Page 200 of Breaking Rosalind
Shit.
“Let me get you something,” I say, readying myself to jump out of bed.
Her limbs tighten around me with a punishing grip. “You’re not going anywhere.”
I exhale a low groan, frustrated that she won’t let me help, but grateful that she still wants me close. This is exactly what I wanted. Rosalind wrapped around my little finger, craving my touch. I wanted her to be my perfect plaything, my deadly little pet.
The reminder that I’m one of a list of men who have manipulated her makes my insides churn with a concoction of jealousy and remorse. I want to kill them all for causing her pain. I want to erase every harmful memory and replace them with the three of us as a little family.
“Alright, love,” I tell her. “I’ll stay.”
“I can handle a few cramps, but I’m sick of being threatened or taken or tortured,” she says, her voice shattering.
My stomach lurches, and I ready myself to restrain her wrists if it turns into a violent outburst. I deserve all her anger, but not until we’ve dealt with the Galliano brothers and the Moirai.
“I hear you, love,” I murmur, my fingers still twisting through her silken strands. “If you need to work through your anger, we can talk about it, or I can take you back to the dungeons to confront that bastard.”
Instead of lashing out or even pushing me away, she relaxes into my embrace and exhales a sigh.
“Rosalind?” I lean down and kiss her forehead, finding that she’s fallen asleep.
The sight of her slumbering so peacefully in my arms fills my heart with a mix of desire and dismay. Despite all the harm I caused her, she still trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms
Deep down, I know none of this is real.
Rosalind and I both understand it’s just a by-product of her captivity and a manifestation of Stockholm syndrome. It’s like being addicted to drugs and wanting one last hit before going cold turkey.
Losing her is inevitable, and I no longer have the heart to force her to stay. She’s no longer the sexy little assassin I wanted to make my toy, but a broken woman with a tragic past.
And a mother.
I reach for the phone I left on the bedside table and send a text to the Chief Stewardess with a list of items Rosalind will need for her cramps. Then I scroll down my list of contacts and send a text to Miranda, who should have a free period after lunch.
She answers in seconds with emojis that makes me smile. We exchange several messages about her classes, new friends, and an upcoming trip to one of Helsing Island’s nature reserves.
After obtaining a list of Rosalind’s favorite restaurants and dishes from Miranda, I ask her to record a video wishing Rosalind a speedy recovery.
I forward Miranda’s suggestions to the stewardess and spend the rest of the afternoon watching Rosalind sleep. It’s a little pocket of peace we can both enjoy before returning to the chaos of the outside world.
EIGHTY
ROSALIND
When I wake up again, the cabin is much darker, with no traces of sunlight streaming through the blinds. Cesare hands me my phone, where there’s the sweetest message from Miranda, telling me to feel better soon.
I lie on my back playing it over and over, my eyes filling with happy tears and my heart swelling with love. Cesare gazes down at me with a soft smile.
“Did you ask her to record this?” I croak.
He raises a shoulder. “I asked her for ideas on what you like to eat, and she dragged the information out of me about your cramps.”
I’m almost certain it’s a lie, but I don’t push. Cesare has single-handedly built a connection between my daughter and me, something I struggled to manage in a decade. Thanks to him, she sees me as someone worthy of love.
“How are the cramps?” he asks.
“Duller,” I reply with a smile.
His gaze travels down my bare chest to the sheets puddled around my middle. “I hoped the heating pad would make a difference. The stewardess brought a range of painkillers, but you should also take magnesium.”