Emilia
He’s cloaked in a veil, born of darkness.
But ifveilis changed toevil, is it not apropos? I would venture to say so. With the simple rearrangement of the letters, the meaning changes, becoming something more…
He’s cloaked in evil, born of darkness.
Yes. Yes, this is much more fitting.
I know this on a deeper level than instinct can provide. Or maybe my senses have been sharpened by not utilizing them as a person normally would? Whatever the case, I know he’s there, not more than ten feet from my bed.
His gaze roves over me, clinging to my body more than the blanket I’m under. A layer of fabric, or any shield, doesn’t stop me from feeling his intense perusal, him studying me. I’ve often been watched, but this is different. Much more so.
As the daughter of someone who thrives in a world of crime, being looked at is nothing unusual for me. In fact, the cameras in the corners of my bedroom give my father’s men ample opportunity to see me, and they do every day because I’m under surveillance.
For safety? Partially.
For compliance? Definitely.
However, this is always done through a lens, from another part of the mansion, not face-to-face. And most assuredly, it’s never done alone with someone.
I’ve yet to open my eyes, and lift my lashes just a fraction to slide my gaze to the camera on my left. The red light that indicates it’s operational is still on. At one point in my life, I despised that crimson circle, since it was a constant reminder of my captivity, but now I seek it out like a lifeline.
Where are my father’s men and why aren’t they here?
“No one will save you.”
At the sound of the deep baritone voice, I turn my head and search for him. If I thought this man was a manifestation of my loneliness, or despondency, I now know that’s not the case. His voice is nothing I’d conjure in my mind. It’s too authoritative and arrogant, with a thread of mockery I find unpleasant.
The reassurance I gathered in my chest at the idea of being rescued by my father’s men instantly dies. It morphs from a light emotion to one of heaviness; like a cannonball, it sinks to the bottom of my stomach, anchoring me to the mattress.
Are my father’s men as dead as my hope?
If I’m killed, I’ll be able to confirm here shortly when I meet them in the afterlife. And the murderer? He’s the fallen angel from my childhood memories…
I squint into the darkness and try to make out the man’s features. His hair is black, courtesy of the shadows, and his eyes are as well. That’s if I remember correctly, but only the dawn can say otherwise, and I may not live to see it again.
He leans his tall frame against my desk and plants his hands on the surface behind him as if he has all the time in the world to linger. The act is casual, disarming, but I know better. Predators slink about as they circle their prey, keeping a short distance to create a false sense of security, and only their gazes show their true intent. It’s a simple gleam that flashes in the eyes, right before their muscles tense and they attack.
I won’t be taking my focus from his gaze. It might be the only warning I have.
“Sit up,” he says. “I want to get a good look at you.”
As if you haven’t been staring at me this entire time.
The decision, of whether to obey, has my head throbbing. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue. My father has never shied from violence, and unfortunately that extends toward women, myself included. I quickly learned to do whatever he asked of me, because if he had to repeat himself…
It’s not a lesson I needed more than once.
The stranger tilts his head just so. It’s less than an inch, but it’s enough. The energy in the room shifts, alerting me to my mistake. I’m scrambling into a sitting position before he pushes away from the desk and straightens. Even though he doesn’t step toward me, his entire body is taut, as if he’s prepared to strike at any moment.
I shove the midnight-blue curls from my face and tuck my legs underneath me. The moonlight that sneaks in through the window of my reading nook makes my nightgown appear white, but in reality it’s a pastel pink. The square lacy collar stops just below my collarbones, and the hem bunches around my calves. I’m fully covered at all times because of being under constant watch, but right now it’s not enough. The blanket didn’t help either.
Vulnerability has me feeling naked and exposed while fully clothed. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least.
The urge to wring my hands builds with the silence, so I place them in my lap and wait. As discreetly as possible, I flick my gaze over his face now that he’s closer and I have a better view. A lock of hair has fallen over his brow, giving his disheveled appearance a devil-may-care look. Is that just a facade or does he wield enough power that breaking into my father’s house doesn’t faze him? His demeanor is that of a lord of the underworld, the unofficial title for the world of crime. This man’s presence in my bedroom has to stem from something sinister.
His jaw and cheekbones have just the right angles to give him a haughty countenance. And his slanted eyebrows, along with his collared button-down shirt open at the throat, complete the look. Once more I assess his gaze, and it almost shimmers with excitement.
