Chapter 218 218
Sabine’s POV
“Come on hurry up!”
He yanks my arm, his grip sharp and unforgiving, while my body screams at me to stop. A painful stitch claws at my side, tightening with every step. Why the fuck didn’t he bring a car? And how is he this fast?
He’s scrawny skinny to the point of frail, no muscle on him at all. He should be struggling more than me. Panting. Slowing down.
But he isn’t.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” I gasp, barely holding it together. “Can I just—just catch my breath?”
“No,” he snaps. “Not until we’re there.”
“There where?” I demand.
“You’ll see.”
I wasn’t built for this kind of rushing. Hell, I haven’t really been outside in six years not beyond Father’s apartment, anyway. Unless the top-floor gym and the open-air swimming pool count.
The restaurant and bar downstairs are usually where I go when Father’s away which has been often since I turned sixteen. He must know. I never pay, and that means the staff answer to his money.
My money.
“Keep moving,” he growls, tugging me so hard it actually hurts.
We finally stop in front of a dingy block of flats tucked into one of the rougher parts of town. It’s nothing like home. Not even close. I tell myself maybe this is just somewhere to hide for a few hours some temporary stop before we move on.
Geneviève was supposed to come for me.
Instead, the guard did.
Normally, they just stand outside the apartment door. If this one is on duty, he sleeps. He hasn’t even been a guard for long—just appeared out of nowhere a few weeks ago.
Useless, really.
But I never complained. If he was on watch, I could sneak out alone. By the time I got back, he’d still be asleep.
Maybe that made him the perfect guard.
I don’t know what happened to Geneviève. She promised she’d come for me said she’d take me somewhere new. We’d been planning it ever since she convinced Father to give this guard a chance, said he needed to prove himself.
Then again… Geneviève was always full of lies. Fake to the bone.
I don’t know why I’m surprised.
He doesn’t release my arm until we’re standing directly in front of an apartment door. Only then does he fumble for his keys, clearly incapable of multitasking.
“Is this it?” I ask, stepping inside and glancing around.
No one could possibly live here.
There’s no warmth. No sense of home. Towers of damp boxes clutter the space, the floorboards groaning beneath my weight. When he finally flicks the light on, the bulb flickers weakly, like it might give up at any moment.
What is wrong with him?
Is he high?
He would’ve kept the light off if I wasn’t here. The curtains are drawn tight, sealing the place in a blacked-out, suffocating heat.
Oh God.
This is a drug den.
“Yep,” he says casually, grabbing a bottle of beer from the fridge and cracking it open with his teeth.
Disgusting. I bet his back teeth are shattered.
He’s definitely high.
Which means I can’t stay.
What the hell was Geneviève thinking, putting him in charge?
He lumbers over to an ancient sofa, the fabric torn open, yellowed foam spilling out like exposed flesh. He drops into it lazily, switches on the television.
Like nothing is wrong.
What am I supposed to do now?
Refusing to sit anywhere near him, I explore the apartment. One bedroom. One bathroom. A complete dump. Mould creeps across the bathroom tiles, and the bedroom wallpaper peels away in curling strips.
A fixer-upper would be generous.
When I return to the main room, I hop onto the kitchen counter and sit there, watching the back of his head.
After weeks of guarding me, he still hasn’t told me his name.
Why?
“What’s your name again?” I ask.
“Why?” he replies, not even bothering to turn around, just slugging back his beer.
“It’d be nice to know what to call you,” I say carefully. “I thought Geneviève was coming to get me.”
“Change of plan.”
My stomach tightens.
I don’t trust him.
What if Geneviève never told him to come for me at all?
Shit.
I didn’t think of that.
I was so desperate to escape Father’s control that I might have run straight into the arms of someone just as bad.
Or worse.