Page 63 of Caging Liberty

Lib slouches, but I can tell she’s trying not to look affected by what I’m telling her.

“And … you killed her?”

I’m quiet for several seconds, searching for words that can adequately describe what happened. But there’s no version where I’m innocent. I know that. It doesn’t make a difference for Beth if I feel badly or not. She’s still dead.

“Yes,” I finally answer. Lib flinches, and I almost do too. My voice is too cold. It’s like my mind won’t allow me to show the utter weakness I feel inside. “It wasn’t by my hand, but I drove her to commit suicide. We weren’t a good match, and we both knew it. I should’ve realized how unhappy she was, but I didn’t, and one night we were arguing by a cliff. I ended up storming away, and when I came back a half hour later, she’d already jumped.”

I don’t mention how I found Beth's body caught on a rock, mangled and bloody. By the time I could get to her, the tide had pulled her body into the ocean, and she was found days later by some people on a yacht. It’s a night that’ll haunt me for the rest of my life, and the worst part is, that was history merely repeating itself. Beth isn’t the only person whose life I’ve destroyed, and hers isn’t the only mangled body that haunts me. That’s a longer list.

“Most of the inhabitants assumed I pushed her off the cliff, and a couple of the manor whores even claimed they saw it happen. I never disputed it. Suicide or not, I’m the reason she died.” My tone hitches, but it’s nearly imperceptible. I sound firm and unapologetic, like I’m simply taking responsibility for a misfortune. What an asshole.

“And that’s why you aren’t allowed to have your own slave.”

Not a question, but a statement.

“Yes. It’s an island rule, but more than that, it’s mine.” I look across the room at a useless shelf, holding nothing but decorative shit meant to take up space. “I don’t trust myself with that kind of responsibility.”

“And yet,” Lib sounds cautious, choosing her words carefully, “You expect me to trust you with my life.”

Fair point.

“Unfortunately for you, I’m all you have.”

Lib chews on her lip while she digests that. After an excruciating amount of time, she speaks. “I’m really tired. Would it be all right with you if I went to bed?”

“Of course,” I say. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs. Second door on the left.”

She gets up and heads upstairs without looking at me or saying anything. I don’t blame her.

I pick up my glass and watch her go. Once she’s out of sight, I pour the whiskey down my throat and stand to get more.

It’s going to be a long night.

17

Lib

Ikeep my eyes trained on Angel’s kitchen table but can feel Sawyer’s stare burning into me. His skepticism is so potent, it’s like there’s a cloud of tension hanging over the room that coils my muscles until I feel like my back’s about to snap.

Angel stands a few feet away from me, his arms crossed casually over his tan, bare chest as he leans against a counter. Sawyer stands at the opposite end of the table, staring down on me like a deity. Neither man sits out of fear of losing the high ground.

“I don’t believe you,” Sawyer says at last. I’ve been waiting on him to speak for a solid minute, but it could just as easily have been five hours.

Angel didn’t prepare me for this, and I wish he would’ve. I wish I knew the right words to say to Sawyer instead of just, “I’m sorry,” or, “I promise I’ll behave.” I’ve exhausted those at this point. Meanwhile, Angel just stands watching us, saying nothing. I don’t know what exactly I expected him to do, but I’d hoped he’d do at least some of the talking.

I take a shaky breath. “I understand.” My eyes finally lift to meet Sawyer’s. “I probably wouldn’t believe me either. Butplease, give me one more chance.”

Sawyer’s head tilts. “Why would I do that?”

I glance at Angel, but his expression remains impassive. I try to implore him with my eyes, and he either doesn’t get my message or doesn’t care.

My eyes find Sawyer again. “Because Angel wants you to. I get that what I want probably doesn’t matter to you at this point, but—”

“Angel?” A muscle jumps in Sawyer’s cheek, and his eyes bulge. Despite saying his name, he isn’t speaking to Angel. He’s speaking to me.

I shrink away from the sheer contempt in Sawyer’s glare, and again look to Angel for help.

He clears his throat. “I’m still Mr. A to you, Ivy. You aren’t allowed to use the first names of island inhabitants living outside the manor.”