Page 39 of Chasing Eternity
“Ignore it,” I plead, desperately trying to pull him back to me and reclaim the moment when we were so frustratingly close.
“Would if I could,” he mutters, a weighted note of regret in his tone. With a reluctant sigh, he rolls away as the ding sounds once more, an insistent electronic chorus that refuses to be silenced.
As he reaches for the slab on my nightstand, I sink back against the headboard, my gaze tracing the contours of his form, pausing on the stark white strip of bandages that mark the back of his head and the side of his neck.
A swell of guilt and shame surges within me, tightening its iron grip around my heart. Those bandages serve as a glaring reminder of a suffering I’m responsible for, and I still can’t believe how misguided I was to be swayed by Killian’s lies over Braxton’s truths.
“What does he want?” I ask, voice heavy with apprehension, already dreading the answer.
Braxton, his expression fraught with tension, hands me the slab. With a deep breath, I brace myself as I read Arthur’s inspirational quote of the day. The selection sends a cold wave of foreboding rippling through me:
He who controls the past controls the future.
He who controls the present controls the past.
– George Orwell,1984
The words linger in the air, heavy with implication. Arthur’s choice of Orwell’s quote—a novel depicting a world of absolute totalitarian control, where even thoughts aren’t free—feels like a veiled warning. A not-so-subtle hint that he knows far more than he’s letting on. His awareness of our actions, perhaps even our intentions, looms over us like a silent observer lurking in the background.
“Anything else?” I ask, returning the slab.
Braxton shakes his head and places the tablet back on the nightstand. “Just that,” he says, his voice grim.
I let out a slow breath, determined to steady myself. “What are we going to do?” I ask, my voice edged with worry. Arthur’s omnipresence in our lives feels like a shackle, binding us to a reality we both long to escape. I have no idea of how we’ll ever manage to stop him, much less break free.
Braxton looks at me, his eyes reflecting an uncertainty that mirrors my own. “We’ll figure it out,” he says firmly. “Together.”
This time, when he reaches for me, I fold into his arms, seeking his comfort. He kisses me again, starting at my forehead and working his way down. When his mouth finds mine, I start to slide down the bed, taking him with me, when my phone begins to ring.
“Noooo!” I fling my head back against the pillows. “What now? What could he possibly—”
The ring sounds again, seemingly louder this time. Braxton reaches over, lifts the receiver from the cradle, and hands it to me.
Arthur’s voice barks in my ear, “Natasha. Good, you’re there. I’ve had breakfast sent to your room. Meet me in my office as soon as you’re finished. There will be an escort waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.”
No sooner does the call end than a knock sounds at the door, and a male voice calls out, “Natasha Antoinette Clarke, your breakfast is here.”
18
I stand outside the door of Arthur’s office, the cool, hard metal of the Moon pressing into my palm, while a mix of cappuccino, fresh organic berries, and almond croissants churn uneasily in my belly.
Give him this, but don’t offer up anything else,Braxton had said, handing over the Moon I’d left hidden for him.Let Arthur take the lead. He’ll probably try to trap you into revealing something, but don’t let him. Do whatever it takes to stay one step ahead of his game.
I take a steadying breath, trying to stifle the knot of apprehension wedging high in my throat, as I muster the courage to knock. But just as I lift a hand, the electronic click sounds, the door springs open, and Killian steps out just as I step in.
My jaw drops, my eyes widen, and I freeze in my tracks, totally and completely stunned.
Killian.
Killian Fucking de Luce is standing directly before me.
Last time I saw him was in Renaissance Italy, where Braxton and I purposely left him behind with no clicker and no immediate way to return. While I figured he’d eventually find his way back, I certainly wasn’t expecting him to do so this quickly. I thought for sure I had more time before I’d be forced to face him.
Killian remains rooted in place, his towering, nearly six-foot frame easily overshadowing mine. The muscles in his arms visibly flex as he lazily sweeps a hand through his tumble of sunshine blond curls. Those lips—the same full lips that once pressed against mine, devouring me in a kiss—now pinch into a faint, knowing smirk.
On the surface, he’s as resplendent as the first night we met at the Yew Ball in 1745 Versailles. Yet after all that’s unfolded since then, I’ve come to see his natural good looks and charm as nothing more than a flimsy facade, masking a deep-seated bent toward deceit.
This slick, golden boy with his superficial allure murdered my father. And despite my dad warning me against seeking revenge, or even going back in time to reverse that tragic event, I’ve never been more determined to make Killian de Luce pay for his actions.