“So collapse. Crumble.
This is not your destruction. This is your birth.”
—N.T.
Iwrap my wet hair in a towel, slip into a robe, and exit my private bathroom. The bedroom Raife had Aubrey lead me to is nestled deep in the ladies’ quarters and matches the rest of the mansion in its obsession of all things ebony. Unsurprisingly, an enormous bed serves as the centerpiece, although I wasn’t expecting to see the sheer canopy pulled back by lace ribbons on either side.
Fit for a princess. Or a devil’s harem.
My limbs are still shaking from the events in the Dark Room earlier this evening. I glance down and angle my leg. The wound is fresh, raw enough to make me wince every time the silky robe brushes it, but something looks off without the red. The torn skin is a pale, drained shade of pink, like a coat of lipstick that’s reached its end or a faded painting.
Heat floods my stomach as I relive Adam’s large hand curled around my thigh. The way the muscles in his arm strained when he squeezed. His deep blue eyes going dark while he stroked the wound. A shudder runs through me, and I tell myself it’s only out of fear.
What kind of man is so captivated by the sight of blood? What does that say about the kind of person he is? More importantly, what he’s capable of?
I let out a breath and pull my gaze toward the ceiling, forcing the wound from sight. Guilt churns in my gut as Mama’s narrowed eyes flash in my mind, her chapped lips curled in pure revulsion as she hovers over me. I try to swallow the unwanted shame back down. Except it’s stuck, a solid lump in my throat, because part of me knows she’s right about me. A part of me has always known. I may not have any say over the disturbing images that crawl into my brain and demand to be let out, but as Mama used to remind me, I do have a say over giving in to their temptation.
I’m the one who picks up the paintbrush. Dips it into the crimson, ruby, and candy apple reds. Shuts out the voice of reason until all I know is the intoxicating shade of madness. I’m the one responsible for the gruesome images in my sketchpad Mama stumbled upon that day. And the next. It’s like she said when I was seven and I had first discovered art through her burgundy tubes of lipstick—You’ll never be a daughter of the Lord, and you’ll never be a daughter of mine.
My fingers tap against my leg before clutching the robe, a dispersed anxiety thrumming through them. They crave the release as much as I do.
No. I clear my throat, release the material from my death grip. It’s just a little paint.
I’m nothing like Adam.
I’m nothing like any of them.
Tugging the robe down and straightening the belt, I wander through the bedroom. My eyes dart from one corner to the next, trying to pick up any details that may be useful. I’m here for Frankie only, and I refuse to let a single one of the Matthews brothers into my head while I’m here.
If the rest of the place is anything to go off, I can almost guarantee all bedrooms in the ladies’ quarters are exactly the same. A second passes before I notice there are no windows. I make my way to the only closet in the room and pull the door open. As large as the oversized bathroom, it’s meticulously organized. Expensive-looking black lingerie and silk nighties are lining the left hanging rack, while a row of dresses identical to the one I wore today hangs to my right. Shelving units store six extra pairs of designer heels.
That’s it. The only things I will own while I play their little doll.
I creep toward the front door, turn the knob, and crack it open. Peeking through the inch of space, I flick my gaze down the hall, both ways. There’s at least one camera to my left, and I can clearly spot two at the right end. With a swallow, I gently close the door and turn around, letting my back fall against the cool wood. Tomorrow, I’ll take note of every visible camera in this mansion. Tomorrow, when the sun goes down and the lights go out, I will find out what the Matthews are hiding.
If I can make it until then.
By the time Stella summons me the next morning, Aubrey has already dressed and prepped me.
While she was doing my makeup earlier, I almost flat out asked her if Griff claimed Frankie. I haven’t been able to stop wondering since he’d mentioned my sister’s flowery scent. But of course Aubrey would never answer a question like that, so instead I settled for, “How does Griff decide who he wants to claim?” She informed me that he never misses out on testing the new hires in the Dark Room, but like she’d said the night before, they usually like what he likes.
That calmed me at the time. His short time in the Dark Room with Frankie likely explained why he recognized her shampoo on me. But my nerves are erratic again when Aubrey sits back against her desk and watches Stella lead me away from the spa area and toward the Matthews’ dining room.
Stella’s long legs take brisk steps, and I struggle to keep up. She stares straight ahead. “Once you’re claimed, your master is to be your only focus.”
I nod, and she doesn’t wait for a verbal response.
“You’ll have primary household duties like the rest of the girls, but your master always takes precedence. You will leave your other duties behind the instant he calls for you. Do you understand?”
Again, I nod.
She stops once we approach the sitting room, then turns to me and exhales. Her eyes brighten when she smiles. “It’s a big day for you, Emmy. Are you ready?”
I can only continue to nod because if I sayyesaloud, I’m afraid my voice will crack through the lie. In some ways, I am ready. Even eager. Every step brings me closer to finding my sister. Every step brings me closer to getting out of here.
I spent last night wide awake in my foreign bed, trying to play out all the scenarios of how this morning might go. Who might be the one to claim me. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s no way to ignore the instinct burning deep in my gut that Raife claimed Frankie. Out of all the brothers, he’s the one she would have gone for, and on the exterior, she fits his stereotype perfectly.
But what would he have done once he found out Frankie isn’t the obedient, demure submissive Stella is? Once he saw her fire, her wings. How far will a Matthews like Raife really go to train their servant? Or furthermore, to punish them?
