Page 2 of Prince of Wrath

Make it stop.

Make it stop.

Make it stop.

My palms are pressed hard over my ears, but it does not help. The sound crawls through my fingers, through my skull, through the thin bones of my face. I try to hum to myself, some broken melody Mom used to chant to me, but the screams swallow it whole. It has been going for hours—or maybe days. Time does not work here. Stupid cell that is too small, stupid walls with no windows. Somewhere above me, hidden behind metal grates, speakers blast at full volume. Dogs barking like they are tearing something apart. People screaming like they’re being attacked. It’s not real. It cannot. Surely this is some sort of recording, right? My knees are tucked to my chest, back against the wall, but the wall is freezing, and the floor is even worse. I’ve stopped shivering. That scares me more than the cold. The blanket they have given me is the only barrier between dying from cold and staying alive. A scream rises suddenly, sharper than the others, and I flinch so hard my head hits the concrete.

“Stop,” I whisper to myself. No one answers. Of course no one answers. They want me like this. Small and confused. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to picture something else. My mother’s kitchen. The smell of cinnamon. Tristan watching me like I am a sunny day in April. My throat tightens. I press my hands harder against my ears until my nails dig into my scalp.

“Ella.” My name cuts through the noise. I freeze, but it comes again, low and calm through the speaker. “Pretty little birdy, look at you,” he says. Cole Vodianov. My stomach turns. Did the barking stop? A soft click fractures the silence from the corner of the room. The red light above the door flickers once. “You did great, Ella. Taking it like a champ.” Cole steps inside wearing a dark coat and polished shoes, his hollow cheeks reminding me of malnourished men in war movies. Two guards remain behind him, silent and faceless beneath black hoods. He looks at me like damaged goods, calculating what could still be salvaged. “You look exhausted, darling.” A reversed smile marks his face. He crouches in front of me, pulling a strand of my sticky hair behind my ear.

“Do you want me to end it?” he coos. And like a disgusting, weak person, I nod, because yes, please, end it, please, let me out. “But then you would have to be mine, you know that, right? No more Tristan. No more thinking about him and such silly things. You would be mine.”

Frowning, I recoil. Not in a million years. Not even if it meant letting me out of this hell. I am Tristan’s. There is no changing that. Ever. I would rather die than become a pet to this monster. He studies me for a long time, then he sighs, like I have disappointed him. “Ella,” he says as if I were a child, “you are out of your depth here, darling.” I stare at him, trying to keep my face empty of emotion. And the stupidest thing comes to my mind, as a reflex: the opportunity is so rare and so I spit right on his face, with as much strength as I can gather. My saliva hits the bridge of his nose, and his eyes narrow into slits at my defiance. Fear grips me by the shoulders as he slaps me hard, causing my head to whip to the side.

“You are lucky to still be alive,” he spits. “If you were not so important to him, I would have killed you the moment we got you.” Before he leaves, he looks back at me. “Oh,” he adds, “and do not think your behavior will go unpunished. Pray, my darling, because if your Prince Charming does not show up soon, I might make your life much harder.” The door shuts as the lock slides back into place. And with it, the adrenaline and courage I had cosplayed when he was there. I am left in the dark, once again, hugging myself like I have for all these years, praying for Tristan to find me, praying for our love to keep me alive long enough.

I will try, Tristan.

As God is my witness, I will try for us.

* * *

Footsteps come closer, the lock on the door moving as I cover my eyes from the light coming from the hallway. Come on, Ella, look. Take all the clues you can gather. Anything that could help you in one way or another. The man, who happens to be called Nikolai–the one who undressed me is standing there, completely drenched in black as my eyes adjust to the contrast of the lighted hallway. From my sitting position, I see between his boots. A door. No, another one. Wait. How many cells are in this basement? Nikolai comes closer, and I see another man guarding another door before my cell closes again. Now in complete darkness with a stranger. A dangerous one. Curling up in the corner as if I could sink into the wall, I use my arms to protect my body, holding my knees, hiding my face in the empty space between my chest and knees. An amused laugh slashes the air as I glance up, shaking; my heart goes at the rate of someone being dragged to the guillotine. There is another red dot, almost imperceptible, where his face should be. Could he be wearing night-vision goggles? Like in military movies I used to watch with Dad?

“How would you like to eat real food?”

Hesitantly, waiting for the catch, I give the slightest nod, my teeth impossibly clacking, my feet numb as if I have swum in an ice-cold ocean. If there were light, I am sure my breath would turn into white smoke. That’s how cold it is. He turns back, opening the door, waiting. Can I…go out? My heart thumps with the accelerating hope of finally having a way out. Would it be that easy? Where’s the catch?

Stumbling as I get up, I near the wall, resting a hand on it, finding sensation back in my feet, struggling to walk even though it has only been a couple of hours here. The frightening vision of spending months here comes to my mind. No, no. I cannot do this. Passing the doorway, I see him drink me in from head to toe. I cross my right arm over my chest, as if it could change anything about my situation.

