Chapter 7 - Elowyn
ELOWYN
Coming back to my body turns out to be a slow and grueling process.
Mild nausea rolls through me, churning in my stomach. There’s a metallic tang on my tongue. My throat is raw.
On top of that, I feel the stiff sheets beneath me. Every inch of my skin registers their texture. Far more than I would be able to if I were dressed.
Oh God.
Oh. God.
I’m naked.
Everything’s flooding back.
The Estate. Herbert. The drink.
The man in the white mask.
A knot forms in my throat as I remember how easily I sank into a heavy, forced sleep. All so I could be stripped of my clothes.
Was that all, or was I raped?
Panicked, I take a mental inventory and realize my breasts are sensitive, which is horrifying enough on its own.
Thankfully, though, I’m not sore between my legs.
Lube could help him slide in easily without hurting me, I’m aware.
Then again, this would’ve been my first time. My hymen would’ve been broken.
I would’ve felt something.
I don’t.
Like it matters. Like being raped or not changes the fact that I was drugged. That someone touched me while I was out.
One way or the other, I was violated.
That last part, that word, violated, has ice spreading through my veins. Panic threatens to knock me out all over again.
No. I have to stay awake. Have to snap the hell out of it.
You’re strong, Elowyn. You’ve got this.
Deep breath—one, two, three, a thousand—and the tremors stop. My pulse slows as I regain control of my body.
The next step is to come face-to-face with reality.
Don’t!
A scowl twists my features at the strange warning.
I wish I could listen to it, but I have no choice except to open my eyes.
The sun is already up, bright enough that when I look down, I can see myself clearly.
A tear slips out, then another, rolling down my temples.
Somehow, seeing my body bare makes everything worse. Makes it real.
The man in the mask, The Restorer—oh God, oh God, oh God—he must’ve been the one to touch me. This sick bastard did it while I was out.
He got off on that too. I remember it clearly. How his dark eyes gleamed right before I lost consciousness.
A tremor rattles my teeth.
More breaths. More shallow inhales. More exhales that burn my throat.
Though it takes me forever, I manage to look at my body again without being swallowed up by anxiety.
Other than being naked, it seems like I haven’t been harmed.
Except deep down, something feels off with my body. Heart lodged in my throat, I run a hand over my neck, my arms, my waist.
I gasp when I reach my stomach.
It’s sticky.
It’s him.
His cum.
During senior year, I heard girls talking in our school’s locker rooms. How some boys were into marking their girlfriends with their seed. How hot it was.
Maybe for them. And why not? They consented to it.
I haven’t. I haven’t been awake for this. No one’s asked me what I wanted.
Another wave of nausea rolls over me. Acid burns through my stomach.
My eyes squeeze shut, shame making me want to disappear.
Barclay was right. The Restorer has invited me here to be his whore. To fulfill his sick sexual fantasies.
Why me?
Where did he even find me?
Was he a patient at the hospital? Is he one of the doctors or nurses who work there? The med-room watchers?
Maybe. Or maybe The Restorer caught a glimpse of me on the street on my way to or from work. A complete stranger who developed a twisted obsession.
The heavy eyes on me in the hospital. The creepy presence near my home.
It could’ve been him all along.
He could’ve been studying his prey. Determining if I was good enough to be tortured.
I slam a hand over my mouth to silence a sob.
No money, no agreement, no promise is worth being treated like this.
A dingy apartment in another city, somewhere where they won’t ask for a credit score and are willing to take cash, we could do that. It wouldn’t be optimal, given Barclay’s condition.
Better than living on the street, though. Better than being used.
Gathering what’s left of my strength, I move to sit on the side of the bed.
That’s when I stop cold, ice rakes across my skin as shock hits me.
Photos. Dozens of them, pinned to the wall in front of me, reaching as high as six-four, six-five, their edges overlapping.
My face goes numb as I understand what I’m seeing.
It’s me. I’m the model in each photo.
Every inch of my body is documented on this wall from hell, arranged into a diabolical collage.
The small freckle over my elbow. The faint bleach marks on my fingertips. My hair, each lock of it appearing in a different frame.
This has to be a nightmare.
This…this can’t be real life. Can’t.
Determined to touch this collage, I throw my feet on the floor, making my way to the wall. That’s what you do with nightmares, after all. You confront them with reality, then they disappear.
My fingers tremble as I raise them to the closest cluster of photos.
