Uncovering You 9: Liberation (12 page)

“Lilly, no!” Jeremy barks. He steps in my path and blocks me. I struggle against his grip. I have to help. Rose doesn’t have the strength to break up the fight. I have to stop them before they kill each other.

I squirm free, duck under Jeremy’s arm, and rush toward the fight. I reach the men, and have my arms around Charles, helping Rose pry him off Hugh, when Jeremy’s hand grips my wrist.

“I said, no!” he yells, and with absolutely no effort, jerks me away.

I stumble and fall. Rose’s hysterical screams fill the air, mixing with the grunts and curses from the fight. I glare at Jeremy, who’s now looming above me, dark and angry and full of rage. He turns his back on his father and Charles. All his attention is on me.

Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I don’t even consider what I do next. I just act on instinct.

I surge up, ignoring Jeremy completely, and run once more toward the fight.

This time, I don’t even get a warning. Jeremy’s full-arm slap absolutely blindsides me.

I crumble to the floor. Pain stars filling my vision.

“Do you see what you made me do?” he roars. “Do you see, Lilly? Do you? Do you?”

I cry out as he jerks me to my feet with a fist in my hair. “Get up!” he yells.

I struggle against him, crying out, trying to break away.

He turns my head to the fight. “Watch!” he snarls. Sharp pain radiates down my neck from his grip. “See what happens to the people who disrespect me!”

It’s sheer madness in the dining room. Broken dishes litter the floor. Rose keeps screaming, trying to break them up. Jeremy just holds me tighter. Charles and Hugh are pummeling each other on the ground. I would have never expected Hugh to put up such a fight. But the man is deceptively strong.

All of a sudden a stray elbow catches Rose in the nose. She lets out the most horrifying cry of pain I’ve ever heard and collapses.

“No!” I cry. Blood is running down her face and right through her fingertips as she cradles her face. Jeremy, as surprised by it as I am, relaxes his grip a little.

It’s enough. I twist my head back and drive my teeth into his flesh, hard as I can. He yelps in surprise and lets me go. I run to Rose.

I don’t even get a quarter of the way there before Jeremy catches me by the arm. In a spike of pure anger, I whip around, form a fist, and direct it at his face.

He sees it coming. And before the punch lands, he hurls me against one of the walls.

My shoulder collides with it hard. I feel and hear a
crack
, somewhere in my arm. It’s accompanied by the most sickening feeling of pain I’ve ever known. And the sound? The sound is the worst. It’s like a twig snapping, only it comes from within me.

And I know, in that moment, that he’s broken my arm.

The pain? The insanity? The fear? It’s too much. The last thing I see before my eyes roll to the back of my head is Jeremy Stonehart, stalking toward me like a lion toward wounded prey.

I pass out.

Chapter Thirteen

When I come to, there’s not a single part of me that doesn’t hurt. My arm is the worst.

The pain instantly brings me back to the madness in the dining room.

I close my eyes, almost wishing for the ease of death, for an escape from this nightmare.

Jeremy? He’s dead to me. There is no Jeremy anymore. There is only Stonehart.

That is how it should have always been. I was a fool for believing otherwise.

I hate him. With every single fiber of my being, I hate Jeremy Stonehart. There is no confusion about that anymore. There is no blurring of the lines, no philosophical transfusion of hate into love. Never again will I be so weak as to think otherwise. Never again will I wish for things to be different.

And if even the barest
hint
of love comes up in my conscious, I will barricade myself from it. I will block it. I will deny it. I will fight it with every ounce of willpower I possess.

I cannot love a man who treats me so. I cannot be in love with an egotistical maniac.

I look around the room. Where am I? This looks like any other room on the first floor of Jeremy’s mansion. But the furniture, the layout? It’s just a bit off. Slightly unfamiliar.

It’s like I’ve never been here before. Or have been here, but just forgotten. There’s something about this room—this particular one, and none other—that makes me feel queasy.

Of course, that could have everything to do with my current physical state.

I push myself up, gritting my teeth through the pain. I look down. My left arm’s in a cast. It’s slung around my neck for support.

