I study Liam’s hunched back. The man is the epitome of sophistication and class, but right now he’s sunken in on himself. For some terribly confusing reason, I want to be the one to lift him up. But he won’t let me.
Igrab the bag off the floor and stomp to his room. Liam had some necessities ordered for me, and I’m praying it includes sweatpants. I drop the bag on the bed and open it. Right on top sits a black lacy bra, and it’s… in my exact size. Nope. Not thinking about that. I keep digging through the excessive number of undergarments until I find what I’m looking for: pajamas.
I sigh with relief at the lavender silk and pull it out.
Wait, where’s the rest of it? He really thinks I’ll wear this tiny tank top and shorts? In his dreams.
I go to the dresser, taking my time destroying every neatly folded article of clothing until I find a T-shirt and sweats I approve of. Even his T-shirts are classy and boring, all except one. It’s a rough drawing of Van Gogh with the caption ‘Gogh for it’.
I smile to myself as I pull on the T-shirt.
Then I head to the kitchen and make myself a peanut butter sandwich.
Liam never moves from his spot. I could leave and he wouldn’t notice. I don’t think he would care, either. Ever since he found that ransom note, he’s been different. Like he doesn’t want me here. And apparently, I’ve suffered a brain trauma. I want to be wanted. Want to be useful.
I should leave, but for reasons I can’t explain—to him or myself—I can’t. I have to help his grandfather.
According to Liam’s file, his grandfather was the one who gave him his inheritance.
But he also gave him the love he wanted and never got from his parents. My heart thumps loudly and painfully in my chest. I had no parents. Only a grandmother who was forced to raise me until eventually, even she gave up. I wished I’d had his grandfather.
I rub my temples, my head beginning to throb. My job requires me to make sacrifices to save lives and sometimes the rules get blurry. I won’t let his grandfather die if I can do something about it. I’m sure that once I’ve explained it, Agent Ford will understand.
Liam’s computer is still connected to the projector, and as the images fly over the screen, I gather that he’s studying the Lang palace. He switches throughimages so fast I can barely keep up, but from the looks of things, he’s making a map. That or hacking into their security cameras. Probably both.
His eyes find my chest, and his scowl deepens. “I didn’t say you could wear that.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t.”
“I bought you pajamas.”
I shrug, a hint of my smile pulling at my lips. “I figured we could trade.”
His brow flicks up, but he doesn’t take the bait. It’s mildly disappointing.
No, it’s not. It’s simply unfamiliar territory for him to not be obnoxiously flirtatious.
Because it was all an act. Part of his con. Do I even know the man behind the con? I thought I was starting to, but now I’m not sure.
I sigh, my confusing thoughts only making my head pound harder. I’m not giving up so easily. I settle into the sofa, and as he makes his plan, I make mine. After all, I’ll be there as well, ready to hand Liam off to the authorities after he returns the ring to the Winthrops. Except… I can’t hand him off before he gets his grandfather back. The lines have now officially become blurred.
I rub my eyes, the pain in my head too much for me to think. Tomorrow I’ll have answers. I stand, stretch my neck, and head to Liam’s room. With the crazed way he’s working, I don’t anticipate him sleeping tonight, so I forgo the pillow barrier and lie down.
I don’t know if it’s the time difference, getting drugged repeatedly, or the running for my life, but I’ve never slept as well as I have here. I complete my gun routine then tuck it under my pillow and fall right to sleep.
A sound jerks me awake, and I shoot out of bed. I have my gun in my hand, but it’s too dark and I’m too dazed to know where to aim it. There’s a grunt, but I can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from.
Another sound then a curse. I search the dark. “Liam?”
He curses again before clapping on the lights. The light provides me with a picture of him I’ve never witnessed before. His hair is a mess, his eyes wild, breathing hard, shirt untucked and stumbling. Is he… drunk?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, dropping to his knees by the nightstand and pulling open the only drawer. He shoves both hands inside, throwing, things around. “Where is it?”
“What?”
“Pills. I can’t find my pills.” He tugs at his shirt, his breathing coming faster and faster.
He’s having an anxiety attack.
