Kept (Forbidden Fairytales #1)

1. 1 – Zella

T ick.

Tick.

Tick.

The mechanical sound burrows into me. It pulses inside my brain, drumming against the back of my skull and making my eyelids flicker.

My eyes stay closed, my forehead wrinkling with the effort of keeping them shut as I listen.

There are no footsteps. No music plays in another room. There’s no cheerful whistling from a companion. No sign of life anywhere around me.

Just silence. Endless, empty, echoing silence.

Tick.

And that stupid clock.

Sighing, I give up on any thoughts of going back to sleep and sit up, pushing the tangled covers away from my bare legs. As I scan the room, my eyes are drawn to the dress I carelessly discarded last night, crumpled in a heap on the floor.

My feet pad across the deep cream carpet as I reach down to pick it up. The white material crumples further as my fingers burrow into it.

Turning, I place it carefully into my empty washing basket before I head to the bathroom.

My feet press into the same slight grooves in the carpet, years of following the same routine showing in the wear and tear of the room around me.

Routine is important , I remind myself. Shucking off my sleep shorts and camisole, I detangle myself, yanking at a thin silk strap irritably when it catches on my braid.

Stepping into the huge shower, I gradually pull the braid in with me, tugging off the various bands at the end and running my fingers through it to loosen the intricate weaving that keeps it at least partly out of my way.

The tightness in my scalp begins to ease as I work my way through, and I send a moment of thanks as I slap my hand to start the hot water that I live in an apartment with a gigantic walk-in shower.

Ignoring the mass of hair waiting to be washed, I take a moment to enjoy the way the water pummels against my back, loosening tension in my spine I didn’t even notice was there until I’m sagging against the spotless white tiles.

It’s only when I’m in danger of turning into an actual prune that I begrudgingly reach out, starting to pull my hair through the water until it’s soaked and heavy against my scalp.

Routine.

Shampoo.

Pour into hand, scrub.

Pour more into hand, scrub.

Aaaand pour more into hand. Scrub again.

Rinse. Rinse again. Keep rinsing.

My arms are already aching by the time I finish, and I glare at the conditioner.

My own personal nemesis.

This part takes the longest, and I manage to snap two teeth off my comb too. By the time I’ve found them, hidden amongst the soaking strands, my mood has plummeted.

The bathroom fills up with clouds of steam as I work. Taking my time, I wait until the very last bubble swirls away before I climb out and start squeezing the excess water out of my hair, watching the liquid escape down the drain.

I grab a clean white towel from the cupboard, wrapping it around myself and gathering up the heavy mass in my arms, carrying it out to my bedroom.

Dropping it to the ground with a solid thud, it drags along the carpet, leaving wet patches behind as I pull open the drawers on my dressing table.

There are dozens of brushes, each one designed to help me wrangle the almost white-blonde hair that runs well past my feet, enough to wrap around my waist several times and still have miles left over.

Sighing, I take a seat and begin the arduous task of brushing it out. Starting from the bottom, I work out every single knot, wincing as I move through. Even with a boatload of conditioner, I still manage to find knots. Every. Single. Time.

Deep, emerald-green eyes peer back at me from the mirror, set against skin that stays a golden hue despite never seeing a hint of sun. My hair falls around me like a shield, and not for the first time, I wonder what I’d look like if I was able to cut it.

My fingers drum on the glass of my dressing table before I turn away.

Never gonna happen. Ethan would have a heart attack if I even mentioned it.

But the fluttering in my chest doesn’t stop as I pull open the wardrobe and step back.

“Tell me,” I ask out loud, tapping my lips. “What should I wear today? Green? Pink? A little neon?”

Row upon row of neatly pressed, identical white dresses stare back at me.

One has a slight crumple in the sleeve. Seizing it with a weird sense of satisfaction, I give the rest of the dresses a smug smile and slam the door closed.

Once I’m dressed, I wander into the wider apartment. My bedroom and bathroom is the only enclosed space in thousands of feet, the rest of the apartment completely open plan. Weaving my way between the various figures spread out across the vast space, I pause at one familiar face.

“Good morning, Dante.” Tilting my head, I peer at the sculpture. Dante sits, his wrist balancing loosely on his knee as he stares back at me. A lock of hair curls over his eye.

“Good morning, Zella,” I say in my deepest voice. “Did you sleep well?”

Nodding, I shift on my feet. “I did, thank you.”

He stares back at me. Maybe he’s not up for conversation this morning. Sometimes he talks for hours.

Or… maybe that’s me.

Moving on, I work my way towards the kitchen, offering up greetings to a few of my other companions as I pass by. The coffee is running low, and I stare at the pot despondently as it dribbles the last little drop of liquid gold into my cup.

I hope Ethan remembers to bring some.

Taking my precious last cup, I wrap my fingers around the warmth and move across to my little sitting area.

