Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Blurry-eyed and holding back too many yawns to count, I trek through the halls on the ground floor toward my studio. I’m expecting another full schedule, first with my instructor, then the afternoon with Greta and the team, juggling two complex samples.
There’s no time to spare, because the gala is right around the corner.
So is the solid wall of a body. I slam right into a broad chest, and my sketchbook goes flying.
Dr. Price offers a steadying hand at my elbow. “Are you okay, Novalee? You seem off-kilter.”
“I didn’t sleep well.” The truth’s out before I can dress it up, and I regret it the second his head tilts.
“How long have you been having trouble sleeping?”
“Not long. A few nights.” As I pick up my sketchbook, I search for an excuse that doesn’t involve Hugo and all of his scattered puzzle pieces. “I’ve been busy with work. Extra inspired. It’s keeping me up late.”
Hopefully, that will satisfy him. I’m already running behind schedule this morning.
“Mm. That’s not good. Your mental health requires consistent sleeping habits.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine, I assure you.”
“I’d feel better if you’d come talk to me.”
“I’m not your patient anymore.”
“I never said you were.” A faint twist of his lips, an incline of his head, as if he has more to say.
He does.
“Let me be frank, Novalee.” His voice gentles, that hint of a smile gone faster than my innocence, which is somehow worse. “Recovering from the things you’ve been through takes more than two sessions. I can’t, in good conscience, close your file yet—especially with you moving into my house so soon.”
The chill slithering down my spine has nothing to do with the drafty corridor. “You should close my file. It’d be a shame to waste your energy on me. I’m fine. Doing great, actually.”
“You’re doing remarkably well, considering.”
I’m too tired to play his game, or guard my words. “There’s nothing to consider, Dr. Price. I’m no longer in need of your professional services. If you have doubts, take it up with Liam. In fact, you can speak to Oliver, too.”
I expect a slip of irritation, maybe even anger. But in his colorless eyes, all I find is a disturbing sort of interest.
And now I feel horrible for thinking of Hugo in terms of a puzzle—the shrink is studying me the same way, as if I’m a problem he’ll enjoy solving.
“I’m only worried about your safety. If I believed you were devolving, a danger to yourself or to others, I’d be obligated to act.” He lets that dangle there too long, like a noose around my neck, trapdoor waiting to open under my feet.
“Sometimes, Novalee, all it takes to be certain is a quiet room and a little observation.”
Don’t let him make you small.
Chin raised, I hold his stare, even as the threat sinks into my bones. “That won’t be necessary. If you’ll excuse me, my instructor is waiting for me.” I brush past him, willing my feet to keep a normal pace.
I’m not running.
But as I reach the end of the hall, his voice carries after me. “Get some rest, Novalee. We’ll talk soon.”
I keep walking, eyes forward, his threat-like promise burrowing deep. His soon is coming faster than he makes it sound. Once my birthday passes, I’ll cross into the House of Pisces for the final stretch before the auction.
Thirty days under his roof, my file still open on his desk, and his so-called professional expertise the only thing between me and a quiet room.
The last time I dreaded a month this much, it ended with Pax forcing Liam to take me in his dungeon. A rough ass-fucking, he called it. The one before that ended with my first thoughts of ledges and jumping, after Sebastian was exiled for a stolen kiss in a gazebo.
My stomach turns, and I breathe through it as I halt in front of my studio.
The House of Pisces is still a couple of weeks off, but Dr. Price is already circling like the shark he is.
14
There’s a methodology to Hugo’s breakfast choices. Eggs on Friday. Oatmeal on Sunday. Cereal on Tuesday. I haven’t been paying enough attention to know what he eats the other days of the week.
Does he cycle through those three?
I can’t say, because I haven’t been joining him for breakfast every day. I’ve been so focused on finishing the piece for the gala—a gown I’m calling Midnight Rain—that I’m often out of the house before he wakes.
By now, though, I know it has nothing to do with the food. The same need has him tapping his glass three times before every sip. At the start of the month, his quirks struck me as odd.
Now they’re just Hugo.
And I’m humbled he trusts me enough to share this version of himself, the guy who eats cereal shaped like cartoon animals and treats it like a state secret. At some point, I caught him shoving the box behind the quinoa when a foundation call came through on video. I haven’t let him live it down since.