Chapter 8 8

The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:00 AM.

Arnulfo was asleep. His breathing was deep and rhythmic. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Erline slid out from under the duvet. She moved like a ghost. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet.

She crept toward the bedroom door. Her target was the study down the hall.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice stopped her heart.

She spun around.

Arnulfo wasn't asleep. He was propped up on one elbow, watching her. His chest was bare, muscles defined in the moonlight.

"The bathroom is that way," he said, pointing to the ensuite.

Erline froze. She pointed to the door, then mimed drinking water.

Arnulfo threw the covers off. He wore only silk pajama bottoms. He walked toward her.

"The kitchen is closed. And there is water on the nightstand."

He stepped into her personal space. "You weren't going for water. You were going to the study. Or the front door."

Erline backed up. She hit the antique dresser.

Arnulfo reached for her shoulder. "Stop moving."

Instinct took over. The memory of being grabbed in the dark. Erline panicked. She grabbed the heavy brass lamp on the dresser and swung it.

CRASH.

The base of the lamp connected with Arnulfo's forearm as he blocked the blow. The metal gouged his skin. Blood welled up instantly.

Arnulfo hissed. His eyes went black with rage.

He lunged. His hand wrapped around her throat. He slammed her back against the dresser.

"You dare touch me?" he snarled.

His grip tightened. Erline clawed at his wrist, her legs kicking uselessly. She couldn't breathe. Black spots danced in her vision.

She looked at him. She didn't look angry. She looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, pleading, filled with the resignation of someone who expects to die.

It was the look of a prey animal.

Arnulfo saw it. It pierced through his anger. This wasn't the look of an assassin or a spy. It was the look of a victim. He felt a flicker of something other than rage-a cold, possessive curiosity. This broken thing was far more interesting than the vapid socialite he'd been expecting.

He let go.

Erline slid down the front of the dresser, gasping, coughing violently. She rubbed her throat.

Arnulfo looked at his bleeding arm. Then he looked at the red marks forming on her neck. His fingerprints.

He turned and walked into the bathroom.

Erline curled into a ball, waiting for him to come back with a weapon.

He returned with a wet towel and the first aid kit.

He crouched in front of her. He grabbed her hand, pulling it away from her neck.

"Let me see."

She flinched.

"Stop it," he ordered.

He dabbed the cool towel against her neck. His touch was rough, but precise. He applied a soothing gel to the red marks. He wasn't being gentle; he was documenting the damage, his mind cataloging the fragility of his new acquisition.

"I don't like disobedience," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But I don't kill pets."

He finished with her neck. Then he wiped the blood from his own arm, wincing slightly.

"Remember how this feels," he said, looking her in the eye. "Next time you try to leave this room at night, I won't stop squeezing."

He stood up and scooped her into his arms. She was light.

He carried her back to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress.

"Sleep," he commanded. "Beside me. If you move, I'll know."

He lay down and pulled the duvet up.

Erline lay rigid next to the monster, listening to his heart slow down, wondering if she would survive the night.