“Well? Who the fuck took her?” I demand.
Harrison signals for the men to leave. He then hands me the pile of photos and says, “No one. She escaped on her own.” He takes a deep breath. “She took the opportunity the fire gave her and ran. She literally walked out the front door.”
I look down at the black-and-white images of Lyriope with a bag flung over her shoulder and another in her hand. I actually have to blink and refocus on the pictures several times as it doesn’t seem real to be seeing what I do. No one is with her. She’s not at gunpoint. In fact, in some of the pictures, she’s looking over her shoulder in the dock’s direction, afraid to be found.
She wanted to leave.
She left my mansion on her own free will.
Why the fuck would she leave? I thought she was… comfortable. Content… maybe even happy.
Where would she go? Back to her beat-up car? Back to being homeless and in danger? Back to being the bastard Morelli that no one wants? Back to the way things were before… before… me?
Ignoring the punch to the gut, I snarl, “Find her.”
Harrison is already on his phone texting and nodding as he does. “She couldn’t have gone far.”
I have her old phone, her car keys, her purse with her ID. Even if she left, it’s not like she could make it on her own for long without some crucial items.
“There’s no place for her to run to other than to her brother or cousin.” I pick up my own phone and call my man who’s in charge of babysitting Dylan. As the phone rings, I order Harrison, “Start with Sasha. My guess is Lyriope is with her.”
When the phone picks up, I simply say, “Is Dylan with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has he had any recent contact with his sister?”
A slight pause. “No, sir. None. We’ve been keeping him really busy and—”
“Good. No contact with his sister is allowed. Notify me if she attempts to. Watch his every move.”
I then hang up the phone and begin pacing the room again.
Harrison slides his phone into his pocket. “I’ve got our men on this. I also told Martha to do some digging on who started the fire. We still have to get to the bottom of that too.” He begins to leave the room, but before he does, he adds, “I’m going to go find Sasha Morelli. I agree with you. She’s the most likely one to know where Lyriope is.”
I leave my room as well and march to Lyriope’s. I open the door, hating the fact that she won’t be on the other side. As I enter the room, I stop and inhale. I can smell her. I can nearly feel her in this space. I glance at the floral painting she was working on in the corner of the room. She’s good… really good. Too bad she doesn’t know that herself.
I take in her bed next. It’s made to perfection as only my staff can do—not a single wrinkle in the bedspread. I try to block out the reason why her bed is made. It’s because she was sleeping with me. She was wrapped in my arms lovingly. Her body heat pressed to mine, making me weak. Weak. She made me fucking weak and trusting.
Fury fills me as I storm to her closet to see that she indeed had packed some clothing. Was this calculated? Had she planned this all along? Was her goal to get me in bed, lower my guard, and then take off the first chance she had? Was it all a game? Was our connection nothing but… a scam? Was I the fool in her game?
Sweet, innocent, naive girl taking on the big bad wolf. But in this case… she was the wolf. So cunning. So—
I run my fingers through my hair, feeling dirt coat beneath my nails as I do. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How could I have read her so wrong?
I need to focus. I need to get my head back in the game.
Yes, the game. It’s just one fucked-up game. Lyriope has been playing a game from day one, and right now she’s winning, and I am losing. I’m losing my ass right now, and it’s time to shuffle the deck.
My chaotic thoughts go from longing, missing, wanting, to deadly obsession.
This isn’t how I act. I’m not a man in love. Fuck that. I’m a man who has a hunger, a craze, a maddening desire to possess. Nothing more.
Nothing.
More.
I storm to my bathroom to shower. I might feel like everything is out of control, but the first step is appearing as if all is standard operating practice. A shower. A suit. A shave. A fucked-up, maniacal smile on my face in warning for all to tread lightly around me. And a bag of ice for my knee. I pushed it too far fighting the flames myself and running down there without my cane. I can already feel the swelling as it throbs beneath my filthy pants.
As I wash off all signs of the awful night, I focus on one thing. Laser focus. Deadly focus. The kind of focus that latches on like a viper, refusing to let go. I’ll find Lyriope. And when I do… she’ll pay.