The curve of my waist. The corner of my eye. Right above my crack.
I end up pressing a finger to what I think is a part of my collarbone.
It doesn’t go away. I don’t magically blink my eyes open and find myself in my own bed.
I’m.
Still.
Here.
“No.” I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, silencing a horrified scream. “No.”
Repeating the word ten or twenty more times doesn’t help. Doesn’t change a goddamn thing.
Everything that’s happened to me is real.
My eyes dart across the wall without my permission, and I flinch. I cry. Catching glimpses of white gel-like splotches on my skin is nearly as nauseating as their texture.
I should slip through the door, tiptoe down the hallways. Sneak out. Run back home as fast as I can.
I will.
“My clothes.” I whip around, running to the bed to start looking for them. “I need my clothes. Where are they?”
They’re not on top of the covers. Not under. The floor is pristine.
I let out a frustrated groan, but I don’t give up. With my hand stretched out under the bed, I check to see if my monster missed something there. Even just my blouse.
Nothing.
Still searching for clothes, I tear open the first dresser drawer just as the door to the room opens.
“No!” I’ve never sprinted so fast in my life.
The only thing I care about is getting to the bathroom and slamming the door behind me.
A whimper escapes me when I notice the door is missing a lock. There’s no furniture to drag over and barricade myself inside, either. Everything here is built in.
“Crap!” I throw my back against the door and dig my heels into the floor.
As if this day hasn’t been bad enough, now my reflection stares at me from the vanity mirror.
Wide eyes. Pale cheeks. Dark circles. Hair wild.
The last time I looked this horrified and trapped was when Barclay told me we were broke and that no, we were not selling the house. Over his dead body.
“Miss Montgomery?” A woman’s voice barely reaches me over the blood roaring in my ears. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally. I’m Miss Holt. Mary. Herbert mentioned me, he said?”
I don’t fall for her sweet act. Shaking my head, I shout, “Get out.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She knocks gently, and I dig my heels deeper into the floor. “The Restorer asked me to deliver this box and stay until it’s been received and opened. So…it’s either the easy way or the hard way. I hope you choose wisely and come out.”
“Never.” I’m determined and desperate enough to hold my ground. “Leave me alone.”
Her sigh is a sad one. “The hard way it is.”
A bulldozer starts shoving the door open. Except it’s not a bulldozer. It’s a terrifyingly powerful person.
I fight Mary with everything I’ve got, placing my hands flat against the door.
“Miss Montgomery.” Her voice is strained. “Please.”
“Go.” My body works as a unit to keep the door shut. Sweat beads on my forehead. I cry out when my heels slide forward, refusing to stay in place. “Away!”
“I urge you to come out. You’re perfectly safe here, I promise.”
An idea takes shape. Maybe, hopefully, if I appeal to her conscience, she’ll stop. She might even be able to talk to him.
“He stripped me.” I plant my heels back where they were, only to have Miss Holt push them another few inches forward. “He touched me while I was out.”
She doesn’t answer. Not verbally.
Her body does.
One last shove, and the door slams open, throwing me off balance. I stumble forward, my hands reaching for the vanity before I can fall.
Once I steady myself, I whirl around fast, gasping and throwing my arms over my body. A feeble attempt to cover myself up.
Mary’s heels clink as she steps inside without hesitation. As I try to recover, she simply fixes her dark hair that’s graying at the temples, her brown eyes already locked on me.
Petite beneath her black, knee-length dress, she looks to be in her sixties. But her age isn’t what I focus on.
It’s how deceptively unthreatening she seems.
Mary is a menace, much like her boss and Herbert.
“Listen, I don’t want a box. Not your warning. Not this asshole’s money. Nothing.” I glance to my left, relieved to find a shelf full of clean towels. I quickly snatch one and wrap it around myself. “Give me my clothes back, please. I’m getting out of here.”
“No one’s holding you here against your will.” She folds her hands in front of her, a polite smile curving her lips now that she’s had a second to catch her breath. “Just remember, if you walk away from this, you’ll lose your house.”
My mouth opens, then snaps shut.
That monster, he knew. Not only that, but he had to shame me by sharing the information with other people.
“My house is none of your business,” I clip once I find my voice again. “Why are you even taking his side? Can’t you see how insane this whole situation is?”
“He may be cold.” He, The Restorer. “But he isn’t unreasonable. At the end of the day, he’s helping you with your finances, isn’t he?”
