Page 92 of Savage Seduction

I had drunk one and a bit large bottles of water, and nearly half my snacks, and was scared of what would happen in another two or three days when they ran out.

My mind rebelled at the idea I might be here that long.

I paced around the perimeter of the room. Where was Marco? Did he know what had happened to me?

But every time that thought crossed my mind, I wanted to cry, though I had refused to shed a single tear. I had the feeling that once I had left his house, he had not spared me a second thought.

He had no idea I was here. He had no reason to care. And he was my only hope. I hated that I kept praying he would come for me.

Mom would be frantic by now. Would she have called him? She could not have. She didn’t even have his number. The only thought that kept me sane was that he had paid three months of her care up front, and she was still safe in the hospital.

But safe did not mean that she was well. I had seen how ill stress made her, and she would be panicking in my absence. I only hoped that Bernie could keep her calm.

I was struggling to not freak out myself. My worst fear was that trauma could make me miscarry.

With my hands on my belly as if that could keep my little one safe, I paced around and around the walls. Every once in a while, I shoved the bricks, hoping they might somehow give way. Reveal a secret passage or something. A stupid thought that made me bitterly kick the bricks and stub my toe.

I limped back to my mattress and wrapped my arms around my knees, hugging myself. Was I going to die in here? Please don’t let me die here. Don’t letusdie in here.

I thought of all the names I might give my baby. Sofia, Isabella, Aurora. And Emma as a middle name, my mom’s name. For a boy, David, after my dad. Maybe Luca, Matteo or Lorenzo for a middle name, for his father’s heritage.

I wondered what name Marco would like. Whether he even wanted children. Whether he’d ever thought of the names he might call them.

What was happening out there? Why were they keeping me here?

It haunted me that Jacob knew about the baby. Was he going to keep me in here until I gave birth? Was he going to ransom the baby to Marco?

Was I going to give birth in six months’ time all alone on this old mattress? And then what? What would happen to me? Would I die in this prison like my dad?

The thought Jacob might rip my baby from my arms made me weep and rage, wanting to scream. But fear of whoever was above kept me quiet. The guards changed shifts, that much I knew, and I could never be sure when that dirty cop creep was on duty.

By now, I had convinced myself that he had to be the vile piece of filth that had abused Chiara.

Or maybe I hoped he was, because if he was here, then he wasn’t in Chiara’s house with her. He wasn’t where he could get to her.

And the only reason such a piece of filth wasn’t coming in here to get to me was either that I was too old and he preferred children like Chiara, or because Jacob had told him to stay away from me.

And the only reason Jacob would want me safe was because he needed me. For my baby, or for some other reason?

I growled under my breath, trying to vent my pain and fear. Why did he need me alive? Why did he need Landry? Why was I supposed to wait and be a good girl until he found Landry?

What would happen then? Would Marco be in danger?

I never thought I’d hope for Jonathan Landry to remain free. But if his freedom meant that whatever Jacob planned couldn’t happen, then so be it.

The thought made me look at the door, fighting the urge to go pound on it and scream at whoever was on guard to let me out.

And then I saw something that made my breath stop. Something I should have seen before.

I leapt to my feet and raced to the door to take a closer look. Above it was a thin grille woven of metal wires, like a window. I stood on tiptoes to press it, but it held firm.

Even so, I went to fetch the small table. Putting the water and snacks on the floor, I carried the table quietly to the locked door and climbed onto it.

Through the grille, I could see a dark, shadowy corridor and the dim outline of the steps leading up to the house. Faint light came from above, where the upper door was open.

My heartbeat quickened. I pressed the grille harder, and the middle of it flexed under the pressure. But it was firmly attached and wouldn’t give way. I scrutinised the edges, and in the frustratingly dim light of my single bulb, saw that it was secured in place with nails.

I pulled at one with my fingernails, but it was very old and stiff and rusted in place. When it budged a tiny bit, my heart leapt. But my fingernails were already hurting.

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