Page 46 of Connor's Claim
Except in taking Riordan’s blood, I wouldn’t be anywhere near so gentle.
Chapter 17
Everly
My phone’s obnoxious ringing yanked me from a heavy sleep. I scrabbled to grab it up from beside the bed, my mind’s comfortable haziness fading with the realisation of exactly who was on the line.
Only my father had that tone assigned.
One that hit my nerves like nails down a blackboard.
“Good morning,” I answered.
“Everly. Where are you? You haven’t replied to my message.”
I paged through to the relevant text thread. I’d sent six messages over the past few days, updating him on the break-in and repairs, and heard nothing back. His message from this morning lurked at the top.
Father: Are all the arrangements made for Piers’ stay?
I wanted to gripe that he’d sent that just five minutes ago but held my tongue. Connor had filled me in on the rest ofthe voicemail he’d overheard at my home, so I’d ensured the housekeeper had made up one of the guest rooms. It was telling that Father had asked twice, though. “Everything’s in hand.”
“Good. We’ll be back around seven and will pick you up at the house. Dress for a formal dinner. Don’t embarrass me.”
I struggled upright, the uncovered arched window giving me the view of dawn battling heavy clouds. Not a gorgeous display this time, but murky, and with rain falling.
“At a restaurant, or is it a formal event?” I asked. The two would have different outfit choices.
“The Mill.”
I nodded, not that he could see me, and mentally sorted my wardrobe for what I might wear to the fanciest restaurant in Deadwater where people went to be seen. A muted jewel tone, maybe a deep purple. I had a favourite velvet maxi dress with long sleeves, a conservative neckline, and a thigh slit that always boosted my confidence. It wasn’t too tight, so sitting for a long time wouldn’t be a trial.
Dinners at The Mill were usually tasting courses—hours spent over very rich, very well-designed, very small meals. I didn’t love eating in public, so pushing around endless tiny bites wasn’t my favourite. None of these thoughts would leave my lips.
“Thank you,” I said.
The call disconnected. My father had hung up. I exhaled and rolled out of bed. Then I stilled, and a rush of memories flooded me. My request of Connor. The room down the hall. The fact that a quick sense check of my body felt…normal.
Not sore. Not touched.
Unused.
I sank back down on the mattress. Disappointment had been my father’s worry, but I owned that shame. I’d offered myself, and Connor had turned me down.
Even unconscious.
My gaze snagged on a piece of paper on the side table. With a heavy heart, I collected it and read the word. A single one which left no confusion over Connor’s mind.
LEAVE.
I packed,a numbness settling over me. A code print-written on the back of the note—four-three-seven-seven—called the lift for me, and waiting at the bottom was Mick. I peered past him.
“Is Connor around? I’d like to say goodbye.”
He clasped his hands in front of him. “’Fraid he’s out. I’ll take you to work.”
I didn’t have it in me to object.
In my Town Hall office, I went about my normal day. I organised meetings. Sent emails. Checked my phone, starting then deleting a message to Connor several times. Genevieve sent me her brother’s number, at his request. I saved it but couldn’t think of a message to send him.