Read Online The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) by Annelie Wendeberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
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and Moran’s coarse palm.
I had no time to wonder what he wanted. In one swift move he curled his other arm around my waist and hoisted me into the air and onto my bed. I tried to scream, but nothing would get past his hand. Kicking did not seem to bother him. All I could do was squirm, and that seemed to increase his excitement. His knee was pressed onto my lower back. A fist in my hair pushed my face into the mattress, muffling my protests. With my breath trapped between the sheets and my mouth, lights began to flicker on the insides of my eyelids. All of a sudden, Moran stopped dead. I heard the click of a revolver being cocked and Moriarty’s snarl, ‘Control yourself!’
Moran let go of me as though I were dirt and mumbled, ‘You should be grateful for any man showing interest.’ Then he stalked out of the room.
My tongue probed the inside of my mouth; I had bitten my cheek. The metallic taste of blood switched my brain back on. A hand was placed on my head, then moved away again. My senses were wide open. This scene felt wrong, the undertone of lies screeching like claws across glass.
‘My apologies,’ Moriarty said. ‘I should have known better than to let him out of my sight.’
I pushed myself up. He did not move. What was he waiting for?
I got to my feet and gazed up at him. His right hand was compacted to a fist. The other clutched the revolver. The half of his face lit by the lamp in the hallway showed tension.
‘Well,’ I choked, ‘you can’t see him now. Maybe he is trying his luck in the next room.’
‘He wouldn’t, for she is mine.’
‘I understand. No one claimed me, so he can. You disgust me.’
Angry, he lifted his hand, pointing the weapon at my chest. I took a step forward — a stupid, pleading reflex. He misunderstood and jerked the gun farther up. Its mouth rested between my eyes. All I could think of was how awkward it was to gaze along each side of the barrel, how relaxed his hand seemed, how quiet the room was.
Without a word, he turned and left the room. The door was slammed shut, the bolt snapped into place, and a key turned.
My knees had grown too soft to keep me upright for much longer. I sat down on the bed, slowly unbuttoning my dress. I closed my eyes, recounting facts, one button at a time.
Moriarty and Moran had still been in the entrance hall when Durham and I walked to the water closet. Only two minutes later, Moran had sneaked into my room. Durham, the man who followed me like a shadow, had disappeared. I had heard no protest from the manservant. He must have been ordered to leave. Moran had caught me in my room and thrown me onto my bed, apparently to violate me. What had I heard during these short moments? Nothing. No running through the corridor, no footfall, no commotion at all. Moriarty must have been in my room, enjoying the show for a minute before stepping in and pretending to save me. Moran would not step over the limits set by Moriarty. The Colonel would obey his superior.
If Moriarty’s aim was for me to trust him, I’d certainly do him the favour.
I pulled my nightgown over my head. The soft cotton brushed my face and all of a sudden, I felt as though a blindfold had been lifted. Why had he not let Moran go any further than simply pressing me onto the bed? Wouldn’t the impact be much more impressive if Moriarty had saved me half-naked, half-raped, and out of my senses?
If this was an attempt to make me sympathise with Moriarty, why was it done so hastily? Why had he been waiting in my room, risking discovery? Did he think me so blind? Or was it his intention to taint my senses with my own arrogance? If I were arrogant enough to believe I saw more than he could conceal, I would stop questioning my own observations. Doing so would certainly render me half-blind.
How could I be so naive as to believe myself able to see behind Moriarty’s facade, analyse him, or even put my finger on his weak spots? He played with me while concealing
I had no time to wonder what he wanted. In one swift move he curled his other arm around my waist and hoisted me into the air and onto my bed. I tried to scream, but nothing would get past his hand. Kicking did not seem to bother him. All I could do was squirm, and that seemed to increase his excitement. His knee was pressed onto my lower back. A fist in my hair pushed my face into the mattress, muffling my protests. With my breath trapped between the sheets and my mouth, lights began to flicker on the insides of my eyelids. All of a sudden, Moran stopped dead. I heard the click of a revolver being cocked and Moriarty’s snarl, ‘Control yourself!’
Moran let go of me as though I were dirt and mumbled, ‘You should be grateful for any man showing interest.’ Then he stalked out of the room.
My tongue probed the inside of my mouth; I had bitten my cheek. The metallic taste of blood switched my brain back on. A hand was placed on my head, then moved away again. My senses were wide open. This scene felt wrong, the undertone of lies screeching like claws across glass.
‘My apologies,’ Moriarty said. ‘I should have known better than to let him out of my sight.’
I pushed myself up. He did not move. What was he waiting for?
I got to my feet and gazed up at him. His right hand was compacted to a fist. The other clutched the revolver. The half of his face lit by the lamp in the hallway showed tension.
‘Well,’ I choked, ‘you can’t see him now. Maybe he is trying his luck in the next room.’
‘He wouldn’t, for she is mine.’
‘I understand. No one claimed me, so he can. You disgust me.’
Angry, he lifted his hand, pointing the weapon at my chest. I took a step forward — a stupid, pleading reflex. He misunderstood and jerked the gun farther up. Its mouth rested between my eyes. All I could think of was how awkward it was to gaze along each side of the barrel, how relaxed his hand seemed, how quiet the room was.
Without a word, he turned and left the room. The door was slammed shut, the bolt snapped into place, and a key turned.
My knees had grown too soft to keep me upright for much longer. I sat down on the bed, slowly unbuttoning my dress. I closed my eyes, recounting facts, one button at a time.
Moriarty and Moran had still been in the entrance hall when Durham and I walked to the water closet. Only two minutes later, Moran had sneaked into my room. Durham, the man who followed me like a shadow, had disappeared. I had heard no protest from the manservant. He must have been ordered to leave. Moran had caught me in my room and thrown me onto my bed, apparently to violate me. What had I heard during these short moments? Nothing. No running through the corridor, no footfall, no commotion at all. Moriarty must have been in my room, enjoying the show for a minute before stepping in and pretending to save me. Moran would not step over the limits set by Moriarty. The Colonel would obey his superior.
If Moriarty’s aim was for me to trust him, I’d certainly do him the favour.
I pulled my nightgown over my head. The soft cotton brushed my face and all of a sudden, I felt as though a blindfold had been lifted. Why had he not let Moran go any further than simply pressing me onto the bed? Wouldn’t the impact be much more impressive if Moriarty had saved me half-naked, half-raped, and out of my senses?
If this was an attempt to make me sympathise with Moriarty, why was it done so hastily? Why had he been waiting in my room, risking discovery? Did he think me so blind? Or was it his intention to taint my senses with my own arrogance? If I were arrogant enough to believe I saw more than he could conceal, I would stop questioning my own observations. Doing so would certainly render me half-blind.
How could I be so naive as to believe myself able to see behind Moriarty’s facade, analyse him, or even put my finger on his weak spots? He played with me while concealing
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