Pierre shows me to a bedroom. It has the same lead windows and thick drapes as the hallway downstairs. None of these windows are falsely boarded up, which I’m grateful for, because at least I can see the world outside even if I can’t live in it. It’s furnished with what appears to be vintage wooden furniture, but my eyes are drawn to the large bed in the center of the room, complete with a pristine white duvet and pillows. Despite the circumstances, and it being first thing in the morning, it actually looks incredibly comfortable and inviting and I want nothing more than to curl into a ball beneath the duvet and sleep.
“I took the liberty of preparing you a tray, mademoiselle. I’m sure you’ll find something to your liking. And you’ll find some clothes in the closet and dresser and toiletries in the restroom.”
I spin around, noticing a tray on the dresser, which holds a plate covered with a silver dome and a large glass bottle of water. My stomach rumbles at the idea of food.
“Will there be anything else, mademoiselle?”
Yes! So much. But I keep hold of the questions racing around my head, only asking the most pressing one. “Is there a lock on the door?”
“No, mademoiselle, and you will not require one. Only Mr. Knight and I live here. My room is at the end of the hallway on the opposite side of the house.”
So, I’m in the west wing, then?
“And Mr. Knight’s is directly across the hall from yours,” he adds.
And that’s why I need a lock on my door, Pierre.Of course his room is close to mine. He’ll want easy access to his new toy, won’t he? I’m sure the guy didn’t buy me from a vile auction for just my company. I swallow down the panic that swells up inside me. Emotions are weakness. And they do me no good here. Information and a clear mind are my only weapons right now.
I peer at the open doorway, half expecting his boss to walk through it, unbuckling his belt as he does. I push down another swell of panic. “So Mr. Knight sleeps right across the hallway?” I ask, wondering if I can glean how much time he spends here. Maybe this is one of his many houses and he’s rarely here?
“Yes, mademoiselle. Or in his basement.”
“His basement?” Of course he has a basement. It’s probably a dungeon. A creepy as hell dungeon full of torture devices, or perhaps where he keeps some of his other prisoners. Why else would he have a basement? Terror winds its way up my throat.
I suck in a deep breath.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
“Will that be all?” Pierre asks, pulling me from my spiral and also clearly steering me away from asking any further questions about his employer.
Unable to ignore the torrent of them spinning in my head and clamoring to be asked, I take a chance and ask just one more. “What do I do now, Pierre?”
“Eat. Drink. Rest. Those were Mr. Knight’s instructions.”
They were, but why? Does he simply want me at my best before he... before hewhat?
My stomach rolls at the thought of what he might do. There’s only one reason a man buys a woman, isn’t there? That thought is inescapable now. Larissa prepared me as much as she could for sex, and for what men like him will want after they buy a woman. But I’m not sure any amount of talking it through or watching the online videos that she showed me would be suitable preparation for what’s actually going to happen.
I steel myself for whatever’s to come, rolling back my shoulders and holding my head high. Even though it changes nothing of my reality, the simple act of altering my body language still makes me feel more in control. “Thank you.”
“Good day, mademoiselle.”
Pierre leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
I lie in the comfortable bed, propped up against the fluffy pillows. Pierre’s tray consisted of two sandwiches, one peanut butter and a purple sticky substance and one ham and swiss cheese, as well as some potato chips. I ate the ham and cheese one quickly while I rummaged around the room. As he said, I found clothes in the dresser and closet. All with their tags still on. Seven pairs of white panties. A bra which is close enough to my size that I can make it work. Three pink tank tops. Four white T-shirts—two regular size and two large, which I assume are to be worn as nightwear. One pink sweater. One pair of pink shorts. Two pairs of black leggings, like the kind you might wear to the gym, and seven sundresses—one white, two pink and the other four with various fruit and flower patterns, as though the person who chose them had no idea what to choose so simply asked what a young woman might like to wear. Pink is very much a feature, and I don’t dislike the color, in fact the items picked are nice, and they at least feel like they’re of high quality, but most of my previous clothes have been black or navy—functional. I don’t know yet if I’m touched or creeped out by the thought that went into choosing these clothes. I have no idea where in the US we are, but the air was mild when we got out of the car, and the clothing items suggest a warm climate. Given that it’s April, that could be a lot of places though.
I took a shower after my sandwich, using the nice-smelling shampoo and conditioner as well as the luxuriously thick shower gel. There’s also toothpaste with blue and red stripes, which I’ve never ever seen before, and the pink theme is continued with a toothbrush of the same color. There’s a hairbrush and hair dryer and some moisturizer, one for my face and a mango-scentedone for my body. It’s clear they were prepared for my arrival. Or if not me explicitly, then some other woman just like me. Are these Lincoln’s tastes? Pink. Fruit-scented. Are those things inherently feminine to him, and is that what he’s hoping I am? I recall what Larissa taught me. Be available, submissive. Acquiesce at all times. Be feminine, not a feminist. I had no idea what a feminist was when she first told me that, and I’m still not sure that I do.
I still suspect all of these things were all purchased with me in mind. Lincoln paid a high price, and he waited for the last lot. The one they were all waiting for, if the guard with the snake tattoo was speaking the truth. The traitor’s daughter.
A shiver runs down my spine at the memory. Along with the other fifty women who were sold at the auction, I was kept in a house two weeks before it. It was a horrible place with twelve women to every room, except we weren’t allowed to talk to each other, and any breaking of the rules would be met with punishment. Nothing that would leave a mark though. Being held underwater until you were sure you’d drown. A bucket of ice water over the head. Being forced to stand for twenty-four hours straight. Food and water denial. But their favorite was to force us to walk around naked. Then the guards would leer at us, making crude and vulgar remarks about our bodies and the unimaginable fates that were awaiting us all.
In comparison, this place is like heaven. At least right now it is. I curl my toes against the silky cotton sheets—the kind that gently caress your skin rather than scratch. I bask contentedly in the sweet relief of a bed and a fluffy pillow, the kind where your head sinks into the material and cradles your neck in a warm embrace. And the space—so much space all to myself. I spread my arms and legs wide and then bring them back in again, like I’m making a snow angel from the luxurious white cotton.
I know this won’t last, but for now, it’s my reality. And like the ice-cold water in the car earlier, I’m going to take pleasurein it while I can. I burrow deeper beneath the covers and pull them up to my chin, feeling cocooned, and... safe. How strange that I feel safe in a monster’s prison. For now, I will take it and I will revel in this feeling.
There’s a giant screen attached to one wall, which I assume is some kind of camera system. No doubt Lincoln Knight is watching me right now. Brute!
However, there’s also a remote control on the nightstand. Out of curiosity, I grab it and flick the screen on anyway. To my complete and pleasant surprise, it’s just a regular TV and it opens to the home page of something called Netflix. There are two accounts on there, labeled Pierre and Guest.
