But now that the quiet has settled, and the evil has gone, I can’t lie around for a second longer. My limbs are restless, and my mind is mush from chain-reading fictional classics back to back. I’ve fallen in love and had my heart broken four times today without even leaving the bed. I went from stroking Clay’s arm to shifting my knee into Rhys’ balls and blaming it as anaccident. It wasn’t. I just needed an outlet for another third-act breakup.
Rocking on my heels, curling my toes into the plush carpet, I wait for the silence to be broken through my receivers. Rhys’ hand lingers at my hip like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go, while Clayton watches over the curve of my shoulder with that measured calm he always keeps on reserve. No one wants to make the first move, to say what they’re thinking. I’m thinking I could really do with some food. Rhys is no doubt imagining which rooms he wants to fuck me in, and Clayton likely wants to do a perimeter check.
“Okay, out,” I turn and shoo them back a few steps. “Everybody out. I’m over this whole being caged in a room thing.” I don’t miss the matching winces they give, but thankfully, no questions are asked. Opening the door, I come to a halt at the pile of folded clothes by the threshold. My clothes, the ones that were in my duffle bag, are now freshly laundered. On top, my phone proudly shows a full battery. A smile grows across my face.
“Thank you, Fiona,” I whisper to myself, collecting the bundle into my arms. Quickly shooting a text to my aunt that I’m alive, safe, and I’ll call her soon, I toss the device onto the bed. There have been pros to being without my phone, and not seeing my life splashed across the student news feed has one of them.
“Change of plans. I’m going to shower the bed-sweat off and change into something I actually own.” I really shouldn’t feel so giddy about that, but I’ve been borrowing oversized clothes for a while now. Having to roll over waistbands and shove elongated sleeves up my arms is cute to a point, but there’s nothing quite like wearing clothes that actually fit my body size and type. Rhys catches up to me in the hallway, his hand delicate on my shoulder.
“Want help washing off?”
“I can shampoo your hair,” Clayton pitches in from a few paces back. The looks they give me are almost exactly the same, big puppy dog eyes filled with hope. I take great pleasure in the smirk that crosses my face.
“No thanks,” I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Entertain yourselves. I’ll come find you.” I leave them watching over me, not a single word reaching my receivers. Slipping into the bathroom, I tug them free and toss them onto the counter.
On another occasion, if I were feeling particularly vulnerable, I would have jumped at their offer to join me. This evening, however, I’m curious to see what they do when left to their own devices without the threat of my safety being dangled overhead. I can’t always be a barrier between the two, so yes, this is a test.
Following a glorious shower which went on for far longer than intended, I emerge awake and alive in an otherwise sleeping manor. Steam clings to my skin as I pad barefoot down the hallway, the air prickling my arms a few degrees cooler than my body temperature. My hair drips down the back of my neck in lazy rivulets, damp strands curling at the ends from the hot spray of water.
For the first time in days, I feel human again. I tug at the soft cotton of my T-shirt, pulling it over my hips and marvelling at the simple pleasure of fabric that actually fits me instead of swallowing me whole. My leggings hug my thighs in a familiar fashion, comfort wrapping around me all the way down to my fluffy socks. Checking the bedroom first, I find it empty, the bedsheets still crumpled and the scent of testosterone lingering.
“Okay, where did you two run off to?” I murmur under my breath, continuing my exploration. The manor is different at night. It breathes differently, feels older. Shadows stretch into long fingers on the marble floors, slipping beneath doorways I’ve yet to see the inside of. Lamps cast pools of gentle glows, toosmall to fight off the darkness of the hall, but just enough to create pockets of light. I drift through one at a time.
Even with my receivers clamped into place, it’s quiet. Too quiet. The staff must have retired to their quarters, if they even stay on site. It occurs to me that I haven’t had an official tour yet, or any proper introductions other than the one I sought out for myself. Who knows how many people reside here, if they’re listening behind closed doors or watching through cracks in the walls. I run a hand along a carved panelling against the walls just to feel something solid, grounding myself in a world that isn’t tainted by the imagination that tends to run wild when silence surrounds me.
Heading downstairs, I expect to find the boys in the kitchen, using food as an excuse not to converse, but the open space is empty. No whispered footsteps, no flicker of silhouettes, no Clayton leaning against the counter practicing signs into himself, no Rhys hovering like he’s about to pounce on me as soon as I enter. About to turn away, I notice a piece of paper on the island that I almost glanced right over.
For whatever reason, switching on the light doesn’t seem like an option. As if flooding the room with light will reveal a jump scare I wasn’t prepared for, so instead I take the page and circle back to a standing lamp near the central lobby. The writing is revealed in Rhys’ neat script, his years of private tutoring showing through.
We’ll be outside, sharing a vintage bottle of bourbon to give you a chance to hide. At exactly eleven pm, the hunt begins. Whoever finds you first claims your cunt in any way they see fit, with the other watching. If you manage to remain hidden until midnight, you get to choose our punishment. The only rule is that you must stay inside. Best of luck Babygirl. I know every hiding place in this manor, and I don’t play fair. –R.
