Chapter 1 #2
The windows were adorned with intricate lead designs in diamond patterns, each pane catching the flickering light of an old chandelier that hung above.
It was beautifully archaic, with its blown glass lanterns, that was at least modernized with soft bulbs that mimicked candlelight.
Their glow danced against the walls just like the real flames did.
In fact, I questioned now, who had even lit those candles?
Had it been dark when I first arrived in here? I couldn’t remember.
Thick red Persian rugs covered the floor, the colors blending perfectly with the dark mahogany furniture and the red-and-gold bedding.
The room itself was enormous, almost like a small apartment.
To one side sat a quiet sitting area with a low table and an armchair angled toward the fire, and to the other, a small dining table with two chairs.
Huge wardrobes lined another wall, carved from the same wood, and their mirrored doors speckled with age. They looked too heavy to open, yet when I tried, the hinges yielded easily with a whisper of oiled metal.
Inside, rows of dresses hung neatly in place, but I knew I wouldn’t be needing any of them, so I closed the door, moving on quickly.
This time to large dresser that reached my shoulders.
I tugged one open, and the wood groaned softly, the ancient joints protesting.
Inside, I found neatly folded stacks of brand-new clothes still with tags attached.
Plain shirts, jeans, soft jumpers, all of the best quality.
Yet there were no patterns, no colors beyond safe shades of black, white, and grey.
It was as if whoever had bought them hadn’t known who they were buying for, so they had chosen the safest options possible. Or perhaps the person who bought them wanted to erase any trace of personality. To strip away vibrance before it could mirror the person beneath the fabric.
Even the sneakers, still boxed at the bottom of the wardrobe, were plain white. One pair of black dress shoes sat beside them, simple but elegant, able to match any of the dresses hanging above. What startled me most was that every size was correct.
Somehow, he had known.
In one drawer, I found pajamas, and finally some color, as if what I wore to bed didn’t matter, as he never had any intention of seeing them.
I picked out a burgundy set, material soft as butter against my sore skin.
No patterns, no lace, nothing to draw attention.
Just comfort, pure and unadorned. I pressed the fabric between my fingers, marveling at how gentle it felt, and for a fleeting second, I forgot where I was.
Once dressed, I pulled the curtains closed shutting, out the pitch black beyond, along with the faint reflection of my bruised and beaten face.
I knew I would be black and blue by morning.
The glimpse I’d caught in the bathroom mirror had been enough to make me wince.
I’d tried to keep the water from my face, careful not to disturb the bandages he had applied, though the ones around my wrists were still damp, clinging to sore skin.
Because no matter how I tried, there was no way to wash all the blood from my hair or neck without getting my hands wet.
I remembered staring at those thin red rivulets sliding down the drain, the sight pulling me back to the kitchen, back to when he’d tried to wash it away himself.
He had been almost…I don’t know… offended by the sight of my blood.
As though it had affected him. I could still see the image of his hand, strong and sure, squeezing the cloth in his fist, the pink-stained water seeping between his fingers.
Every motion had been careful, deliberate, meticulous, like a man fulfilling a duty he didn’t understand.
Yet those hands, huge and calloused, had been unexpectedly gentle. The same could be said for the rest of him. He was a mountain of a man, my head barely reaching his chest, and yet he had handled me with a kind of care that didn’t belong to someone like him.
It made me wonder if there was even the smallest chance, I could ever crack that hard exterior.
For clearly, on some level, he cared. Maybe not enough to admit it, but enough to show it.
If he hadn’t, he would have simply tossed me into this room and locked the door.
Or worse, kept his word and put me in a cell beneath the house.
Either way, I would have lived, his bargaining chip intact, but he hadn’t done that.
He had acted in a way that went against everything I thought I knew of him. The tormentor of my dreams had become my savior, and that kind of irony was not lost on me.
I lay back on the bed after blowing out the candles, now debating whether to leave the chandeliers’ lights on or not.
Admittedly, with the wind howling beyond the windows, rattling the aged glass panes, the events of the night looped in my mind.
So, I couldn’t sleep. It was impossible.
Whether it was the fading rush of adrenaline or sheer exhaustion, my body refused to surrender.
He had probably assumed I’d pass out the moment my head hit the pillow, but that was far from the truth.
My mind was too full. My body too sore. And my head was now throbbing from the blows I’d taken. And it was just one part of me that was screaming for something as simple as painkillers.
Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how I tried. The longer I lay there, the louder the ache in my head became, pulsing behind my eyes like a warning drum. Eventually, I gave up, the sound of frustration escaping my lips as I slapped my hands down on the thick material of the sheets,
“Argh!” I was sure I remembered the way to the kitchen. Maybe I could find that tin of his, the one he’d used to wrap my bandages. There had to be something inside it, maybe painkillers, or anything that could dull the throbbing. I hesitated, wondering what would happen if he found me there.
The thought sent a shiver through me.
Still, pain and thirst were winning over fear. My mouth felt like ash. I needed water, though I didn’t even know if the tap water here was safe. I’d heard there were places where it wasn’t, and this place, with its old pipes and older secrets, didn’t exactly scream trustworthy.
I did remember seeing a large fridge freezer downstairs. Surely, he had bottled water… Surely.
And if not, well, I’d deal with that when I got there. Painkillers first. That was non-negotiable. My head felt like it was splitting open.
Finally, I threw the covers back, the soft fabric whispering against my skin. I walked to the door, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug, and paused with my hand on the handle. The cool metal pressed into my palm, grounding me for a moment.
I drew in a deep breath and turned it, stepping quietly into the corridor beyond.
Venturing into the unknown home of my enemy.
My dreams’ tormentor.
My kidnapper…
My savior.