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No, it’s worse actually—I’m allowing myself to forget them completely.

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I even thought about Pa. He would have expected me yesterday. He’ll be expecting me today.

And when I don’t show, he’ll be worried sick.

I’ve disappeared on him, with no warning and no explanation. I have no idea of what he’s going through or what Tristan may or may not have told him.

A part of me is nervous of what my husband might do.

He’s threatened Pa before, but I’ve long suspected that’s simply a ploy to force me into submission.

It’s worked so far. And perhaps this is my way of calling his bluff.

But the fact that I’m gambling on my father’s life twists my stomach so bad I feel like I’m developing acid reflux.

“You okay, dear?” Fiona asks, interrupting the dark bend of my thoughts.

“Yes,” I reply, forcing a smile onto my face. “That was an amazing breakfast, thank you. But I think I need to walk it off now.”

“Enjoy the grounds,” Fiona tells me. “I’m going to start lunch.”

“Lunch? Already?”

“Of course. I’ve got to stuff Master Cillian full of all the food he’s missed while he was away.”

I smile, touched by the amount of affection in her tone when she speaks about Cillian.

I give her a parting wave and leave the kitchen. The plan is to head down to the gardens, but I’m still curious about the house.

I feel like a kid in a candy store. Everywhere I look is something worth touching, worth investigating closer.

I peruse flower arrangements, so fresh that dew still clings to the petals.

I meander down hallways with stern old portraits of old men who share little features with Cillian. One has his nose, another his hair.

None of them have his smile, of course.

That’s Cillian’s alone.

At the far end of one corridor, half-hidden behind a fiddle leaf fig, I spy a large, studded door. It’s curiously unadorned. I can’t help but walk over and push it open so that I can peek inside.

“Whoa,” I breathe.

The room is at least two stories tall and lined top to bottom with shelves, all brimming with books.

All except one.

The shelf directly across from the entrance bears neat rows of video cassettes, the kind I haven’t seen in years. Curiosity piqued, I walk over and skim my eyes across it.

Dates are scribbled in a tiny print along the spines of the tapes. They go back decades. I run a finger across them. It comes up dusty.

No one has touched these in a long time.

Something stirs in my gut. Guilt, maybe. Like I’m intruding on something I shouldn’t be. But my curiosity wins out.

I notice a TV set in the wall in the far corner. Beneath it are drawers.

Acting on a hunch, I pluck one of the tapes from the shelf and go over to the television. The drawer opens up on silent wheels, and sure enough, it reveals an organized array of equipment—DVD players and sound bars and whatnot.


Tags: Nicole Fox Kovalyov Bratva Erotic