your actual home for the first time.”
I look out at the snow again, wondering why he would do that, and then look around at all the things that show a side of Malachi no one would see unless they were here in this room. There’s no need for me to see this. No reason for him to show this about himself either. Maybe Gray asked him to be nice to me, to look after me now that night has turned to day in more ways than one.
Another sigh leaves me at the thought of night being over, of Gray being gone, and I linger by the window rather than sit. My wrist seems bare and my heart seems weak, perhaps missing a beat somehow. I rub at the spot the chain has been wrapped around, missing the feel of the strand that kept us linked in some way, and tap the area slowly.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.
“If it helps, he didn’t want to leave.”
My eyes come back to him, some amount of pleasure taken from the words. “He didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why did he then?” I take a seat in the chair, easing slowly into it to relieve the sharp pain still flaring on my raw skin and trying not to wince.
“Did he cream you?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
