In My Arms You Shall Hide

Chapter 11

Kittie

I spend most of the night shuffling around the bedroom, looking for a way out. I feel around the bedroom door, only to find the new latch bolt installed outside isn’t going anywhere. Nothing in the marble-accented bathroom or the off-white bedroom, such as a vent, could be a means of escape. There’s no window, and the door won’t budge.

Eventually, the ache in my abdomen screams at me to rest. I lie down on the full-sized mattress and flip violently between denial and confusion.

Dorian can’t do this to me. There has to be something I don’t understand, something I missed.

I keep closing my eyes and expecting to wake up in my own bed, but I’m still faced with the white walls, the dark wood wainscoting, and the cedar, wall-bound shelves. I wait for him to return to the bedroom and tell me that this is some terrible joke. That never happens.

It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not a dream, yet I stare unseeing across the room. Any semblance of reality disappears. I fear this might be something my brain has conjured up, but it doesn’t fade.

Low light peaks through the curtains, heralding the arrival of the morning. My mom must be worried sick. Maybe she thinks I abandoned her. By the time that realization sinks in, I’m numb.

Who’s going to remind her the mortgage payment is due? And there are the coupons to cut. She doesn’t know where to look or what to get. Her coworker, Amanda, has a baby shower coming up, and I meant to remind her to get a gift. Plus, the grass is getting too long. I was supposed to take care of it before the neighbors complain.

A knock at the door jolts me out of my worry. I pull myself to sit up in bed, trembling at the pain in my ribs and at the notion of facing Dorian—or the strange, dark version of him I met a few hours ago.

I wait for someone to open the door, and when a second knock comes, I stare at it in confusion.

A third knock. Then, a light, airy voice speaks to me behind the white door. “Katherine? I’ve come to help you get ready for the day. Do you want to have breakfast?”

The idea is so mundane and innocent that I can’t help but call out, “Breakfast?”

The door creaks open. It’s a woman—Raney, I presume. She’s in ripped jeans and a black knitted sweater, rolled at her elbows. She smiles at me, and it’s thin and uneasy. It’s hard to tell in her gaunt, androgynous face, but she looks about my age, maybe a little older.

“I figured you could probably use a shower,” she says as she shuts the door behind her.

I exchange blank glances between her and the door; if I could, I might consider trying to rush past her to make it out into the hall. There’s no chance, though, not with the condition of my ribs.

“I went ahead and grabbed you some clothes from the store this morning,” she replies in a scratchy voice, and I notice a few shopping bags on her bent arm. “Well, I didn’t, but I did choose your outfits. I bought a little of everything, so maybe I can figure out your style. If you hate it all, I can totally get you different stuff. You just let me know, okay?”

Not trusting my voice, I decide to nod.

The bags rustle as she sets them down. I numbly clock the designer names on the bags, but I barely process the clothes she starts pulling out. She drapes something with a brown floral print over her arm and turns back to me. Her movements are stiff and uncertain, and given that her smile keeps sloping off her face before she slaps it back on, I wonder if Raney’s just as confused as I am.

How can this woman be okay with this situation? Maybe he’s blackmailing her? Threatening her? Even if none of these things seems like something Dorian would do…I have to consider it.

Clearly, I don’t know him at all.

“What do you think?” she prompts, lifting the fabric in display. It’s a long, wrap dress with billowing sleeves. It’s…cute. A lot nicer than most of my clothes. “I figured since Dorian says you’re still healing, you should put on something that doesn’t require yanking and pulling.”

I flinch at Dorian’s name like it injects reality into me. A small, immature part of me might have been thrilled to know he talked about me to others, but the dread is too thick for me to feel it.

“How about a shower first?” she suggests when I don’t reply. “I can help if you need it.”

An impulse takes hold of me, and I blurt out, “Why am I here, Raney?” It’s a pointless question, and using her name like I know her at all is a long shot, but I hope to humanize myself to her. “Is something going on?”

Raney’s thin smile tumbles off her face again. “I guess we don’t need to do introductions, huh?” She sighs and lowers the dress. “It’s…complicated. But that’s a conversation Dorian will have with you. I’m…sorry about all of this, but I just follow his lead, you know?”

I try to sound patient. “You can’t just tell me what’s going on?”

Raney won’t look at me. “Our family has a really complicated history. I’ll just leave it at that for now. Sorry.”

I stare down at my lap, shocked that I have enough tears left to make my vision blur.I consider throwing myself onto the carpet and begging, but I don’t have it in me. Anger takes the place of grief.

“Katherine?” Raney calls, worry straining her voice.

I lift my chin and quickly wipe the corners of my eyes. For no reason at all, I correct her. “Kittie.”

“Huh?”

“I prefer Kittie.”

Perhaps it’s partly my automatic tendency to correct people—and part of it is also the fact that no matter what Dorian’s doing, Raney seems kind.

And if I’m going to gain any headway—whether learning the truth or escaping—winning her friendship might be the best foot to start off on.

“Okay,” she agrees and cautiously walks over to the bed. “What’s wrong with ‘Katherine’?”

