Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He grabbed her roughly by the elbow, but she shook off his hold as if to say, I’ll go. But not before she hurled her final statement at me. “Good luck, Laurel. You’re going to need it.”
The doctor’s threat affected me long after I’d had her thrown out. I sat on the couch, my throbbing head in my hands, wondering what I was going to do. Ryan had hired this woman. Whatever she’d done to me, it was probably on his orders.
“She is gone.”
I yelped with surprise at Plavko’s deep voice. I hadn’t heard his return, and once again, I was struck by how such a tall, broad man could move with lethal silence.
“Thank you,” I replied.
He lingered in the doorway, unsure if he were welcome to come in. I nodded, and when he stepped inside, I got my first real look at him.
His massive height was overwhelming, but his face . . . it wasn’t as intimidating as I remembered. His eyes weren’t as furious in the fading afternoon light. It was stunning to realize he was actually quite handsome, and I had the weird feeling that he’d spent much of his life trying to keep that a secret.
Ryan had said he paid Plavko to blend in, but this man today? He was striking.
My silent bodyguard’s expression changed like he wanted to say something but didn’t know if he should.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I did not like that doctor. You were right to send her away.”
My pulse quickened. “Why didn’t you like her?”
“She made me . . . what is word? Not easy.”
“Uncomfortable?”
He nodded. “Yes, this is it.”
The air in the room went thin. Dr. Vorbusch made a man like Plavko uncomfortable? Well, that couldn’t be good. In fact, it filled me with all-out dread.
43
LAUREL
I stopped taking my medication as soon as Ryan left. Anything was better than the side effects, and my trust in him and his doctors was nonexistent.
But quitting the drugs cold turkey was a shock to my system, and I spent the rest of the day quaking on the bathroom floor, unable to keep anything down.
At one point, Plavko slipped in and set two large bottles of water beside me on the tile floor. He said nothing and disappeared instantly. I would have thought it was a hallucination, but the bottles came from somewhere, and I was too weak to move.
I drank them both, grateful.
It was dark outside when he reappeared and thrust his phone at me.
“It is Mr. Juric,” he said, his expression strange. “You are tired from dancing, yes?”
It took me a half-second to understand what he meant. He hadn’t told his boss where I was or what shape I was in.
“Yes. Thank you,” I whispered and brought the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Why didn’t you answer when I called?” Ryan’s tone was pointed.
“I must have left it in my bedroom.” I held Plavko’s gaze as I said it. “I’ve been in the studio the last couple hours.”
“Oh.” His worry seemed to dissipate. “How did your session go with Dr. Vorbusch?”
I raised an eyebrow, surprised that Plavko hadn’t told him I’d had the doctor thrown out either. “It was . . . fine.”
The conversation was brief. A simple check-in to make sure I was okay and not lonely. When the call ended, I passed the phone back to Plavko and gave him a questioning look. He seemed so different today, like he was a different person altogether when Ryan wasn’t around.
“You feel better tomorrow,” he said gently.
Before I could ask how he knew that, he was gone.
I spent another hour on the bathroom floor, and when I felt strong enough, I dragged myself to the bed where long, dreamless sleep followed.
He’d been right. The next morning, I was lightheaded and weak, but I was able to stand and my appetite was back. I made my way to the kitchen and ate. For the first time since I’d come to on the railing, I truly ate.
And when that was done, I focused on the task I should have done the moment Ryan had left—I searched his room.
I dug through dresser drawers, scanned his closet, rifled through the bathroom cabinets. I sought out any place that might give me insight, and it was beyond frustrating each time I came up empty.
The library had nothing but books. There were no pictures of us or our families. No letters or documents or personal items. How was there not a shred of evidence of the people who lived here?
My final stop was his bland-looking office.
The door groaned open, and it was ten degrees cooler inside the room. The desk was my first target, but its drawers were full of paperwork in foreign languages with nothing I could decipher, other than the occasional number or various currency sign.
The only thing I understood was the contact information he’d scribbled on his desk pad. It was the name and number of the man who’d marry us tomorrow. The longer I searched, the higher my anxiety climbed.