I roll one shoulder, recognizing the source of my discomfort. The sling put pressure on my neck in a manner reminiscent of the collar. Subconsciously, maybe that’s what I fear the most: Not Jeremy’s return to Stonehart, but the collar’s return to my neck.

I don’t know what I would do if I ever found it back. Suicide would not seem like such a bad way out.

I freeze on that thought. My chest constricts. It becomes difficult to breathe. My back is covered in a thin layer of clammy sweat.

Suicide? Hell no. That’s the coward’s way out. It shouldn’t even be on the radar.

And yet…and yet, there it was: a tiny blip in the distance, like a cloaked ship in enemy waters. It’s gone now.

Or maybe it’s simply been hidden.

Either way—fuck. Either way I have to be on the watch out for it, should it reappear. I’m not so far gone or lost yet. I’ve not given up. Not yet.

That’s when I feel a presence somewhere behind me.

Slowly now, regally, I turn both shoulders to face whoever’s here.

It’s Jeremy, of course.

No—fuck!
I curse myself.
It’s Stonehart, dammit, and I can’t slip back into calling him by his first name.

Stonehart is there, watching me from a darkened corner, cocktail in one hand. Only his eyes are truly visible. They reflect the dim light. That reflection lets me know he is watching. The remainder of his body is cloaked in shadows.

“You’re up,” he says simply. No emotion enters his voice.

He brings his glass to his lips and takes a long sip.

“How long have you been there? How long was I out?”

“Long,” he says. One more sip. “But not long enough.”

He drains the glass, brings it down to his side, and then lets it slip through his fingers.

It hits the floor with a startling crash.

I gasp in surprise. My heart is racing. The only other sound I hear is the man’s slow, heavy breathing.

“Where are we?” I ask.

Stonehart laughs. “You don’t recognize this place?”

I cast a quick look out through the window, and see now why everything seems off: All the rooms in the Stonehart mansion face the ocean. This one has a view of the trees.

It’s enough to make me shiver again.

“This is Rose’s guesthouse,” Stonehart informs me. He inhales once and pushes away from the wall.

My breath catches when I see him.

He looks…well, ‘disheveled’ is probably putting it mildly. His suits are usually crisp and clean. This one is wrinkled and dirty. There are patches on the sleeves and front that make it look like he’s been rolling around in the sand.

His shoes—what the hell, one of them is even untied! His dark hair is a mess, pushed around in all directions like it’s been the victim of a hand run through it one too many times. There’s stubble on his cheeks and a heavier outline of a goatee where his facial hair grows faster.

He looks like a man who’s completely neglected himself for days and days on end.

Halfway to me, he misplaces a step and lunges violently to one side.

I freeze in sudden fear:

He’s been drinking.

Not only that, but he’s already drunk. I’ve never experienced the combination of Stonehart and alcohol. The potential for violence—for even more instability—makes me very, very scared.

“Why are we in Rose’s guesthouse?” I ask, after he straightens himself.

“Rose…” Stonehart licks his lips. He’s barely sober enough to stand. But the amazing thing is that his voice betrays none of the intoxication. If I closed my eyes and just listened to him speak, I’d have no way of telling he was under the influence. “…won’t be needing it anymore. Neither will Charles. They’ve both been relieved of their duties. This house—“ Stonehart gestures wildly around the room. “—now belongs entirely to you.”

“If this is to make up for—“

“No,” Stonehart shakes his head and cuts me off. “No, no, no, no. Nobody here is making up for anything. It was just…time.”

He wobbles again.

“You’re drunk,” I say. “I can smell the liquor on your breath. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Oh, on the contrary, Miss Ryder, I am very much in control, and verifiably know every word that passes through these lips.” He stops, a foot away from me, and gazes down from his height. He sways. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Oh, just jolly, you know. “ I sneer up at him, unable to hide my contempt. “My arm’s been broken and my body feels like a ragdoll that’s been thrown down the steps. But other than that, I’m just fine. No need for any concern. You can go and piss off now. Talk to me again when you’ve sobered up.” I start to cross my arms on instinct, then gasp at the shooting pain that comes from trying to move my left arm.