“May be cold? Not unreasonable?” Is she insane? Didn’t she see the unhinged collage outside? “Helping me?”
When she doesn’t say a word, I gesture to myself, then to the bedroom, my hand flailing in the air as if to say, Look!
“Elowyn, I—can I call you that?”
“Fine.” As if being on a first-name basis changes anything. She’s already seen me naked. “What?”
“As I mentioned, there’s a box waiting for you on your bed. In it is just a…dress.”
“Not my bed.”
“Of course.” She plucks a robe off a nearby hook and holds it open for me.
Humiliation stings hot across my cheeks. I hate having to accept anything from these people.
As if I have a choice.
It’s either that or staying as exposed as I am now.
The fabric brushes my skin as I push my arms through the sleeves.
While I knot the robe tight around my waist, I murmur, “I can handle my own finances. I’ll figure it out.”
I look up to find her offering me a soft, knowing smile. “What about your brother?”
Ouch.
“We’ll manage.”
“This is an amazing opportunity for you,” she continues, like I didn’t just tell her to go to hell politely. “Go ahead, open the box. I’ll pretend I was here for it.” Another soft smile. “Meanwhile, I’ll get you a light lunch. Tea and soup would surely help calm your nerves.”
“Lunch? What time is it? How long have I been out?” How long has The Restorer had access to my body?
Mary says, “It’s one p.m.,” then slips out of the bathroom and my room, closing the door behind her.
One p.m.
It means The Restorer could’ve been here for hours while I was naked and vulnerable.
My temples throb. My hands shake at my sides.
Mary might be convinced that lunch would help. I’m not.
No tea, no food, nor kindness will change the fact that I’m broke, humiliated, and cornered.
Even after I eat, I’ll still be a mess.
I press a hand to my forehead, pinching my eyes shut. Thinking.
When I open them again, my resolution locks into place.
There’s a way out of this mess without giving up the money.
I need to renegotiate my terms, to make it very clear that my body isn’t his. I’m not here to be touched, used, or frightened into obedience.
And there’s one more thing I can’t afford to forget—the house.
Back home, I figured we’d talk about the taxes calmly, like two people solving a problem together.
That’s not going to happen, obviously.
Regardless, I have to ask The Restorer to pay the property taxes directly while I’m here, instead of funneling the money through Barclay.
If the cash goes to my brother first, there’s no guarantee it’ll ever reach the county. He’ll gamble it away long before a single bill gets paid.
First things first, though. The box.
The Restorer wants me to see what’s in it, and I’m willing to do that. Maybe, besides the dress, there are further instructions waiting for me inside. If I follow them, maybe he’ll be reasonable enough to hear me out.
I reach the bed, letting my fingertips graze the lid.
The texture coaxes painful memories to the surface, sending a sharp pang through my heart.
The clothes Mom used to buy us came in boxes much like this one. But it’s not the luxury I miss. Not that life.
What I ache for are the days when I still had someone to share the burden with.
When I wasn’t helpless.
For over ten years, though, that’s exactly what I’ve been.
Helpless to make Duncan love me. Helpless to stop Barclay from gambling. Helpless to demand college or a career.
I’ve been living, but I haven’t been alive.
That ends today.
Nodding to myself, I lift the lid and peel back the tissue paper.
I raise the smoke-colored dress, my teeth grinding as I hold it up to the light.
Mary was right to hesitate. Calling this a dress is generous.
This thing is a sheer robe.
With only a single button at the waist and nothing else.
I’m going to be exposed.
Ridiculed.
Or worse. Lusted over as I’m nothing more than a piece of flesh.
Furious and shaking, I stare into the box. No undergarments or a slip wait inside. Nothing.
Whatever.
If this is what it takes to get him to have a conversation with me, so be it.
I’ll wear the goddamn dress.
Angrily, I put the garment back in the box.
Out of the corner of my eye, something dark catches my attention.
Lying on the floor to my right is a note that reminds me of the invitation The Restorer sent me.
I bend to pick it up. Two commanding sentences, scrawled in elegant gold script, stare back at me.
Wear this for our meeting. Don’t leave this room until Mary comes for you at midnight.
“We’re going to meet, all right.” I scowl at the note, toss it back into the box on top of the dress, and head for the shower, still huffing to myself. “But if you think you’re going to lay a finger on me again, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”