I’ve done my best to make it as cozy as I can, even with the lack of color.

My fingers brush against my plant, my one piece of greenery, and I settle back into my leather chair, my eyes already turning towards the window.

The little flip of daily excitement turns over in my stomach.

Any minute now.

The first, golden fingers of sunshine appear slowly, casting the white space around me in hues of rose and gold. My breath catches, the edges of my lips tilting up into a grin as I’m bathed in warmth.

The one time of day that my life is filled with color. Vibrant, beautiful color. It surrounds me, and I turn to see the statues I share my life with lit up like they could actually come to life and be the companions I pretend they are.

My chest aches as the sunrise moves on, settling smoothly into the early morning light that fills the apartment. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see it again.

One day.

One day, I’ll see it in person. Not from behind a wall of glass. I’ll feel the wind on my face, flicking through my hair as I sit on grass in a pair of jeans, my fingers sinking into the mud.

That day is not today.

Hours stretch out in front of me, beckoning with emptiness.

Blinking heavily, I rub my fist against the pain in my chest and try to push back the selfish thoughts.

Here, I am cared for.

Here, I am safe.

Maybe it’s not the most exciting life, but at least I’m warm, and fed.

To feel anything other than grateful feels like a betrayal to everything Ethan has done for me. Everything my parents did for me.

Brushing the dampness from my cheeks, I slap my hand down on my leg and push to my feet.

“Today is not the day for a pity party, Zella.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I survey the room. The statues stare back at me, unblinking.

“Today,” I announce, “will be a busy day.”

Digging around under the sink, I pull out my supplies, laying them out across the marble counter like soldiers marching off to war. I start at the very end of the room, close to the elevator.

Every surface gets cleaned.

I carefully wipe over the pale metallic doors of the elevator, spraying them down to remove any sneaky non-existent finger marks, and do the same with the small keypad next to it. My hand pauses over the keys.

Cautiously, I lean forward, my finger gently pressing against a button as I hold my breath.

I wait. My breath quickens in short huffs, eyes flicking to the dark strip above the elevator that shows the lift rising.

But there’s nothing. No lights ding. There’s no sign of any life at all.

Safe.

I rip my hand away from the keypad. What is wrong with me today?

Turning my back on it, I work through my routine. Surface cleaning, vacuuming, mopping. Today I get down on my knees and carefully work my way down the room, cleaning each skirting board to make sure not a speck of dust exists.

When the main room is done, I turn to the statues.

Dante is first. Taking the fine, soft cloth in my hand, I gently press it over his hair, moving down in sweeping strokes. He stares straight ahead as I reach his stomach, my hands tracing over the hard edges and pausing.

“Talk to me, Dante,” I whisper. It’s almost a plea as I stare up at him, cold and unmoving.

But only silence responds.

Sometimes, I think I’m losing my mind.

And sometimes I think I’ve already lost it.

Getting to my feet, I turn my face away and move on, taking the liberty of approaching my favorites first. There’s Maria, the archangel with the kind face whose wings take up more than their fair share of space.

And then there’s Psyche and Cupid, both of them curled around each other.

They don’t spare a look for anyone else.

“You’re very lucky, you know that?” I tell Psyche softly as I run the cloth over her arms. “To have him.”

Cupid ignores me, staring down at her. His arm curves around her protectively.

“Don’t worry,” I murmur. “I’m only cleaning her, Cupid.”

I’m a little tempted to flick her nipple and see if his face changes, but Ethan would freak if I scratched her.

By the time lunch rolls around, the room is as spotless as it was this morning.

Sighing, I pull out the ingredients for my salad. Chicken, cherry tomatoes, lettuce, cucumber, bell pepper, a little ranch. Taking my time, I cut the vegetables carefully, laying them out on the plate and admiring the little burst of color before I take it over to the window to eat.

The skyline looks much the same as it always does. Rooftop after rooftop, bricks and cement and birds. Setting my plate down, I press my nose against the window and do my best to look down, but I’m too high up to see the people on the street below.

Giving up, I turn back to survey the room. It almost glints in the light.

I tilt my head.

I suppose my bathroom could do with a clean. And I could change my bed.

I mean, I did it yesterday, but there’s nothing quite like the feel of clean bedding.

An hour later, I’m crouched in front of the little shelf in my corner. My fingers trace over the old, cracked spines almost reverently. Carefully, I pull out a tattered hardback copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“Hello, Mr. Darcy,” I murmur absently, curling into my chair. I pull at my hair until it offers a cushion for my arm, opening the book to the ballroom scene.

“Such an ass,” I mutter fondly.

My hand reaches out for caffeine-y goodness, but it only grasps empty air.

I really hope Ethan brings coffee. If I’m really lucky, he might bring a new book too. My eyes flick to the clock.

A few hours. Plenty of time.