“Wow, is this a prison?”
“As I said before, I’m sorry, my dear, but Mr. Ravera must have a very good reason for placing you here.”
“Do you like him, Mrs. Harrington?”
I’m interested because something is telling me that she does, which gives me hope.
“I do.” A small smile lights up her eyes, and as I perch on the edge of the bed, I pry a little deeper.
“Tell me what to expect.”
“I can tell you nothing, ma’am. I am his employee and will never divulge any information about my boss.”
She glances around the room, a sad expression in her eye, and then says almost to herself, “He is not a bad man; he just lost a little of his soul on the journey.”
A deep breath is her last say on the matter, and she forces a bright smile onto her face.
“I will arrange some food. I’ll come and fetch you when it’s ready. I expect you will dine with Mr. Ravera; if not, perhaps you would prefer to eat in the kitchen instead.”
“I’ll take the kitchen if I may, Mrs. Harrison.”
She says nothing and merely turns and walks away, leaving me gazing around with a sinking feeling. Great. So much for my wild year of freedom. I am more of a prisoner here than in the Order of the Holy Mother of God, and that’s a fact.
There is absolutely nothing left to see in here, so I decide to explore the rest of the floor, hoping like hell it offers a little more comfort than the sparse room I have been allocated.
Being at the top of the house, the ceilings are a little lower and there isn’t much light. It’s dark and rather gloomy and not very welcoming. On further exploration, I discovered a functional bathroom with only a small basin, toilet, and small shower with two black towels on a shelf by the door.
There is a box room that appears full of, well, boxes actually and a further two bedrooms minus the beds. It’s uncared for, forgotten even, and definitely not considered part of the luxurious mansion below, and I wonder if that was the reason I was placed here.
Perhaps that is how Mr. Ravera sees me. I am unwelcome, unwanted, and surplus to requirements. He doesn’t want me here; it’s obvious and only adds to the trauma of abandonment issues that sit heavy on my heart.
My mom left. She never once looked back, and my father said she was deranged. Morgan used the same words, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I attempt to pour water on the fire.
She is not deranged. I won’t believe it, and yet there is a prickle of apprehension that lives inside me because of the madness in me too. I feel it. It wraps around my soul and squeezes it hard. It’s why Morgan took me under her wing and attempted to mold me into a similar version of her even though I resisted every attempt.
A door slams somewhere in the house, jolting me out of my trip down the rabbit hole, and I inch my way out of the room, creeping along the corridor toward the staircase.
Mrs. Harrington told me to wait here, but she never told me I had no choice. I am perfectly at liberty to explore if I wish because I haven’t been told otherwise.
My heart is beating fast as I tread carefully down the stairs. Voices reaching me, urgent whispers, the tread of stilettos on marble.
Carefully, I creep toward the sound, a slight movement below me causing me to still, and as I peer through the bannisters, I notice the beast walking slightly behind a woman.
My heart leaps as I stare at perfection. Her long, black, silky hair hanging like an oil slick down her back.
Her red dress is molded to her body and barely covers her ass and her six-inch heels are black, the red soles revealing she has designer taste in shoes.
They are silent, and she appears to know where she is going as she turns the handle of another room and steps inside. For a second, Mr. Ravera hesitates, and my breath stills as he glances around him. Then the woman’s voice cracks the silence as she snaps, “Enter.”
He does as she says, and as the door closes, my heart thumps as I make a decision I will probably regret and tiptoe down the stairs toward the room, pressing my eye to the keyhole that reveals absolutely nothing but a black wall.
I press my ear to the lock and hear nothing at all, and my curiosity is weeping tears of frustration.
My heart pounds as I kneel at the door, hoping I’m not discovered, my curiosity fully in charge now.
It must be ten minutes later, just when I believe my knees will give out on me, that a low, agonized moan wafts toward me.
The beast.