Damn. This is going to take some time to get used to.

Stonehart’s voice turns very low and dangerous. “I’m not sure that you are in a position to make such demands,” he says softly.

“Or what? You’ll break my other arm?” I laugh. “So much for loving me, huh, J—“

“I DID NOT MEAN TO HURT YOU!” he roars.

I shrink back, suddenly terrified.

He stops, takes a breath, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“You’re apologizing for
that
?” I say. “Not any of the other half-dozen things you are guilty of?”

His mouth twists up in the beginning of a smile. “And how useful would an apology be for all those ‘other things,’ dear Lilly? The reason for this…” He gestures behind him, at the rows of empty bottles surrounding his seat.

Jesus, but I didn’t even see them before!

“—is because I’m afraid you and I have regressed horribly over the course of a single night. No one apology is going to do it.”

“So you’re drinking out of despair,” I say. “How very uncharacteristic of you,
Jeremy
.” I turn away. “Leave me alone. I don’t want to talk to you when you won’t remember half of what I say in the morning.”

“No,” he says.

A chill of fear runs through me. I do my best not to let it show.

“No?” I ask.

“No, Lilly, dammit. I’ve waited too long for you to wake up to be turned back now.”

“I have no desire to speak to you.”

“Your desires be damned!” he snaps. “Can’t you see what I was like? What do you
think
I’ve been doing all this time, other than waiting for you to wake?”

“How long has it been?” I ask.

“Two days.”

I frown.
Huh
. That actually doesn’t seem that bad. At least, not compared to what I was expecting.

“All right, Jeremy,” I say to him, turning back. “You want to talk? Let’s talk. But
I
get to ask the questions here, not you.”

“Fair enough,” he says. He settles in a new seat across from my bed. “What do you want to know?”

“Start with Rose,” I tell him. “Who is she?”

“You cut right to the chase,” he mutters.

“No evasions this time, Jeremy. I want the truth. I want it all. Who is Rose, what does she have to do with you, what does she have to do with your father? Why did Charles react the way he did when he saw them? What type of dirt do you have on Rose to make her your housekeeper for twenty years?” I pause to take a breath and continue,
”Why?
I know she is not the person you want to make her seem.”

“That’s quite a barrage of questions,” Stonehart muses.

“Answer them or get out. Your choice,” I say. “Unless you’re feeling informative, I have absolutely no inclination to speak to you right now.”

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, Lilly, that is fair enough.” He stands. “I’ll come back to you again in the morning.”

“Wait, what?” I stumble. “You’re
leaving
? You can’t just leave, Jeremy!”

“Watch me,” he says, sounding all the more like a bratty teenager.

It must be the drink.

“No! You said it yourself. You’ve waited so long.” I’m grasping at straws. But, this is a rare opportunity. For all the time I’ve known Stonehart, I’ve not once seen him drunk. Alcohol loosens everybody’s inhibitions, no matter who you are, or how well you might think you can hide it. If Jeremy leaves now, I’ll lose out on a glorious opportunity to learn things about him that might otherwise never come out.

Fuck
!

Then I catch myself again, thinking of him as Jeremy instead of Stonehart.
Dammit, I can’t do that. I can’t succumb to the feelings of safety and familiarity that his first name evokes. I’m not safe around him. The latest evidence is my arm.

But hell, it’s damn exhausting to keep thinking of him as two different people.

A light bulb turns on in my head.

Jeremy or Stonehart—what does it matter? There is only one of him.

Chastising myself for not sticking to the distinction nets me nothing. It’s a meaningless distraction. Let him be whomever he wants in my mind. His name matters not. It’s his actions that are important. They stem from the same place. They stem from the same man.

So I’ll call him whatever name comes naturally to me. Trying to decide whether to call him by his first or last name is the stupidest struggle in the world—especially if it’s ongoing. All I have to do is dissociate the sentimental symbolism that I’ve attached to either title, and reattach it to a single man. To the person watching me. Waiting for me to speak.