“It…just sounds so serious. I don’t know. People only use your full name when you’re in trouble. Plus, I don’t like Kat or Kathy; my dad called me that. He left, so those names just bring up bad memories.”

Raney nods a few times before laying the dress on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

It’s painful to think about my father, even now, with all the other conflicting emotions overflowing in my chest. I imagine what life would have been like if he had never left. I’ve realized we’re better off apart.

“I’m not,” I admit softly. When I feel Raney’s empathetic, heavy eyes on me, shocked by their genuineness, I dare to say, “Dorian’s never mentioned you before. He didn’t talk about his family.”

Raney flaps her lips and waves a casual hand at me as if this is any other normal conversation. “I guess he wouldn’t; legally speaking, I’m not supposed to be here…or anywhere.”

I blink slowly. Maybe it is blackmail.

When I don’t respond, she winks at me. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

It shouldn’t surprise me that faucets of Dorian’s life exist that I know nothing about. We’ve talked at length, but how much can be covered in such a short time?

But how could I have been this blind?

Raney guides me to the attached bathroom. Moving is easier now, but I’m careful with my steps. She lays my clothes on the marble-topped vanity in the bathroom and opens the glass shower door for me.

I scan the bathroom when I enter; no windows and nothing besides bottles, cleaners, and a new hairbrush on the vanity. I ignore my reflection when I catch it in the wide, wall-mounted mirror. My face is still healing, and my hair is like a rat’s nest.

In the marble-tiled shower stall, shampoo and soap bottles—all expensive brands that smell like roses and I never could’ve afforded on my own—line the stone shelf jutting out of the wall.

Raney shuts the rolling, fogged glass door, and I restrain an argument and start the shower. She instructs me to hold onto the grab bar, and I wordlessly take her up on the advice. As I let the water run over me, it dawns on me the efforts that Dorian went to.

Is this love?

I shake my head fiercely to chase the irrational thought away. It’s clear my brain still hasn’t recovered because I can’t honestly be this crazy.

Once I finish halfheartedly bathing myself, I turn off the water and grab the towel Raney hung over the lip of the glass door. I dry myself. She hands me clothes overhead and patiently waits until I’ve dressed completely before opening the door.

“Thank you,” I squeeze out once she has me seated on the cushioned stool in front of the vanity. I’m so sore and winded standing only for a few minutes that I wonder how I made it three blocks to the city park yesterday.

The memory—and the confusion—stings my eyes, so I push it out of my mind.

I’m unwilling to glance up at myself and instead eye all the cosmetics on the counter. All of them are high-end, all unsealed and unopened.

Raney gathers my damp hair in my hands and pats it dry with a white hand towel. “Why the thank you ?”

“You stayed and helped me,” I tell her honestly.

Raney treats my wavy, damp locks carefully. When I don’t speak, she softly says, “Well, you need the help. It’s what people should do for one another.”

Then help me get away from here.

I want to plead with her but think better of it. If I’m going to pull her onto my side, I don’t want to push too hard. I have no clue what Dorian’s planning, but I don’t want to stick around and find out.

Dorian won’t hurt you , the foolish, misguided voice echoes in my head.

I consider for half a second trying to overpower the woman and make a break for it. There’s no way someone went behind her and bolted the room shut. This might be my best chance.

Not only am I exhausted and not in shape to fight her, but the images of the strange, stoic man from last night frighten me. No doubt he can do some actual harm if he catches me running.

I inhale deeply and dare to peek up at her reflection in the vanity mirror. “There was another man here last night. Who is he?”

“Oh, you must mean Cory. Grumpy fellow, right?” She plops the towel in the laundry basket by the vanity and gathers my hair in her hands again. “He’s another cousin. You’ll see him around.”

Is Cory being blackmailed as well? He had been so cold and distant last night that I was more terrified of him than Dorian. I tumble into a long line of pondering as Raney begins to weave my wet hair together.

More horrifying than how these two can possibly be complicit in what’s going on is the implication that I’ll be here long enough to learn all about them. The finality of my imprisonment makes me sick to my stomach, and I try to focus on an escape plan before I vomit all over the beautiful white marble countertop.

“Your hair is such a pretty color,” she tells me after gingerly tying my hair into a French braid. She lowers the heavy braid to my back. “You ready for breakfast?”

I give a half-hearted nod, feeling the nausea flow through me at the idea of what that entails. To my shock, she guides me back through the bedroom and opens the door.

I hesitate by the doorway before I reluctantly follow along at her side. I’m tempted to try and run through the estate to get away, but not only would she close the distance between us quickly and easily with my injuries, but I don’t know the layout. The place is an imposing maze, and I’ll get lost sooner than find a path of escape.

Raney takes me through the hallway as I swallow my anxiety. If my slow pace bothers her, she doesn’t show it.

It feels surreal to wander through the house, and I’m struck with that familiar sense that it’s all just a dream. I don’t wake by the time we reach the dining room.

What doesn’t help is that when I step through the arched doorway, I spot Dorian seated at one end of the dining room table, flipping through a hefty packet of stapled papers.

I go rigid when I see him, my heart jumping into my throat. I love seeing him in the backdrop of his home, but I’m also afraid I don’t know him at all.

My denial finally fades completely.