Cecilia
There is such quiet inside the walls of his house. Only the whistle of wind and faraway unfamiliar voices echo toward me. Round and round, the blonde woman—Victoria—took me until my memory became a mush of different doors and hallways.
Now, standing in front of a thick door, I’m gripping the sides of the blanket she offered me, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest.
“Here we are,” Victoria says, her manicured hand pushing the door open. Her voice is sweet yet cautious, like she doesn’t know exactly how to handle me. That makes two of us.
I don’t even know who she is, though by the looks of it, she’s probably an important figure in the family. Everything about her is polished, the kind of elegance you don’t see every day.
Her long dress is fitted perfectly around her small waist and wide shoulders. Its crimson color meshes with the atmosphere of the house—dark, muted, and a little eerie. It’s an effort not topeer down at myself, at the pale yellow of my sundress and the sandals that have my feet almost frozen. It makes me painfully aware of how out of place I am.
“I’m guessing it’s not to your liking, is it?” She smiles, entering farther into the room.
I follow her, if only because of the heat blasting from the fireplace opposite the bed. My skin tingles everywhere as warmth coils around my body.
“It’s warm,” I say, my voice a little more curt than I intended.
It’s not her fault. She didn’t make you come here.
If she has taken offense at my refusal to keep the conversation going, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she continues to show me around, giving the impression she deeply cares about this job she took upon herself.
“That’s the walk-in closet, and the bathroom is through that door. I’ve stocked it with some of my favorite skincare products—didn’t know what you were using, but we can order whatever you need in the morning. Oh, and I left you clean clothes on the bed. They’re mine, but I think they’ll fit you. Only the pants might be a little long.” She breathes in, touching one poster of the bed as she looks around the room.
“Listen…” I say.
“Oh, and food! Are you hungry? You must be. I can bring something up here or?—”
“I really appreciate your help, but…if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”
Even if my stomach grumbles in protest. Even though being by myself is the last thing I want in this place. But I don’t have another option. She’s a stranger, and I don’t know if I can trust anyone, including her.
“Anything you need,” she says, her lips pressing into a sympathetic smile. “Seriously. Wolf and I live in the other wing, but you can almost always find a housekeeper or a guardroaming the hallways. Just send word you want to see me, and I’ll be here.”
Wolf. That odd name again.
It’s not pronounced as an English word, but I’m not sure if it’s Russian either. From the bits and pieces I overheard, I take it he’s both the head of the household and Victoria’s husband—the enormous diamond on her ring finger attests to it.
I offer a nod and turn back to the fire. Her footsteps leave the bedpost and drift toward the hallway until the door closes softly behind her. I wait a few seconds, making sure she’s truly gone. Then, my knees give out, and I slump to the floor.
Heat washes over me, unable to reach whatever part of me has already gone cold. I look into the void, feeling the burn of tears threatening to spill out.
Damn him. Mikhail, for ruthlessly toying with me for so long. My father, for disposing of me so easily. Even Cesare, for not fighting harder to keep me home.
It was to be expected, I suppose. When things get difficult, people leave. They fend for themselves. I’m lucky I haven’t been thrown off that cliff back on the West Coast, lucky to be a thorn in someone else’s side now.
I press my palms against my eyes, breathing through the tight ache crawling up my throat. I’ve never been anywhere my father was not, never wandered too far from the walls of the cage he built for me in San Maleno. Now, I’m in a stranger’s house, belonging to a man I don’t understand—a criminal who stalked me, only to make me his prisoner.
Pulling the blanket off me forcefully, then Mikhail’s suit jacket, I throw them both into the fire. I don’t want to owe these people anything. The flames catch, and it only takes a few seconds before it shrinks, disappearing in the form of smoke.
But the gesture seems to do the opposite of calming me down. It digs into a long-forgotten well of anger, which startsdripping into my bloodstream. Thick. Coarse. Vicious in a way wounded animals become when you get too close. I don’t know what to do with the feeling, so I let it linger, until I tear my gaze from the fire, turning toward the room.
Objects swim into focus around me. The space is decorated like the rest of the house: dark wood and sumptuous furniture. The walls are ornate, with thick golden frames that mesh with the metallic structure of the fireplace. A bed upholstered in black velvet dominates the room, and a vertical, rectangular window separates the exterior wall, offering a glimpse of the moon and the branches swaying with the wind.
It looks like a museum—a fancy one at that—and somehow, it screams Mikhail. I hate that I think it’s beautiful. I hate even more that this is where he sleeps, where the sheets smell like him. Where they’ll smell like me too, come tomorrow morning.
“Do us both a favor tonight and keep that bedroom door locked.”
The timbre of his voice echoes through my mind, attacking my already fickle breathing. I blink, the threat—or promise—registering. If I don’t lock myself in here, he might enter. And he might do things we shouldn’t do.
