Worse than that, I’ve made him lookhandsome, with those dark eyes and the way his mouth curves just slightly when he’s fighting that almost-smile.
“No,” I tell the sketch firmly, my irritation spiking. “Absolutely not.”
Before I can think better of it, I grab the pencil and scribble devil horns on his head in quick, aggressive strokes.
Then a ridiculous curly mustache across his upper lip, like the kind a cartoon villain would have.
There. That’s better.
“Fuck you,” I spit to the Leo drawing before I flip the sketchpad closed with more force than necessary and shove it to the far corner of the desk where I won’t have to look at it.
“This is your fault,” I inform the closed sketchbook, presumably addressing Leo even though he’s not here. “If you’d given me better books, I wouldn’t have resorted to drawing your stupid face.”
My stomach growls and I can’t ignore the hunger any longer.
The dinner tray is sitting on the coffee table where the guards left it an hour ago.
I inspect the food sitting under the warming tray.
It’s some type of pasta dish that actually looks pretty good and a side salad and bread that’s probably homemade because everything in this prison has been unnecessarily high quality.
I should eat.
I know I should eat but part of me still wants to fight and refuse everything they give me on principle.
“But you also don’t want them shoving a tube down your throat,” I remind myself as I sit down and pull the tray closer to me, loathing that my mouth is watering. “So maybe pick your battles better, Em.”
I’m halfway through the pasta when I decide I can’t stare at nothing anymore without screaming.
I grab the copy ofWuthering Heightsbecause at least it’s about people being terrible to each other, which feels appropriate for my current situation.
I settle onto the bed with the book and a glass of water, propping pillows behind my back to get comfortable.
The first chapter is slow but I push through, determined to have something to occupy my mind besides the endless loop of fear and anger that’s been consuming me for three days.
I’m maybe thirty pages in, and just starting to get invested in the story, when I hear the first explosion.
It’s distant but unmistakable—a sharp, violent crack that rattles the windows and makes my heart stop.
For a second I think I imagined it, but then the alarms start blaring throughout the estate, loud and urgent.
I drop the book and jump up from the bed, my heart suddenly racing so fast I can feel it in my throat.
Another explosion, closer this time, then the unmistakable sound of gunfire.
Oh my god.
I run to the window and press my face against the glass, trying to see what’s happening.
Outside, the carefully manicured gardens are lit up with floodlights, and I can see movement near the perimeter walls.
There’s dark figures running, the flash of muzzle fire, and guards shouting and taking positions.
Myfather.
It has to be my father. He’s come for me.
“Dad!” I scream, even though there’s no way he can hear me through the glass and over the sound of alarms and gunfire. “Dad, I’m here! I’m up here!”