Tempest - Kris Michaels Page 0,10

outside the door when you return, or I will remind you what I do to those who don't appreciate my... gifts."

"Gifts? Planning my life and giving me no input is a gift?"

Regina raised her hand in a regal gesture. "Look at what you have. A private beach, a mansion and staff to provide for your every whim. Really Pilar, are you so ungrateful?"

"No. I appreciate everything you've given me, especially the superior education you've provided." Unfortunately, the education she referred to wasn't the expensive schools she attended. She was thankful her mother had shown her the type of person she never wanted to become. She was grateful for the time she’d spent with a man who was broken and suffering, but who'd still found the determination to oppose his death. She was eternally gratified she'd been able to send the message she'd memorized.

Regina stared at her for a moment and nodded. "I believe you, and that is why I'm at a figurative crossroad. It is a dilemma I haven't faced before. I find I want you to succeed and to embrace the life you will have. An interesting conundrum, this effect of being emotionally involved." Regina shook her head as if to dislodge the troubling thought and picked up her cell phone. "Close the door after you."

Regina's assistant, a small mousy man, entered through a side door. He carried his ever-present tablet and took up his place by the wall playing statue until her mother needed him. She'd never heard the man speak above a soft whisper, but he'd been at Regina's side for as long as she could remember.

The door closed solidly. She drew a breath and waited. The distinct click of the electronic lock sounded behind her. The stroll from her mother's wing of the mansion to hers took several minutes. She sank into a chaise lounge and stared through another ornately framed window at the thunderstorm approaching the shore. An appropriate metaphor. There was a storm heading her way, and the squall had been brewing as long as she could remember. In the last three years it had gathered strength.

Fat raindrops hit the window, blurring the view of the pounding surf. Palm fronds whipped in the wind, and lightning flashed in the distance. A typical afternoon storm. She reached for her laptop and opened the browser. In a practiced act, she moved the cursor from social media accounts to email, looked at clothing, makeup, and then started a game, leaving all the tabs open. She opened a browser and clicked the email account, signed in, and glanced at the draft folder, something she did about once a month or so, probably because she hoped the man had lived.

The inbox was empty as usual but... A shot of fear and delight struck her when she looked at the draft folder and saw the number out to the side. 1. Oh, dear merciful heavens, a message after all this time. There could only be one person who would leave a message. Him. The man who’d been so kind, even in his pain. She clicked on the folder and opened the message.

>I'm coming for you.

Her racing heartbeat thundered, obliterating the natural sounds of the storm outside. The man had lived. In those short hours together, they'd made promises, and sworn a fealty which only the desperate and inconsolable could give each other. When her mother had seen fit to release her, she'd held up her side of the agreement by checking the email account every day. When the message he'd hoped for came, she replied as he'd taught her. He’d lived, and he was obviously trying to fulfil his promise.

Dare she hope she could be removed from her mother's span of influence and control? She sucked her bottom lip in and worried it with her teeth as she sightlessly stared through the window. Only a person who was confined by the will of another or by physical restraints could know the fear the prospect of real hope instilled into one's soul.

How? How had he survived? It had been almost two months from the time she'd been forced to leave him in the cell to the time someone had sent an email. She'd given up hope that he'd lived. Thirty-three months and... twelve days.

In that time, things had changed. She'd changed. The weekend she'd been shown how her mother gathered information, she'd discovered her mother commanded a maleficence of heinous quantities. It centered with her mother but ran through others who