Page 130 of Breaking Rosalind
I laugh at the blatant bullshit. “How do you explain being the only assassin who never stops trying to escape? Or how you found an escape hatch no one has used for generations?”
“Desperation,” she snarls. “And luck. Have you ever thought that I might have a lot to lose?”
“Says the heartless viper who murdered her own parents.”
Her eyes widen.
I curl my lip. “Do you think Miranda forgot?”
“When did she?—”
“Some firms have initiation rituals. Did you do that for the Moirai? Kill your mother and father and earn the right to join their ranks?”
Her lips tremble, and tears gather in the corners of her eyes. “She remembers?”
“How the fuck could anyone forget something so heinous?” I snarl. “The poor girl told me on the flight back to Beaumont City.”
“Wait. You took her?” Rosalind asks, her eyes widening.
“Yeah, she’s back at school with a doctor’s note, so she can sit the test you made her miss.”
“Oh, god.” She bows her head and sobs. “No.”
My lip curls. “You can’t uproot a child from her family home, then dump her in boarding school, rip her out again, and imprison her in a shitty little apartment.”
Her head snaps up, and she glares up at me and wails, “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
“Tell me,” I say. “Work with me.”
She clams up.
Frustration wells in my gut. I thought this change in tactics would make her talkative, but there’s a limit to her loquacity.
“Think about Miranda for once. She needs your loyalty, not the Moirai.”
I wheel Rosalind away, making a mental note to get in touch with her boss. We might be able to use the hostages to our advantage.
Rosalind’s shoulders shake with silent sobs, confirming part of my message is soaking through her thick skull. I’ll leave her to stew for a few hours and ask her specific questions about the Moirai.
In the meantime, I’ll text Miranda and check that she’s settled back to school.
FIFTY-ONE
ROSALIND
I don’t know what kind of game Cesare thinks he’s playing, but he wants me to sell out my colleagues.
He’s changed the dressing on my bullet wound, given me food, water, and a blanket, followed by a shoulder massage. The Cesare I know would rant about me shooting him in the chest, accuse me of masterminding the attempt on his brother’s life, and escalate the torture.
I once said he was evolving, but this is ridiculous.
His fingers feel like heaven across my touch-starved body, and I’m melting under his ministrations.
That’s how I know at least one part of me is slipping into Stockholm syndrome. After resisting him for so long, I’m beginning to rely on this wretched bastard for external stimulation.
Cesare’s presence is pulling me out of the prison of my mind.
He threads his fingers through my hair, infusing my scalp with explosions of pleasure. “Feeling better, pet?”