Nikolai does not say anything, just walks ahead, and I follow him, taking everything in, making mental notes. Anything could help me. Doors, at least ten of them, guarded by three other men. All of them with guns at their belts, dressed in deep green, half their faces hidden by lower-face hoods, their eyes staring straight ahead as if I am invisible, not even human. With slow steps, I try to focus on sounds.

My naked feet against the concrete-gray floors. Another voice. No, two. Who’s in here with me? And what do they do to them?

My questions are interrupted by a set of stairs at the end of the hallway, leading up to another metal door. So I am in a basement. I was right about that. The door opens, carrying the same light underneath. Could there be levels to this underground place? We pass through a corridor, then another one, then another set of stairs, everything looking so alike, so gray, with neon lights and no windows, that I struggle to understand where I am and where my cell is now. A maze. A dark, scary, terrifying maze. After entering another hallway, Nikolai stops at a random door. He knocks twice, then three times. The door opens as he steps to the side, hands behind his back, looking straight past me, revealing the room inside.

“Come in,” says a voice, one I have heard before. A shrill of terror takes me, and I step back, shaking my head, only to find Nikolai’s hands on my bare shoulders. “Don’t be shy, little birdy.” Cole Vodianov comes into the picture from the right corner of the room. Similar to my cell, this one is slightly bigger, with a large burgundy rug, a table set with candles, two silver cloches, porcelain plates, red roses, and two chairs. There is a plastic bucket in the corner, contrasting with the fancy setting. Is it really there, or a twist of my imagination again?

“I’ll take it from here, Niko,” Cole snaps, his scent making me want to throw up, big palms disappearing from my shoulders as I look behind me, watching the door close on me once again. Between being alone in a cage or with a wolf, I would rather be alone. “Well, well, well.” Cole takes a step back, looking at me like I am a dessert he is going to have, while I turn, trying desperately to open the door, the handle unmoving, mocking my frail attempt. Without even acknowledging what I’m doing, he continues.

“Lobster?” Tears well in my eyes because the door will not budge, but even then, I keep trying until my hands are sore and aching. “You’re wasting your time, and…it is getting cold. Surely a darling girl like you would enjoy such delicate food.” He says it as I look back at him slowly, expecting a slap in the face at any moment. Why is he nice to me? And why the romantic setting in this dark place? Is it not the most twisted thing I have ever seen? Which is a lot to say after having lived with Mara’s mind games for a decade.

“Come on, darling, eat. I would hate to see you starve.” His tone changes, a commanding veil taking over the honeyed one.

Food.

My eyes betray me by drifting to the piece of fish, my stomach twisting and growling at the sight of it. Perhaps this idiot of a man can be manipulated into getting me out? I have never done that, but surely, that would be an okay thing to do in such circumstances, right? I need to find a way to get out of here, with help or no help.

Fighting back tears, I inhale, picturing that this is not Cole but Tristan. And this is not lobster, but mac and cheese, and we are eating together while watching a movie. He would hold my hand and tell me it will be okay, that I will soon wake up from this bad dream. Dissociating, I take the seat he is offering, as his eyes wander over my breasts, settling the chair under me as I sit closer to the table. Removing the cloche, he announces, “Enjoy, darling,” like a proud father, and rounds the table to take his seat in front of me. Focus on the food. You need fuel to think and live. That is all this is. You are not betraying Tristan. Your body is sitting here, but in your mind, you are with him.

I seek the fork only to realize he has not given me one. Nor a knife.

“One can never be too careful.” He chuckles, mouth full of red lobster. As if a woman my size could overpower him? He wants me to eat with my hands? Like an animal? First the cell. Then the clothes. Then…that? Tristan’s face comes to me, and I pray. I pray he is out there, searching for me, and that he will find me before this place swallows me whole. I pray my mind will be strong enough to survive until then, strong enough to bring me back to Tristan when the time comes. If the time comes.

So Cole wants me to act like an animal? Then I will. I will eat with the distinguished manners of a princess, because that’s how Tristan calls me. I will use my fingers like precious tools and feed myself with as much poise as I can manage, because this stranger, hurting us, does not deserve to see the broken parts of me fall apart. Behind a camera in my cell, perhaps, but not here, where my dignity is all that can shield me from this madman. Delicately, with the tips of my fingers, I tear the flesh of the lobster and dutifully eat a piece of it. Taking my time like Mara would, like my life doesn't depend on my ability to sustain myself and be strong enough to stay alive here. Cole watches me, amused, wiping a white napkin over his mouth, talking with his mouth still full.

“Uh,” he huffs. “Yeah, I see why you two make a perfect match.” A hint of annoyance brushes his tone. Could he be…jealous? Is he expecting me to reply? How could I when I have no pen and paper, and I highly doubt his ability to learn a language that would require a level of empathy I doubt he could ever possess. My stomach answers with a growl, which earns me a devilish smile scraped of any form of human emotion. Never mind the hunger. Thanks to Mara, I have been trained to fast for hours on end, sometimes two days in a row. Offering me such a feast will not be free, and I have no wish to know the price I will have to pay. Hands under my thighs, I look at the flame of the candle between us, dancing, faltering, then keeping upright again.