The guard advances, probably to make good on his promise, when a leggy blonde breezes past me. She smells of an exotic perfume and looks to be straight off of a fashion runway with her low-cut dress, hourglass shape, and red lips.
Upon seeing her, the guard abandons his plan to dismantle me and opens the side gate for her.
“Where did you guys put Jeremy?” she asks in an American accent.
She’s here for Jeremy, too.
But unlike me, she obviously has access, because the guard’s tone changes to one of respect as he speaks, “Please go inside and they’ll direct you to where he rests, miss.”
She stops at the threshold and throws a glance at me. “And she is?”
“Miss Annika’s friend,” the guard replies.
Her look becomes one of distaste. “That midget always took pity on stray animals.”
“If you have something to tell me, say it out loud.” I speak calmly, clearly, despite the shaking in my insides or the cancerous thoughts plaguing my mind.
“Get the stray animal off the property,” she orders the guard, then storms inside.
When he steps forward, I back off. I don’t leave, though.
“If you’ll just let me know how Jeremy is doing, I’ll go.”
He lifts his gun, but another man appears behind him and taps his shoulder.
The newcomer looks no older than a student. He has white-blond hair, a square face, and a calm expression. And he looks familiar somehow.
Upon his tap, the guard at the front makes way for him.
“My name is Ilya and I’m Jeremy’s senior guard,” the blond tells me, and it’s then I notice that his clothes are full of soot.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “Is Jeremy okay?”
“No. He inhaled too much smoke and hurt his side during the escape attempt. He’s currently recuperating.”
My chest quakes and I physically jerk backward.
Oh, God.
What have I done?
16
JEREMY
“Who did you say came here?” I pause in the middle of the jog to stare at my running partner, Ilya.
Nikolai was with us when we took off from the house, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he got bored and decided to sleep under a tree.
He didn’t need to come along in the first place, but he’s been acting worse than my mother since the fire last night.
Granted, I almost died, but I didn’t. Despite having a closet fall across my middle, I got out of the incident with a few scratches, a gash on my stomach, and lacerations.
The doctor said I should recuperate, so jogging is the last thing I ought to be doing, but fuck that noise.
I need to purge the energy that’s been tearing me open worse than the injuries.
The wound burns, and the pain spreads all over my skin and splashes the ticking sound in my brain.