Wishing Well(41)
Voice trailing away, he shook his head, tracing his finger against the edge of the table. The silence of the room was cut through by the soft rattle of his chains. “Is that all she wrote about that night?” Eyes finally tipping up to capture hers, he asked, “Did she mention what she felt in her heart?”
No. Meadow hadn’t told him what she knew about that. She’d purposely avoided describing the adoration, the odd safety, the hopelessness of falling for a man Penny knew she could never have.
Penny’s entire being has been changed that night, an independent girl who’d accepted a master’s glass, drinking the poison offered to her in order to become a slave that would give him everything. Her heart. Her soul. Her life. So easily stolen by a man who’d been playing games. All for a bet, it seemed, which was why Meadow refrained from telling Vincent that, on the night he’d brought Penny Graham to life, he’d also destroyed her by quietly leaving.
“I think you know how she felt that night. You were there with her. You’d led her away from that ballroom in order to take the first bite...literally.” Pausing, Meadow wished she had a pen she could use to busy her hands, something she could spin or click, a distraction from the pain she was feeling. “Not to skip ahead, but you’d left your mark. The bruises you’d left behind disappeared before you felt the need to taste her again.”
It was that particular visual that changed Vincent’s expression, life bleeding back into the eyes of a sadist and murderer. Lips tipping up at the corners, he crooned, “I’ve left many marks, Meadow. Not just on Penelope, but on any woman that came to my bed. Nobody has ever complained.” When she didn’t answer, when her anger was plain on her face, Vincent leaned forward to whisper, “I’d leave them on you, too, ma belle , if my present situation didn’t prevent that from happening.”
“I would never let you touch me!”
His sly grin widened. “Wouldn’t you?”
Meadow wanted to rip the teasing note from his voice and shove it up his arrogant ass.
Smirking, he tsked his tongue and reminded her of her earlier question. “What did Penelope feel that night? Was it love?”
Irritated by his refusal to drop the subject, Meadow asked, “Why do you want to know? Won’t it just be another notch on your bedpost, another victory you so easily sweep aside along with the rest of the shattered hearts you’ve left in your wake?”
“It’s important to me,” he admitted, saying nothing more as to why Penny’s feelings that night mattered.
Giving in, only because she was curious about the reason Vincent cared, Meadow confessed, “It was the first stirring of love, at least until you left quietly without telling her, until you tortured her by keeping your distance for the weeks that followed.” Blinking away tears that threatened, ignoring the whispers of Penny’s pain, Meadow asked, “Were those weeks all part of your game?”
His jaw ticked just as the door to the interview room burst open, a male guard walking inside to announce, “It’s after five. You’ll need to conclude the interview for today.”
Irritation at the interruption felt like claws scraping down Meadow’s spine. Vincent said nothing as Meadow struggled to push to her feet, as she turned to stop the tape and gather her things. It wasn’t until she was walking to the door to be escorted from the room that Vincent spoke again.
“Tell me, Meadow, why did you go past the point of the story we agreed to? Why did you feel the need to tell me Penny’s perspective from the night of the ball?”
Standing in the doorway of the room, the guard waiting not-so-patiently in the hall, it was Meadow’s turn for a wry grin. “Because I knew that night was the first time you had her, it was the first time you conquered Penny and pierced her heart. I didn’t want to hear it from you at first. Didn’t want to listen to you brag. I plucked the moment from your hands, Vincent.” Meadow locked her stare with his. “I kept going so that I could steal your thunder.”
Vincent’s responsive smile matched hers, the guard’s hand wrapping over her bicep to lead her away.
“It’s a shame you see it that way, Meadow, because it wasn’t my thunder you stole, it was somebody else’s.”
Eyes widening, Meadow only had time to shout, “What are you talking about?” before the guard yanked on her arm and raised his voice in warning.
“It’s time to leave. Continue resisting and we won’t allow you to return for the next two days.”
Bringing his fingers to his lips, Vincent blew Meadow a kiss, the last thing she saw before she was dragged down the hall.
The last thing she heard was Vincent’s voice chasing her through the prison. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Meadow. Sleep well tonight.”
. . .
Meadow barely slept at all that night, her thoughts scattered, her body moving between the bed where she attempted to lie down and the table upon which sat the recorder she kept incessantly playing. Vincent’s voice haunted her, the secrets he had yet to reveal cutting scars into her mind, taunting.
It’s a shame you see it that way, Meadow, because it wasn’t my thunder you stole, it was somebody else’s...
His last statement was forcing her jaw to clench, punishing her teeth, as questions wouldn’t stop screaming, as puzzle pieces fell into place.