Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Emily couldn't recall the last time she'd put on a dress like this. Expensive, sexy, and formal enough to attend a movie premier or state dinner. This was a dress Justine Hays never got to wear and Emily Wilson never would. The red satin dress with a plunging back and hourglass shape had a French name on the label she didn't recognize, but it smelled dirty.

Not that the dress wasn't pristine, but Emily knew how many innocent people had died to pay for it. She literally felt sick putting it on.

Survival of the prettiest. That's a first. For me, anyway. But so was this entire situation, including every second after she'd left the kill room.

Elonzo's guard had walked her through a concrete tunnel and taken her to a small elevator. After that, they'd walked down several corridors with closed doors.

She had the impression that Elonzo wanted to prevent her from getting her bearings. The guard then offered to send up one of the female servants to help with her hair and makeup, but Emily had declined, so he'd left her to it with a warning that there were cameras all over the suite.

"So you're going to watch me get naked?" she'd asked as they stepped into a large bedroom with minimal decorations—or items that could be used as a weapon. The window didn't have bars on it, but the drop was about three stories straight down onto a patio.

"Just like prison." He'd left, and she'd had no choice but to strip, shower, and dress knowing she was being watched. "So much for trust."

She dried her hair, pinning it up into a bun on top of her head to hide most of her red roots since the brown had started growing out a month ago, after she'd saved Charge and taken him to his cabin. Dyeing her hair just hadn't felt like a priority when a wig could do the trick for short trips into town.

The memory of her arrest began pummeling her mind. Why would Charge have her arrested like that? Why would he put her in prison and then tell her to kill Roberts instead of saying the truth? If Roberts had been working for Elonzo, Charge simply could've said so.

So many lies, Charge. Why? And for what? Was she really not worthy of his trust after everything they'd gone through?

On the other hand, their relationship had never made sense. He'd trusted her too quickly and then put her in charge of suite forty-five. She'd told him again and again that it was the stupidest idea, but he always knew what to say: You're smart. You're perfect for the role. No one will ever suspect you're Sampson. You can be trusted to protect the operators at all costs.

Looking back, there'd been dozens of red flags, and when she'd finally been done with all of it, Charge pulled out the big gun and hit her with it. Finding Ed. Making him pay.

I'm such a sucker. And now look at me. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin was too pale, and dark circles under her eyes told the story of many sleepless nights. Deep purple bruises covered her arms and legs from the beatings at Vanderhorst, which the dress revealed like an ad for domestic abuse.

If this is what the master wants to see tonight… Wasn't like any of the other dresses in the closet covered them better.

She applied mascara and red lipstick from the kit left on the vanity, but that was all Elonzo would be getting from her.

Finally done, she stood in front of the long mirror in the corner of the room, taking in her skeletal frame and battered body. "I guess Halloween has come early this year."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she said drably.

Elonzo entered with a friendly smile, which immediately melted away the moment his eyes saw her back. A look of anger washed over his face. "Who did that to you?"

What the hell did he care? And surely he must've noticed some of the bruises on her arms from earlier. Of course, they were nothing compared to what was on her back. The guards had gone to town.

"What's it matter? I did as you asked. I'm dressed. And this is the best I'm going to look tonight." She held up her arms, sucking in the embarrassment of his blatant disgust. Not that she gave one little polite crap what he thought, but no one wanted to be stared at like they were a tidy piece of shit stinking up the room.

Ed used to look at her that way, too, even when she looked perfect, right down to the floral summer dress and matching pink sandals—his favorites.

Elonzo marched toward her with rage in his hazel eyes. "I want names." He pointed at the spot on the floor between them to punctuate his words.

She blinked up at him. "I don't have any." Warden Mitchel had ordered it, and his people had carried it out. End of story.

Elonzo began losing his temper—red face, eyes narrowed, twitching lips. "You want to protect those insignificant, pathetic pieces of trash?"

He was genuinely upset that she'd been tortured, but why? He was a thug.

"Are you angry because I was beaten," she asked, "or because you ordered me not to be hurt and someone disobeyed you?" Did she have to point out the fact that the someones didn't even work for him? Just because he gave an order didn't mean the entire world would obey.

"Both, por chingada madre. "

Emily didn't know what to say, but she was beginning to see why people feared the man.

"I'm sorry, but I can't help you," she said. "The people who did this weren't exactly giving out their names."

His nostrils flared, and he nodded with jerky motions. " Bien ." He turned to leave. "I'll send someone up to help you change."

"Into what?"

"Something that will make you more comfortable."

He left the room, closing the door. Immediately, she could hear Elonzo yelling in Spanish outside. She wished she could understand, but it didn't take a genius to guess that the man wanted heads to roll.

The question was, why? She was his enemy. His prisoner, too.