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“Even if I don’t do what you want?”
“Then I have to work harder to make you want the same things as me. In every way.” He pinches the tips of my wet hair. “Go dry off and we’ll eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say, even though the grilled-up steaks smell heavenly. “Please, can I just go to my room?”
“You need to eat.”
“Leave it on a plate. I’ll come down—”
“You don’t want to eat with me?”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“Why did you write to your sister?” He takes the letter out of his pocket.
“I wanted her to know I was okay. If I could have called her from Vegas, I would have.”
“Don’t you understand the burden you keep piling up on your poor sister? First the fake kidnapping. Then the postcards. And now what’s happened to you? Do you think that’s fair to her? You’re not thinking straight. I am. I can’t let you send this.” After pulling the stamp off, he hands me the envelope.
“You don’t want to read it?”
“I don’t have to.”
“Can I help with dinner?”
“Nope. All plated. Go get changed. I’ll wait.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ana
After a nerve-wracking dinner with Darragh, who cooked two perfectly delicious steaks, ignoring the massive tension between us, I go to my bedroom and lock my door.
I shake off the anxiety from the confrontation with him, wandering around the beautiful and comfortable guestroom, getting my breathing under control.
My choices right now are limited. I have a roof over my head that’s not made of cement blocks. I’m wearing nice, well-fitting clothes, and not a disgusting prison jumpsuit.
I switch the television on to have white noise in the background when a knock on my door stills me.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door.
This is Darragh’s house. He can smash it down. He has that right.
“Were you getting ready for bed?” he asks, eyeing me up and down.
“Yes and no.”
“Can I come in?”
“It is your house.” I step aside.
“Sophie is asleep, by the way.”
Feeling guilty, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t say goodnight to her.”
“She was in a chicken nugget coma.”
I laugh.