Steadily, the thumping of my heart picks up its tempo, my eyes sliding to an oversized clock above the main set of double doors. The longer hand ticks toward ten minutes until eleven, each tiny click punching straight through my chest as though it’s reaching in and squeezing around my lungs. Time is slipping by like sand running through my fingers. I curse myself for taking such a long shower, for indulging in the heat and the momentary cocoon of safety it gave me, because now I’m behind before the game has even started.
Through the frosted glass in those double doors, I spot movement, the blurred outline of a man lifting a cylindrical bottle, the way his head falls back telling me the whiskey is almost all gone. Well, damn. I told them to entertain themselves, and it seems that they’ve actually listened, for once.
My body vibrates with nervous energy as I drop the note to the floor and promptly drag my hair over my shoulder to wring any lingering water from the strands. I don’t need a trail leading them straight to me. Turning towards the hallway on the left, I slip away silently, my legs threatening to give out with indecision but moving through pure stubbornness. I use my socks against the marble to my advantage, practically skating through the manor rather than picking up my feet.
I reach the first living room tucked just off the main hall, push the heavy door open, and wince when the hinge gives a soft groan that echoes far louder than it should against my receivers. The room inside is sprawling and elegant, velvet drapes pulled shut over towering windows and antique lamps glowing faintly in corners like little islands of amber light. A massive sofa sits centered on a plush pale rug, flanked by bookshelves full of leather-bound novels that smell faintly of dust.
For a second, I consider hiding behind the drapery, maybe slipping under the window seat or curling behind the armchair, but the moment I imagine Rhys or Clayton walking in here,their eyes adjusting to the dim room, I know I’d be caught almost instantly. It’s too open, too exposed and far too obvious. My pride refuses to let me make this easy on them, even if the‘punishment’sounds more like a prize. They can draw endless orgasms from my quaking body once I’ve made them work for it.
I slip out and pull the door shut, my pulse rocketing as my mental countdown puts me somewhere around eight minutes left. The next room is another lounge space, this one smaller and cozier. I catalog the furniture, my eyes seeping over a darkened fireplace filled with cold ash and logs that smell faintly of pine. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner that nearly kills me through fright alone. Its tall, carved body is like a guard, the glint of its clockface demanding that I pick up my pace. I grimace, heading back into the hallway and feeling the heat of frustration creep up the back of my neck. Each passing second I waste is a second they get closer to chasing me down.
Cast by lengthened windows, every shadow messes with my head, every chandelier glinting like it’s tracking me. The thought does cross my mind that there could be hidden cameras I don’t know about. As Rhys pointed out, he doesn’t play fair, but I can’t let myself fail without even trying. It’s not in my nature. The more I think about it, the faster I move, my determination curling hot and fierce in my abdomen, fueling me down the hall like something predatory is hot on my heels.
I stumble into the games room next, and even with my heart pounding like I just sprinted a mile, I can’t help but pause long enough to absorb how beautiful the room is at night. The snooker table sits at the center like a jewel, its dark green felt almost black in the soft overhead lighting. I momentarily consider stopping this hunt before it’s even started, stripping down and presenting myself spread-eagled across the table, but where’s the fun in that? If by whatever chance I happen to win, I get to pick their punishment, and that’s a dangerous notion.
A cruel smirk hitches the corner of my mouth as I continue on, thoughts popping into my head when I really should be focusing. Greeted with a few locked doors, the hallway curves around the edge of the manor, a dead end in sight. My heart sinks, but before I can get too annoyed at having to circle back, a door handle opens beneath my touch. Thank fuck. Although that elation is quickly doused by the room that reveals itself to me.
Beneath a huge, blank screen, the theater room is set up with several rows of plush, leather chairs. Sunken lights trail the aisles on either side in a faint, sickly blue. The air is colder here, prickling my nape, the silence thick enough that I swear I can hear my own heartbeat ricocheting off the walls.
I step inside halfway, gripping the doorframe as a cold shiver skates up my arms at the uncanny vibe the darkness gives off. Velvet curtains framing the screen hang perfectly still, and for a split, irrational second, my mind conjures the image of a hand curling around the fabric, ready to pull it back and reveal something I absolutely do not have the emotional bandwidth to deal with.
The quiet wraps itself around my shoulders, but before I can retreat, the chime of the grandfather clock reverberates faintly through the walls, more of a vibration than a sound that I feel all the way down to my bones. It’s eleven o'clock. Time’s up, and I’m out of options.
Screw it. I shove myself fully into the very room and draw the door closed as quietly as I am able. My hands shake from the adrenaline and heebie jeebies I’m giving myself, but regardless, I fly down the aisle and all but throw myself through the loose curtain underneath the screen before I can talk myself out of it. The gap underneath isn’t half as cavernous as I was expecting, my back hitting the wall as the curtain floats back into place and casting me into darkness. The smell of overall staleness is suffocating, my throat fighting a cough that gets stuck there.
“Brilliant, Harper,” I mutter inwardly, my thoughts dripping with sarcasm. “Fantastic survival instincts. Truly top tier.” Taking a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady my pulse, I shimmy upwards until the adjoining wall bumps into my head, planning on drawing my knees up into a tiny ball. “Sure, that will make me invisible,” I scoff beneath my breath.
